Significance Of The Voice Of MV a.k.a. Satan One Of Three Parts

Riders On The Storm
Into This House We're Born
Into This World We're Thrown
Like A Dog Without A Bone
An Actor Out On Loan



With this post I will try to explain the significance of the dialogue that occurs between my voice and the voice of MV a.k.a. Satan. Actually, my conversations with the devil began early on in the writing of my journals, but, because I deemed them unnecessary for my participation in postaday2011, I deleted them. Yesterday, however, it occurred to me that absent these MV dialogues, my journal entries would require a lot of rewriting so, in future posts, I’ve decided to leave the dialogues in. Consequently, in this and my next two posts I will, hopefully, catch the reader up of the significance of the MV dialogues. These conversations are rooted in my academic readings of Goethe’s Faust, but, except for what follows in the wager between Gabriel and Mephisto, I do not mimic Goethe’s masterpiece, Faust.

The following dialogue is part of a conversation between Archangel Gabriel and Mephisto (Mephistopheles), which was written into the introduction of my road journals.

The Mephisto/Gabriel Wager

Scene: In A Garden Somewhere On High

“I am thinking of a boy. Do you know him?”

“Of course I do. I know what you know, and yes, I know this boy,” answered Mephisto. “Let’s see, as I recall he’s not a cutting edge type fellow: mediocre intelligence, fragile, and a loner. A poor chap; he is of the kind that makes my life a bore. What more can I say?”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge if I were you. His heart remains untested,” said Gabriel, “and, he is not satisfied with worldly pleasures. These qualities do not make an easy catch for you. He is a seeker, and is not easily distracted. In fact, I think you might be wrong about him.”

“Such a bold a prediction,” responded Mephisto, “what would you wager to keep him. Surely he is worth something to you. Your words carry such conviction.”

“He is mortal. He will err, but he will also pick himself up and move on,” said Gabriel. “A pure heart will lead him. Go! Have your way with him if you can? Hear me though; if he does not succumb to temptation then your muted silence will be my prize. Your tongue will not be missed. Be off! You spoil the scenery."

“I would gladly go, but let’s be fair, a wager requires something in return,” responded Mephisto. “Surely you jest if you think a soul that is already ripe for the plucking will satisfy the devil’s appetite!”

“What do you propose?” replied Gabriel.

“After I claim his soul, I want to hear trumpets. I want fanfares,” said Mephisto. “I think a seat next to yours would be nice also. After all, without me you would be nothing.”

Glacier Rain Bicycling--MV At His Best

Going To The Sun Road
Glacier National Park
June '72

I was already wet and cold, and peddling in the rain was all I had to
look forward too. I felt terrible. I thought to myself, "Why didn't
those assholes in the Winnebago invite me in? If I could see them, they had to see me, soaking wet, out in the rain." With water spinning off my front tire,
soaking my clothes through my rain-gear, I wanted to be the one sitting
in a motor home, eating donuts, and drinking coffee. And then I
thought, as more travel homes passed me on the highway, "They're all
laughing at me, those people in their warm, dry vehicles are all
laughing at the stupid jerk bicycling in the rain." The wetter I
became, the bitterer I became, and then I heard this voice. "Don't
blame them," it said. I just kept peddling, wondering if I had heard
the voice or just imagined it. After a prolonged moment I said, "Fuck.
Who's blaming whom? Is there somebody blaming somebody? I don't know
anything about blame?"

"Yes you do, you're blaming the motor home people for your misery."

"Fuck", I thought "You were gone. You were gone. Why didn't you stay
gone? I was rid of you and healthy, but now your back."

"Absolutely!" MV responded, "I'm part of you and the best part at
that, but that's old news. It's not good to be separated for long.
After a while you begin to feel out of touch. You know what I mean?
Don't sweat it. Now and again I'll always be checking on you."

"But you left, until now at least."

"That's right," replied MV, "I did as you wished. But, at any time I
can "check in" if I deem it noteworthy. That was part of our bargain,
remember?"

"Yes, I remember," I said, "I remember all too well. I remember
smacking my head in that car accident in L.A., and you sort of just
popped into my head after that. I remember that stupid wager in New
Orleans, where I offered my soul or something like that just to get
you out of my head, and it worked, until now at least. Well, are you
leaving?"

"Your memory's pretty good," said MV. "I'm especially delighted you
remember that part about your soul. You know, I get to keep it as soon
as you find that stuff you're looking for, that stuff that will make
you content, happy, or whatever. Right?

"Yeah, I remember," I said. "I got rid of you, didn't I? It's pretty
easy to give up what doesn't exist anyway. You are leaving, right, or
is something amiss?"

" Don't fuss! My word is as good as gold!" said MV. "You have
absolutely nothing to fear-- or lose--unless you agree to it. I will
go if that's what you want; it's just that I felt you needed some
attention, and that's why I'm here."

"How can you help me when all I want is for you to leave?"

"The knowledge," responded MV, "you want it even if you won't admit it."

"And, before I tell you to fuck off, what knowledge is it that I need?"

Biking Glacier Park No Magic Here

Abandoned Ranger's Cabin
In The Rain Under My Space Blanket
June 12

The biking wasn't bad; the sun was shining and the mountains were
beautiful, even if dark clouds covered their peaks. I was biking along
Lake McDonald in the midst of an incredibly thick forest when it
started to rain. This was not Yellowstone where magical spots could be
found everywhere. No, this was Glacier, where if there was a clearing
it was filled with pointy, jagged rocks. With the rain coming down, I
was intent on finding a place to camp. I wasn't picky; even so, I
still could not find a place to erect my lean-two. When I came to a
boarded up ranger cabin, I took advantage of the situation. I used the
side of the cabin to secure one end of my space blanket and tied the
other ends to a tree and a stump. Underneath the blanket it was dry,
but rain was falling all around me. It was coming off the cabin roof,
making it seem like it was raining twice as hard as it really was. It
was not a pretty sight, but it worked. However, I went to bed wet, and
I woke up wet.

I put in a miserable night and it was still raining in the morning.
Yesterday had been cold (there's still snow on the ground up here),
and today was even colder. Trying not to pander to my misery, I went
about the business of making breakfast. The fire warmed me a little
(I'm getting better at building a rain fire), but before I got around
to eating my biscuits, oatmeal and raisins, two rangers pulled up in
their jeep and made me put out my fire. These guys were obviously
upset that I chose to camp in an undesignated area. They could have
given me a ticket. I guess the sight of a wet bicycler putting out his
breakfast fire in the rain softened them (one of them) up just enough
to let me go. I was told I had to leave, and the obstinate one said in
a mean and gruff voice, "Camp in the campgrounds next time."

My breakfast was already cooked, so I got to eat a hot meal before I
headed off into the rain. Just before I left, a camper pulled in the
driveway of the cabin and parked. I guess it was time for a break
because I watched as the driver, with a hot cup of coffee in his hand,
moved to a table where the other occupants were sitting. I immediately
disliked those people sitting in their travel home. Those lavish
monstrosities were everywhere, people riding in their $50,000 houses
on wheels, "roughing it" throughout the wilderness areas of this
country. When I thought about all the bad weather I had to endure, I
became very angry. Then, with a change of heart, I began to think I
was the ass. After all, I was the one who rode his bike through
pouring rains and freezing temperatures. I subjected myself to this
kind of physical torture. Who's fault was that anyway?

Biking Montana's Flathead Lake

After A Cold Bath In Flathead Lake
June 11

Its been raining all week. The afternoons always end up in
thunderstorms. I can't get a full day of biking in (except for
yesterday when I peddled over a hundred miles). Montana is a lot of up
and down, and its old. Missoula was not a very dazzling city. I wasn't
even disappointed when the University of Montana told me they didn't
need any more custodians. Butte was downright depressing. It took me
seven hours to bike up the mountain that Butte sits upon. When I had
almost reached the top, a trucker going down in the opposite direction
yelled at me (after hitting his horn), "You're almost there. Keep on
truck'in." I just waved my hand. I never did get to the top (on that
day at least). I camped at a rest area. That may not have been the
highest pass I climbed, but it certainly was the hardest.

Because of my route, I was going to be west of Glacier National Park
when I reached the fork in the road that would take me east to
Glacier. I had planned on going to Glacier, but with all the rain, and
now the cold, I was having second thoughts. I was fucking tired, and
Glacier meant more mountain climbing, maybe the worst yet. Besides I
had spent more money than I wanted. I had had it. I decided to by-pass
Glacier and continue west to British Columbia, Canada.

I just finished taking a bath in a cold Flathead Lake. The lake is
located west of Glacier National Park, near the Flathead Indian
Reservation. The lake was large, 180 miles around, and it was very
pretty. Last night I camped in what used to be a horse coral (maybe it
still is). I tied my space blanket to one end of the hitching post,
and secured the other end to the ground. It rained. Tonight, it looks
like a thunderstorm, and I do not yet have shelter. See you later!
I've climbed some high hills, and I'm about to climb a few more!

Just before it rained, and after I reached Kalispell, I met some
people who turned me on to the city park. There were picnic tables
under roofs, and after I found firewood piled next to one of the
barbecue grates beside a picnic table, I knew I was home. The people
with me broke out the wine. Later, their friends showed up with beer.
By 10 p.m., the party was over and the last partygoer ambled home. I
heated up a can of spaghetti, and after eating it I crawled into my
sleeping bag. The next morning I woke to the same rain whose
pitter-patter had lulled me to sleep the night before. I finally left
the shelter around 1 p.m., after a breakfast of hot pea soup and biscuits.

I had an empty, aching feeling in my belly when I left Kalispell. I
wasn't sick; it's just that my decision to pass up Glacier was a
difficult one to make. Kalispell was the natural cut off point for
people who were heading to Glacier. I figured these feelings would
pass, but when I biked into Whitefish, another forty miles north, the
nausea grew worse. The weather had cleared, but once in the mountains
(if I chose to go to the mountains), I knew it would rain and probably
never let up. My body and mind wanted to continue west, yet I couldn't
live with the thought that, "Here I was, thousands of miles from home,
with Glacier National Park twenty miles away (forget about the 150
miles it would take to get back on track), and I was passing up the
opportunity to see it." As far as I was concerned that was blasphemy!
I turned my bike east, at the last possible minute, and took the
highway (the last one) leading to Glacier. My nausea instantly left me.

Awesome Highway Tears--A Love Supreme

Bozeman Restaurant
June 8

It was early afternoon when I finally left Nature's gift to
cleanliness and aching muscles. Biking was great. A lot of it was
downhill. The North Entrance to Yellowstone was absolutely gorgeous.
Shoshone Canyon was on the East Entrance, the Tetons Mountains were
part of the South Entrance, and now, in the north, I was biking
through the Gallatin Mountain Range. There were hardly any cars to
tarnish the fabulous beauty, and, the icing on the cake, so to speak,
was that I was traveling on a newly paved highway. The road was cut
straight through the towering, snowcapped Gallatin Mountains. These
mountains sent chills up and down my spine.

I felt emotions I had never felt before. Whatever it was that I was
feeling, it made me cry. I didn't cry, but I couldn't help it. There I
was, bicycling down the highway in the midst of all the beauty,
weeping as I went. I forced myself to think unpleasant thoughts to
keep from totally breaking down. I was by no means sad. I was very,
very, happy. These highly charged feelings wavered from weak to strong
as I biked down the highway. By the time I came upon a man and his
wife, I felt pretty normal. They motioned for me to come in and see
them. I obliged. They were clearing the lot next to their trailer.

They were about to take a break from digging in the hot sun anyway,
and I guess they figured I needed a break too. The couple was in the
first stage of building a house (up until then I hadn't seen any
houses). After I drank ice tea and ate some of their cheese and
crackers, they gave me their Bozeman, Montana address and told me to
stop over for a shower and a real meal. I thanked them, but I knew I
wouldn't take them up on their offer because their house was east of
where I was traveling and I had a hard time biking in the opposite
direction from where I wanted to go. I was really glad to have made
their acquaintance though, and I would be wise to remember their
hospitality.

Last night it rained, so I took shelter in a large culvert. It was
more of a tunnel than a culvert. It was used for cows to cross from
one pasture to another without trampling in front of unsuspecting
motorists. It worked at keeping the rain off my head too, even if it
did lack in the aesthetic appeal department.

I'm sitting in a little Bozeman restaurant, finishing up my coffee,
donut and journal entry. I just want to end this entry by
acknowledging, once again, that I really enjoyed bicycling in
Yellowstone, especially when it came to camping alone at night. For
this reason, it is quite a bring down to be traveling in the midst of
civilization's fences and private property. I am very eager to get
back to the National Parks where I can continue to co-exist with nature.

Aches And Pains Begone--Soaking In A Hot Spring

Yellowstone Mineral Hot Spring
June 6

I checked out Mammoth Hot Springs (in north Yellowstone), and
although it was very beautiful with its rust and sulfur colors spread
across the basin, the novelty of geysers and mudpots had worn off
(maybe it was the weather). Back on the road, I ran into my second
bear, a Bull Moose, buffalo, and a whole family of swans. I also ran
into my friend Bill, the scholar ranger. He took me to the Ranger
Station where he helped me get a permit to backpack in Grizzly Bear
country. Permits were not given to lone hikers, but Bill assured the
ranger at the station that I knew what I was doing. I wish I were that
sure.

After the red tape was out of the way, I went into the camp store and
bought a week's worth of groceries. I figured my Grizzly quest might
eat up enough time for Denny and Mike to catch up to me. After I
called Carole Sue to get an update on their whereabouts, I was
disappointed again. Both of them had remained in Deadwood, South
Dakota, where they took jobs at the Homestake Gold Mine. I was pissed,
but I wanted to see a Grizzly anyway, so I created a makeshift
backpack, and started hitchhiking twenty miles up to the trailhead
that would eventually take me to Specimen Ridge and hopefully to see a
Grizzly Bear in the wild.

Specimen Ridge was located in the real wilderness part of
Yellowstone: its northeast corner. The road up there was snowed in, so
it was a one-way trip for anybody going in that direction. After
standing for more than two hours waiting for a ride, I began to think
twice about my destination, especially since only a couple cars passed
me. When it started to rain, I marched back to the ranger station
where (thanks to Bill) the ranger at the station was looking after my
bike. I was really depressed when I got on my bike and started
peddling to the nearest campground. It was getting dark, I was cold
and wet, and I didn't want the hassle of finding my own campsite. As
it turned out, I made the right decision.

I met some nice people, a girl and two guys, and we shared
conversation and wine together. The girl told me about a natural hot
spring located along the highway just north of Yellowstone. "It was in
a ravine, just out of sight of the passing cars," she said, "we spent
the entire afternoon naked in the hot, steaming, water. It was great."
I made sure to get good directions to the spring before I turned in
for the night, but even with good directions (as it turned out), it
was hard to find.

When I broke camp in the morning, and after three hours of biking
(one hour of searching), I found the hot spring. It was close to the
highway, but it was really hidden from view. I had no idea how the
girl and guys could have found this place, but under the hot Wyoming
sun, in a beautiful canyon, that hot water massaging my body made me
forget all about the hassle it had taken to get there. The pool was
large enough and deep enough to submerge my whole body. After my first
soak, I washed my clothes in the stream that fed the hot mineral pool.
Early on, I thought I was in for another wet, cloudy, day, but now my
clothes were drying in the hot sun, and I was going to bathe in my own
personal "hot tub" until they were dry. Life doesn't get much better
than this!

Camping Bliss Yellowstone

Gibbon River
June

Once off the mountain, I found a campsite close to the overflow of the
Gibbon River. I walked my bike back into the woods, and after I set up
my camp, I found out that I wasn't alone. It seemed I had picked a
campsite right in the middle of a big cow elk's favorite stomping
grounds. When she would come within twenty or thirty feet from where I
was sitting, she would raise her head, sniff the air, and then go back
to grazing. The highlight of the evening came when I went down to the
stream to wash my dishes.The elk followed me to the stream where I climbed down the embankment to get water. When I looked up from cleaning my pots and pans, I
almost touched noses with her. I didn't move. I just stared into those
big cow eyes. When I did move, it was very slowly up the hill. The elk
backed off, and when I reached the top of the hill, the elk continued
to follow me back to camp. After the adrenalin rush wore off, I sat
under my mosquito netting and silently viewed the last of the twilight
slip away. The elk seemed to lose interest in me, but she never
wandered far. In fact, in the dark, I couldn't see what was making
noises. I would stare hard, and then I would see the dull white tail
of the elk moving about me. I finally reconciled the elk as my
protectorate and went to sleep.

I have spent the last couple of days alone in the wilderness and I
feel much closer to nature because of it. I'm beginning to get a sense
of "being part of integral an plan," but I can't describe it, I can
only feel it. Maybe someday I will be able to describe that feeling; I
hope so.

Bike Trip Yellowstone Falls

Gibbon River Overflow
June 5, `72

It was great to be peddling in good weather for a change. I kept
running into the same guy with his chick over and over again. It's
fairly common to see the same people more than once since cars cover
lots of territory up here, and there's no place to go. At each
marvelous wonder the people congregate. I first met this couple at
Norris Geysers, but I didn't spend much time with them until we met
again at Gibbon Falls. They offered me a beer, and the three of us
enjoyed another one as we marveled at the surrounding beauty. I hadn't
had a beer in a long time, and those beers were just about the best I
had ever tasted. I guess viewing a beautiful waterfall with the hot
sun beating down on my back sort of put the exclamation point on the
beer. It was pure ecstasy.

After Gibbon Falls, I was off to Yellowstone Falls and Yellowstone
Canyon. It was a healthy climb, but the prize was spectacular. It's
useless to try and compare these marvelous wonders of Nature. It would
be a travesty to say, "This one is better than that one", or "Make
sure you see this one if you don't have time for both." If you don't
have the time, don't go to Yellowstone, and, if you do go, I believe
you will see each natural beauty as being no less remarkable than its
counterpart. Yellowstone Falls and Canyon are truly majestic; I can't
express the beauty in words, sensation prevails.

On my way to the falls, I biked the Cascades, a highway cut into shear
rock, overlooking a 1000-foot drop to the Yellowstone River. Traveling
along that beautiful highway, I came to a long line of cars. I knew
there must be an animal at the end of the line (usually that was the
case), but I couldn't see it, so I biked along side of the cars until
I came to a couple large travel homes at the front of the line. There,
off to the side, I saw the big black bear. I considered stopping, but
I still didn't have a good view and besides, I was on a bicycle and
everyone else was tucked away in his or her safe automobile. In order
to see the bear, I had to pull out around the travel trailers. When I
pulled back in, I found myself riding straight at the bear. I was only
twenty feet away when he took off running. It took him all of two
seconds to figure out I was not the threat, he was. When he turned and
came running after me, I put my bike in gear and didn't look back till
I was safely down the highway.

Up in the canyon area there were a lot of bears; that's why the
camping was restricted. There were other areas in Yellowstone with
restricted camping also, but I didn't camp in campgrounds. You had to
pay to camp in campgrounds. Anyway, I didn't come to the mountains
just to picnic. After spending time (not enough) at Yellowstone Falls,
I went back to Norris Junction and then headed north. The other road
out of the canyon was snowed shut, so unless I wanted to sleep in the
snow (with the bears), I had to go back the way I came in.

Yellowstone On A Bicycle

Abandoned Storage Shed
June 4

After another miserable day of biking, I reached the west side of the
park. It rained most of the day, but it didn't pour until I reached
the West Thumb of Yellowstone. If it weren't for the weather, the
geyser basin would have been awesome. As it was, being wet and cold
with no place to go, my spirits were kinda depressed. With rain
pouring down, I walked out into the geyser basin anyway. To make
matters worse, I could barely see the geysers; I could only make out
the blue color of the water. The steam blocked my view. Ideally, the
middle of summer would have been the right time to see this park.

The rain was still coming down when I sought shelter in an abandoned
storage shed. I met two other bikers who were seeking shelter in the
same place. A father and son team (the father was a Park Ranger) was
touring Yellowstone on bikes. The dad was on a leave from work in
order to pursue his PhD. in Wildlife Management at Utah State
University. They had biked from Logan, Utah. We shared food while we
waited for the rain to let up. When I said, "I would like to see a
Grizzly," I sparked the dad's interest because he started telling me
about his experiences with the Grizzly. Fortunately, they were good
experiences (except for that one slow tree climber who lost his foot
to an angry Grizzly). Before we got off the subject, he had me
convinced that if I wanted to see a Grizzly Bear, I should go up to
Specimen Ridge. Park Rangers who were doing work up there had reported
sightings.

I had always been fascinated with bears in the wild. When I was small,
my dad used to take the whole family to the dump where we would sit in
the car and watch the black bears rummage through garbage. There were
usually other people watching too. For the most part, the garbage kept
the bears' attention, but every once and while one would start our
hearts pounding by walking next to the car. I almost hit a bear once.
It was crossing the road in front of my car. I got out of the car and
followed the bear into the swamp. I kept it in sight until a lack of
light (and considerable fear) prevented me from going farther into the
swampy refuge. I knew I wanted to look for Grizzlies, but I could
wait, especially since Specimen Ridge was up north, and I wanted to
see the rest the park first.

After the rain let up, we left the shelter. My friends went north
while I started peddling up to the Continental Divide and West
Yellowstone. In these mountains I did not find the peddling difficult,
just different. When I reached Old Faithful, I waited with the other
tourists, and, sure as shit, Old Faithful came through. After checking
out the rest of the geysers bordering Old Faithful, I was back on the
road. I couldn't imagine what Yellowstone would be like at the height
of tourist season. There were enough people at Old Faithful to start a
city.

I just finished my breakfast of rice, raisins, honey, a donut, and
coffee. I think I'm getting pretty good at roughing it, not to mention
my camp last night. It was the best I ever put up. The trees were
perfect for my mosquito netting (and I needed it) and right along side
I had my lean-two in case it rained. It didn't, so I spent a rather
enjoyable evening in the pines of Yellowstone.

Yellowstone--8 Feet Of Snow

Bike Trip
Yellowstone National Park
June 3, `72

When it came time to leave the campground for Yellowstone, my bike
developed derailleur problems. After more than an hour of working on
it, I got the gears shifting again. They still were not right, but
good enough.

I called Carol Sue and the chances of meeting up with Mike and Denny
were nil. They were somewhere in South Dakota, caught in the flood
that ripped through the town of Keystone and knocked out phone lines.
I had to get use to the idea that I'd probably be traveling alone for
the rest of the summer. In front of me was an 8,500-foot mountain pass
that was the East Entrance to Yellowstone.

Henry was very sympathetic to my plight. He was willing to postpone
his own departure in order to carry my bicycle and me up the mountain.
There wasn't enough room in his car to pack everything, so, after he
dropped me off, he would have to come back and repack his car. I
wasn't comfortable with that idea. The two of us put our heads
together and came up with a plan. Henry tied a long rope to the back
of his car, and, on the other end, he tied a stick. The idea was to
have the car pull me up the mountain as if I was water skiing. The
idea was a good one, at least in the beginning. Under the strain of
the steep grade (not to mention the danger built into one hand on the
bicycle, one hand holding a stick, on a curvy, winding, mountain
road), I was barely able to hold on.

After I got a free three-mile ride up the mountain, and when I could
no longer see over the snow banks on the slick highway, I decided to
part company with Henry. He was okay with that. When I finally did
reach the top of Sylvan Pass, the snow measured eight feet. The sun
was shinning, but the cold was so uninviting that I began my downhill
ride without hesitation. Coasting down to Yellowstone Lake was great:
another fantastic ride (but this time just a ride). Open water was
visible on the ice-covered lake. The whole scene was a very beautiful
sight. It was pretty easy to see why this area --Yellowstone Lake, the
thick pine forest, and gorgeous mountains -- was all declared our
first National Park (by Teddy Roosevelt, I think).

Most of the facilities had not yet opened. I bought a couple treats at
a camp store that was open, and then hit the road for the west side of
the park and Old Faithful. In the afternoon it rained: not an unusual
event. Yesterday it rained also. This time it only rained for three or
four hours, but that was still enough to cut my riding time in half.
During the worst of it, I managed to wheel my bike back into a pine
forest where I set up my lean-two. Under my 5 by 7-foot space blanket
(engineered by the Nasa space program for water-proof durability and
light weight), I waited out the rain. Huddled under a blanket so small
that you had to be on alert or face getting wet from the water
streaming off the roof was not much fun. With a puddle of water to my
left, and a snow bank to my right, I had nothing to do but enjoy the
scenery. It would have been a good time to read a book, if I only had
one. At least I was tucked inside my warm sleeping bag.

The next morning, after an invigorating hike through the pristine
pine forest, and, after a breakfast of pea soup (made from packaged
peas), six Bisquick biscuits, a cup of coffee, and a cigarette, I was
ready to hit the highway for Old Faithful. I was not trying to break
any speed records. Late in the morning, the sun burned off the gray
mist that greeted me after a relatively good night's sleep. I really
enjoyed my camp; I was far enough off the road so as not to be
bothered by automobiles. I wasn't sure if it really mattered. There
weren't enough cars to worry about, especially in the evening.

Live In The Moment--Be Here Now

All My Life's A Circle But I Can't Tell You Why
Season's Spinning Round Again The Years Keep Rollin' By


End Of Conversation With Henry
Campsite, East Yellowstone Entrance

"What's the point," I said, "what am I missing here? Existence is one
huge moment, and I'm supposed to be unattached to it? Is that what's
supposed to happen? Help me out. I'm lost."

"The point," said Henry, "is that you're already attached. You cannot
get unattached. Your whole life is nothing more, or less, than moments
nested in moments, nested in moments, all the way down. That's why I
can say, `we are already here-- in this moment-- as we have been, and
will be until we are no more. It's the intensity of the moment that
counts, not its object.' We go from childhood to adult, and, in the
process, are supposed to learn `what is important' and `what is not
important.' Those who learn well, stop chasing moments. They create
them instead. Take for instance the artist. Great artists live for
quality moments. If they can intensify and expand those moments, they
end up creating masterful works of art. When an appreciation for the
quality of a moment grows, moments of quality expand. And so it
is with spiritual teachings, especially for those students who are
taught to expand awareness through the practice of meditation. Some
students learn quickly, some do not. But, all students show progress,
and, in so doing, learn how to appreciate moments of quality. Learning
how to sustain and intensify those moments is what it's all about.
Realizing a moment of quality, when that is all there is, is to be
here now. Think about it. What could be simpler? Be here now, where
else can you be?"

"Maybe I have to go back and reread the book," I said. I wanted to ask
Henry about the experience I'd had while coasting down the Big Horn
Mountains, but I thought better of it. If I couldn't understand what
he was saying about a book that I had already read carefully, I didn't
think there was much to be gained from getting his opinion on
something that I really couldn't put into words anyway. Instead, we
started talking about Yellowstone, and, after I finished my beer, I
went back to my tent and crashed.

More Babba Ram Dass-Racing Against Impermanence

Lay Down Your Burden Lay It All Down
Place The Light Before You
Come Through The Door
The Dragon Doesn’t Live Here Anymore


Hear This Beautiful Song
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXdkj_YGv1Y&feature=related

Cody, Wyoming
June 1, `72

Yesterday, Juan told me he wouldn't need any help. He did let me
spend the night, though. I appreciated that. In the morning I got back
on my bike and arrived in Cody, Wyoming, in the afternoon. It was the
gateway to the Rockies and to Yellowstone. In Cody, I took on
provisions of cereal, raisins, and honey. That chore done, I proceeded
to chow down on an apple, cantaloupe, and a Banana Split.

I was only 45 miles from Yellowstone. So far, these mountains were
nothing like the Big Horns. I met two bikers coming out of Logan,
Utah, going into Canada. I told them to send my regards to Mike and
Denny if they saw them on the highway. I wished they were here now. It
had been great traveling in the mountains, but I didn't want to do it
all summer long without company. Last night I washed my clothes, and
then took a bath in the ice-cold reservoir behind the 550-foot
Shoshone Canyon Damn.

This is really pretty country; the novelty hasn't worn off, and I hope
it never does.

June 2

I was slowing down. It would be so stupid to hurry through this
beautiful country. I was one or two miles from Yellowstone. My last 50
miles was spent admiring the scenery of the Shoshone National Forest
and Canyon. The weather was great! Just before the Yellowstone
entrance, I stopped for coffee and met Henry. He was staying at a
nearby campground. He invited me over to his campsite, and I was happy
to oblige. He was a teacher from N.Y.C. and was heading west to find a
new home and a new life.

I bought some beer, cheese, and crackers and biked over to Henry's
camp. He helped himself to my cheese and crackers, but passed on the
alcohol. That's when I found out he was into Babba Ram Dass. When I
told him I had read the book, Be Here Now, he got excited. He was
actually trying to model his life around Ram Dass's teachings. He
asked me what I thought, be here now meant. "To me," I said, "it means
to be centered; to be focused; to be conscious of the moment…"

"The Buddhist's call it mindfulness," Henry interrupted, "but what if
you could get all the way in; if you were able to stay inside the
moment all the time?"

"I don't know. I guess I haven't thought about it much," I said.
"Maybe it's the `big Kahoona,' the bliss and ecstasy thing. Maybe its
where you become one with the universe, or maybe its that
sat-chit-ananda thing, -- perfect wisdom, perfect consciousness,
perfect bliss. Whatever it is, I've never encountered anybody who has
even come close. What about you? What do you think it means?"

"I think we're already there," Henry replied. "Think about it. What
could be simpler? Be here now, where else can we be?"

"Sorry," I said, "I've heard that crap before. Believe me, you
wouldn't want to be me, and I wouldn't want to be some Ethiopian in
some parched desert, either. Wherever be here now is, its not here
now, and, if you ask me, that's good!"

"Wait a minute," said Henry, "I wasn't being flippant when I said `we
are already here, where be here now is at.' Do you believe it is
possible to actually experience the here and now?

"I guess I do."

"Well, would that event be any more or less than what we are doing
right now? The whole universe, past, present, and future is just a
series of events. We live in our own `moment,' doing what we can to
obtain pleasure. Whether we succeed or fail, its still one moment
after the next. Think about it. Aren't we always trying to stop the
clock—in memories, photographs, dreams? I mean what is it that makes
us work so hard--a new car, house, or that portfolio that brings our
dreams to life? And what about athletes, do they train to win once or
forever? Are we ever satisfied? Where does it end?"

"I know what you're getting at," I said, "it's all a race against
impermanence. But what's that got to do with be here now? Doesn't the
Buddha say that impermanence is the cause of suffering and to
eliminate suffering, you have to eliminate desire? What's that got to
do with be here now?"

"Yes, that's right," said Henry, "but it's precisely because we can't
avoid impermanence that we chase after permanence. Unnecessary
suffering exists because permanence is an illusion, it cannot be
captured no matter how hard we try. If we would stop chasing after
what can't be caught, we could see that what is `real,' is right here,
right now. All those `moments' spent working so hard for that big
house, big win, or big promotion, compared to be here now, are just
windblown pieces of confetti. Really, if we would just stop trying to
possess what we can't have, and concentrate on what we have right now,
in this moment, we could have it all, and the world would be a much
better place because of it. It's because we are taught to chase after
what can't be caught that so much suffering is created in this world.
Stop chasing it. Really, experience this moment with all of your
heart, and you will not want anything more."

I opened another beer and said, "Sure, disappointments are going to
happen, but some things, familiar things, are just plain fun. For
instance, after my fourth or fifth beer, I will have captured, in my
own way, my own moment, and that's not all bad."

"You are more right than you can imagine," responded Henry. "Living
in the moment is not easy, especially if you can't resist the chase.
Addiction, any addiction, is just another example of trying to possess
something you can't have, only what you get, at least in some cases,
can wind up killing you."

At The Foot Of The Big Horn Mountains

Don’t You Know Where We’re Goin’ Is Not Where We’ve Been
I Believe It’s The High Road We’re Taken’


Juan's Basement Sitting On The Bed
May 30, `72

At the bar, two Mexican Indians struck up a conversation with me.
Apparently, they had watched me ride up on my bicycle. When I told
them how far I had come, they were surprised. We drank some beers
together, and Juan told me I could sleep in his basement if I wanted
to. I agreed, but before arriving at his place we went out into his
fields and I helped him redirect some irrigation water. Now it was his
turn to impress me. He told me that he was under contract to provide
all the barley that went into making Schlitz beer. Back in Michigan, I
drank a lot of Schlitz, but in Wyoming it wasn't available. Juan
couldn't even remember how the beer tasted. I assured him it tasted great.

Standing four inches deep in mud, surrounded by a field of green
barley, and after another one of Juan's friends had stopped by to help
us drink the beer that Juan had stashed in the back of his truck, I
guess you could say I made my way back to Earth, but even then, in
that relatively innocuous moment, poetry flourished. The four of
us--two orthodox Catholics, one agnostic military lifer (the new guy),
and myself, at the foot of the Big Horn Mountains, in the cooling
twilight of a very hot Wyoming day, talked God and religion. That was
the second time in less than a couple of hours where language failed
me. Words did not help me then and even now, in my attempt to describe
that situation, I cannot find the words, so I won't try.

In Juan's basement I was sitting on the spare bed writing in my
journal while trying not to listen to Juan argue with his wife
upstairs. When I walked up to the house and entered through the door I
could tell that his wife wasn't happy. Juan, before we met his wife,
told me that if I wanted to stick around for a few days he would put
me to work. I said, "Sure." I even told him that I would work for
free because I wanted to get a feel for what it's like living at the
foot of the Big Horns, and that for me was worth more than money. He
said, "You can thin sugar beats and I will pay you, maybe not much,
but you'll make a few dollars." It didn't look like any of that was
going to happen now. Judging from what I was hearing upstairs, I
decided not to unpack my things.

Big Horn Mountains: Death Is An Illusion—Amazing

Behold, I Tell You A Mystery
The Trumpet Shall Sound
And We Shall Be Changed


Wyoming
May '72

My first 6,600 feet up wasn't too bad. It took me most of yesterday to
climb that high. The first eight miles was almost straight up, but
after that it evened out a bit. The traffic was light, so it felt like
I was up in the mountains alone, and I really liked that. I passed a
couple of nice looking trout streams, but I didn't stop until I got
higher up. Around 3 p.m. I found a stream and started to fish. I
fished the rest of the day and into the night. I only caught one
little Brook trout.

At first I thought I wasn't catching fish because I wasn't using a
commercial fishing pole (I had sent my collapsing pole home with
everything else), then I happened upon a couple of fisherman and
showed them the "stick" that I caught my trout on. They just smiled.
They hadn't caught any fish either. I ate my fish for dinner along
with some dried cereal sprinkled with raisins. It was delicious. I
can't wait to get to a place where I can eat trout all the time. It's
sure an emotional trip up here in the mountains.

Night

A lot has happened today, and since I have the time, I'll put it down.
First off, it has been a fantastic day. In the beginning it was all
uphill, not too much traffic, though, and a lot of scenery. Towards
late afternoon I reached the summit, or at least the top (passes are
usually cut through the lowest part of a mountain range). It was a
long climb; it took me two days of bicycling. The Big Horn Mountains
are big. As might be expected, at the pass there was an overlook for
people to enjoy the view. On the pass, the snow was four feet deep. On
the south side of the peaks, along the edges, the snow had melted,
leaving bare rock for me to climb on. I left my bike in the parking
lot and started up the mountain. High up along one of the peaks, I
found a nice sunny spot and settled in for some quiet time.

When I climbed down, the sun was moving toward the horizon, and the
air had turned chilly. In the parking lot, I got on my bike and headed
down the mountain. It wasn't long before I stopped peddling. At first
the decent was steep, and the switchbacks were frequent and scary. I
knew this was going to be quite a ride, especially when I came to the
sign that read, "Down hill next twenty miles."

I hated to brake, but not braking here, ultimately, would create a
meld of bone and rock that I was desperately trying to avoid. (There
was a concern that my brakes would fail, but I tried not to think
about it). Soon, the switchbacks going down the mountain lengthened,
and the 40 to 45 mph speeds that I had to negotiate became less
threatening. On top of the mountain the frigid snow reflected blinding
sunlight. At lower elevations, though, the heat from the sun warmed my
face. As the sun got closer to the horizon, it added a rich yellow hue
to the already spectacularly colored canyon walls, the walls of Ten
Sleep Canyon. The vision was as overpowering as it was irresistible.

On wings of light, sailing down the mountain, I lost all feelings of
attachment and weight. The farther down into the canyon I went the
more I was filled with the overwhelming beauty of the place. I felt
transparent to my surroundings. It was at that time, in the beauty of
it all, when suddenly, as if a chair had been pulled out from under
me, I felt the contours of my body (my exteriors) collapse. What was
left of me after that was/is impossible to describe, but it felt like
this: "It was Wow! Amazing! I was upside down and inside out."

A feeling of "grasping," of "being engaged" substituted for what used
to be my body; but even that connection, that subject-object
connection, was extraordinarily strange because I felt it from the
outside – in, not from the inside – out. I did not fight it. I just
let it happen. In that joyous trembling, throbbing, moment, zooming
down the mountain, with a warm wind in my face and unbelievable beauty
everywhere, I metamorphosed into an infinite array of connection with
my environment. I had no idea as to what had just happened to me, but
it was a fantastically passionate experience. There was no anxiety,
fear, or negatives of any kind in it. I had never felt that way before
(nor probably will again).

As I reached the canyon floor, I knew that if I died right then and
there, it would be okay. From the vantage point of being inside my
outside environment death had no meaning. It was an illusion. Once I
had gotten outside of myself, once I became entwined within the
environment, the Truth that death was an illusion was everywhere
apparent. When I started peddling again it was as if I was peddling in
a dream. It took a while to come down, to come down out of that dream.
However, on the canyon floor it was 95 degrees and peddling in that
kind of heat was a reality check all by itself. When the orange sun
slipped beneath the horizon, it was still 92 degrees. Again, it was as
if I had just landed on Earth after some intergalactic journey. I
acclimated well, though. I came upon a restaurant-bar, and, of course,
I didn't want to pass up an opportunity to reflect on what had just
happened to me, so I went inside and ordered a beer.

Call The Wind Maria

Way Out West They Have A Name For Rain and Wind And Fire
The Rain Is Tess The Fire Is Joe And They Call The Wind Maria


Buffalo, Wyoming
May 29, '72

The next morning I said good-bye to John, and after eating breakfast
in a restaurant, I got on my bike and headed up the hill and out of
town. I was peddling into a cold wind that turned into a bitterly cold
rain. When I crossed the Wyoming border, I was averaging about 5 mph.
The rain had stopped, but the wind and altitude made bicycling almost
impossible. It was depressing also. It was one thing to bike up a
mountain in first or second gear; it was entirely another thing to
bike straight down the highway, mile after mile, in second gear. When
faced with this kind of wind, or a steep incline, I would take the
steep incline any day of the week.

Every morning brought with it wind and rain. In order to continue, I
had to enter into an agreement with myself, "If I could peddle faster
than I could walk I would continue to bike." After making that pact, I
experienced times when I couldn't make up my mind. I never quit, though.

Yesterday, I was wet and blown dry four different times. In the
afternoon, right after I reached Gillette, I said, "Fuck it." I
decided to hitchhike with my bike. First though, I got some food at a
restaurant and, after that, I found that the wind had let up a bit. I
decided to try and make Buffalo, another 69 miles west. Around 4 p.m.
the rain stopped, but the wind picked up. When I reached Powder River
around 5 p.m. and went into the one stop gas station (one stop because
it only had one gas pump), the lady who owned the place invited me
into her trailer for coffee (the trailer was both the gas station and
her home). While I was there, one of her friends offered to give me a
lift to Buffalo.

I climbed in the back of his pickup truck and began my 31mile coast
all the way into Buffalo. During my short, but very much appreciated
ride, I wanted to scream blasphemies at Aeolos (god of the winds), but
I thought better of it. I had the driver drop me off at the city park.
Once I found out that I could crash in the park, and after I got my
bike ready for the next day's climb up the Big Horn Mountains, I went
looking for a bar that served food. I needed to break a twenty-dollar
traveler's check, so I figured if I ordered big, I could accomplish
two things at once. On the street, I met this dude, and we went into
the only bar open on Sunday. Once inside, we sat with his friend who
was already there.

These guys took an instant liking to me. They told me my money was no
good as long as I stayed with them, and they kept their promise. When
I went to the bathroom, in between one of the many Coors' beers that I
drank, the bartender took me aside and said, "Did you know that your
drinking buddy is a faggot and the other one is a mental case?" They
both seemed like nice fellows to me. When they wanted me to leave the
bar with them, I politely declined. Instead, I went back to the park
and crashed (I was ready to crash anyway). Actually, I thought the
bartender was the one that was a little nuts, but why take chances?
By then it was raining, so back at the park, I put the baseball dugout
to use. The wooden bench was hard but dry. In the morning I found a
café where I ate an omelet and watched the Memorial Day Parade through
the storefront window. It was a short parade.

I'm going to cash my check now, and then start my climb up the Big
Horns. They tell me that after another 49 miles I will reach a
10,066-foot mountain pass. Yesterday, if you include my 31-mile truck
ride, I covered 100 miles.

Pa-ha Sat-va (Sacred Mountains)

And When The Sun Was Dying
We Had Reached The Sacred Hills
Where We Fasted And We Listened
For The Night Would Bring Us Visions
Before You Came


See and hear this gorgeous montage of music, scenery, and Black Hills history
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzkpzXjo7BM



Bike Trip
May, '72

The rain has been a problem, but not a major one. The other day, when
I was waiting out the storm, the owner of the car museum drove me to
an abandoned mining shack. I think he wanted me off his premises. It
worked out, though, because he dropped me at a place where I could
spend the night. The next morning, after fixing a flat tire, I rode my
bike up to Mt. Rushmore. The place was amazing, but I guess I would
have to say that I found the Black Hills even more amazing. British
Columbia used to be my favorite place (maybe it still is), but now I
knew which place came in second. The hills (small mountains) were
peppered with pine trees. Bicycling through them was spellbinding and
I mean that quite literally. Pa-ha Sat-va was the Lakota Indian name
for the Black Hills and it meant sacred mountains. Not feeling the
spirit of this place, after you've been here for a while, was probably
impossible. Its been raining on me the whole time I've been here, but
even the rain has not dampened my spirits. Actually, without the light
drizzle, peddling, especially on a hot sunny day, would have been
harder. As it was, the spirits were moving in the mist that was all
around me.

I arrived in Deadwood after a long day of bicycling, even with the
twenty-mile automobile ride I accepted along the way. The rain was
coming down when this dude in a van asked me if I wanted a lift.
Deadwood is a city right out of the old west, much the same as when
Jack MaCall shot Wild Bill Hikcock in the back of the head, or so I am
told. It's a tourist town, though. I guess that's why they want to
keep it looking like an old West town.

My overburdened bicycle attracted a lot of attention and one of the
fellows that I was talking to offered me a place to stay. He lived in
an old hotel, the Syndicate hotel, run by an almost blind lady, so
there was no problem sneaking me up to his room. The hotel was run
down, but you couldn't beat the rent, $16 a week. My friend worked in
the gold mine in Lead. Deadwood was nestled in the hills at 4000 feet
while Lead was another 1000 feet higher. John wanted me to stay with
him and go to work in the mine. He said it was easy to get a job, and
if the mine hired you, you got an immediate line of credit with the
stores in town. "A slip of paper from the mine," he said, "was as good
as gold, or as good as gold until after you received your first
paycheck." It sounded too good to be true. I had to believe him,
though, because he seemed to me too simple-minded to be making that
stuff up. He was so convincing in fact, that I decided to stay in
Deadwood and try and get a job at the mine. That night we went to a
bar (a couple of bars) and at the end of the evening, I found myself
drinking alone.

John had left to go to a party. I had already had enough to drink, so
I told him I was going back to the hotel. Alone with my beer, I was
then able to reflect on what I really wanted to do. Above the bar was
a lit up Hamm's beer sign. It gave the illusion of cool sparkling
water running through a thick forest wilderness. I had been staring at
that picture since I sat down, and now it screamed back at me: "What
do you really want? Another beer? A job? A home? Or, do you want to
get on your bike and come see me?" When I walked out of the bar (after
one more beer), I had made up my mind. I was going to continue my trip
into the mountains and the wilderness beyond.

Biking The Badlands

I Was Just A Lad, Nearly Twenty-Two,
Neither Good Nor Bad, Just A Kid Like You,
And Now I'm Lost, Too Late To Pray,
Lord, I've Paid The Cost On The Lost Highway


South Dakota
May 25

I got on my bicycle and started peddling around 6 a.m. The sun was
at my back, and the scenery in front of me was awesome. There were
incredible wind carved ravines, and off to my left were rainbow
colored sand gullies. I wished Mike were here. I knew how excited
this scenery would make him if he could only see it. I wanted him
here also because I knew this was the place I wanted to drop acid. I
had brought seven hits of acid with me and I knew it would be a
whole lot more fun if I had a good friend to trip with.

Facilities out here were sparse, so when I pulled into a restaurant
and found it closed I was disappointed. As I was standing there
wondering what to do next, a car pulled in and a couple, before they
left, laid a few bananas and some homemade bread on me. After that
breakfast, I dropped a hit of acid. I hadn't done acid for a while,
and since I had been practicing meditation regularly, I was curious
as to how it would affect me. According to Ram Dass, mediation gives
you more control (diminishes the effects) of the acid experience.
Just by being in the Badlands, I was already in a relaxed state and
now with my mantra going full tilt and the beautiful scenery
breezing by, I began to feel euphoric, especially under a warm sun
in sparse traffic.

At first the up and down of the highway was pleasant. As the day
wore on, though, and the inclines grew steeper, my body clicked
into "automatic mode." No matter how steep the hill, there was
always just enough energy in my legs to make peddling uphill an
enjoyable experience. At the end of the scenic route, during the
hottest part of the day, there was one hill, however, that even put
my "automatic mode" to the test. I didn't know what would give out
first, the pedals, chain, handlebars, or my legs. In order to keep
the sweat from burning my eyes, I had to stare at my feet (the water
dropped off my forehead that way) while my legs kept pumping, and
pumping, and pumping. Then, finally, I made it to the top of the
steepest hill I had ever bicycled.

All things considered, I guess I couldn't complain. I did have a lot
of downhill too. In fact, at one point, I managed to peddle 55 miles
in three hours and fifteen minutes. (A note of interest: At scenic
overlooks, for the most part, I mingled with the tourists who were
enjoying the scenery and although I was on very good acid, I still
managed to carry on friendly conversations.)

I'm presently sitting on a porch, 15 miles from Mt. Rushmore.
There's a major thunderstorm happening outside, but I'm tucked away,
under an overhang of a museum filled with old cars. I called Carol
Sue and she told me that Denny and Mike were still in some town
waiting for Denny's money to arrive. I guess I won't see either of
them again, unless it's somewhere in British Columbia. It's still
raining outside, and things look rather bleak.

Watching The Sagebrush Roll

Lonely But Free I'll Be Found Drifting Along With The Tumbling Tumbleweeds


Bike Trip
Sitting On A Dilapidated Porch Watching The Sagebrush Roll
May 24, `72

Finally out West, I was sitting in the middle of nowhere, in the
South Dakota, Badlands. After a day of bicycling 120 miles, and
getting a flat tire too (the tire was easily repaired with a patch
on the tube), I was looking out at the clouded horizon from the
front porch of an old deserted shack. The wind was blowing sand
everywhere, even through the gaping cracks in the shack's
sideboards. My bike was leaning against a hitching post (a real
horse hitching post) right in front of me. I half expected to see
Kit Carson come riding up. If it rained I could take shelter inside
the shack. Except for the family of mice that went scurrying away
when I stuck my head inside the door the shack was empty. Sitting
there, reliving my old cowboy fantasies — exquisite memories—I
thought, "life is good."

Earlier in the day, I had been warned about rattlesnakes. I hadn't
seen any yet. I didn't have to worry about mosquitoes. There was too
much wind for that problem to arise. Last night I slept under an
overpass because it rained from late afternoon on. Before I actually
entered the Badlands, I rode up to a scenic overlook and viewed the
silhouette of the Badlands at sunset. It was beautiful. This place
puts you in the past; its like nothing has changed. "Oh, look! Is
that a smoke signal on the horizon?"

On The Farm

Bought Myself A Farm
Spent Time In The Hayloft With The Mice And The Bunnies
Spent Time In The Country Yes It's Good Livin’ On The Farm


Bike Trip
South Dakota
May 23

It poured so hard I had to look at my feet to see the edge of the
highway. When the thunder, lightning, and wind hit, I knew my goose
was cooked. I pushed my bike into the driveway of a farmhouse hoping
to find shelter in one of the outback buildings. As I got close to
the farmhouse, the door opened and an entire family greeted me. They
must have been watching the storm from their window when they saw me
on the highway. After I removed my wet clothes and put on their
boy's dry clothes, I was given a hot cup of tea. The whole family
(three boys, mom and dad) was super friendly. When they heard my
story they had a hard time accepting the fact that I (or anybody
else) would try and ride a bicycle in a storm like that. They told
me, "When the sky turns black on the prairie, you stop what you're
doing and take shelter." I said, "I won't make that mistake again."
The mom put my clothes in the dryer and told me I was spending the
night.

After dinner I went with the boys while they did their chores. Out
back, we fed the horses, and one of the boy's took me for a bareback
ride on one of their horses. It was fun. After that, I helped feed
the other animals and I watched as one of the boys tried to move a
pig from one stall to another. The 800 lb. pig had lived his entire
life in the same stall, and, as far as he was concerned, nobody was
going to make him move. The job was left unfinished as we headed
back to the farmhouse. Apparently, these pigs never see the light of
day until its time to be butchered. (What a life, eh!)

Back at the farmhouse we watched the sun set. There was just enough
open sky between horizon and cloudbank to make a spectacular sunset.
The rainbow that went from horizon to horizon wasn't too
unspectacular either! I felt just like a farmer; I smelled like one
too. The family social event of the evening was eating popcorn and
playing checkers in the living room. I felt like I was part of the
family. I really enjoyed myself, but I declined when I was invited
to stick around for a few more days.

After breakfast the next morning, I was on my way again; that is,
my new symphony of bicycle rattles and me were on our way again. By
5 p.m. I had reached this restaurant where I am presently drinking
coffee. I have come 91 miles, and I am reluctant to get back on my
bike. It looks like rain. I wonder if Mike and Denny are having my
kind of luck?

Failure To Communicate

So Tired Tired Of Waiting Tired Of Waiting For You


South Dakota Laundry Room
May 22, `72

I lost Mike and Denny yesterday. Late in the afternoon, I broke
three more spokes in my rear wheel. There was no place in front of
me to get my wheel repaired, so I decided to backtrack and take the
junction north to Mitchell S.D. I ran into a person at a rest area
who told me he had passed two bikers about twenty miles behind me,
but that information was about three hours old. The junction was
some thirty miles behind me, so that meant I should pass Denny and
Mike coming toward me. I had no such luck. When I reached the
junction, I didn't know what to think. Either they had bike trouble
and were stuck somewhere behind me or, more likely, they had bike
trouble and were doing the same thing that I was; that is, changing
direction and going to the only large city that could fix bikes. I
needed the repair, so off I went to Mitchell. Including the thirty
miles that I had to backtrack that day, I logged 126 miles.

Last night, I slept in the Parkston, S.D. park. When I finally got
to Mitchell the next day, it was raining, and after I got every
fuckin spoke in my rear wheel replaced at a local bike shop, it was
still raining. This is a breakdown (best I can remember) of my
repairs so far. Madison, Wisconsin—2 spokes--$5. Mason City, Iowa—5
spokes--$6. Algona, Iowa—2 spokes--$2. Mitchell, S.D.—every spoke in
the rear wheel--$6 (they took pity on me). What is not mentioned
here are all of the stops to adjust breaks, adjust derailleur,
rearrange luggage, or just plain check out one of the many foreign
noises that popped up ten or more times a day.

I am presently sitting with a towel wrapped around my waist in a
Wesleyan University dormitory, waiting for my clean clothes to get
dry in the dryer. There's an inquisitive old maid upstairs (I'm in
the basement) who keeps checking on me. I guess she wants to make
sure I don't steal the washing machine. My plans are changing as I
write. I think, rather than backtrack again and look for Denny and
Mike, I'm going to continue west on Highway 16 instead of on Highway
18, which (if they aren't somewhere up here in Mitchell) is the
highway that Denny and Mike are traveling on right now. I'll just be
a little north of where they are peddling. Once we get to the Black
Hills we ought to run into each other again.

As soon as I took a shower and put on clean clothes, I left
Mitchell. Things were looking up; my bike was fixed and the rain had
stopped. I was very thankful, and then, ten miles down the road, the
rain clouds came back. I was so sick of stopping, I decided to ride
out the storm. I started to rethink my decision when, on the
horizon, the gray sky turned black. When the rains came, I regretted
my decision.

Get Set For Tlhe Blues

I've Got A Right To Sing The Blues


Bicycle Trip
Somewhere in Iowa
May 15, `72

After Mike trued his wheel, and we got back on the highway, I heard
a ping in my rear wheel. It was another broken spoke. I just kept
riding. By the end of the day I had five more broken spokes. The
repair guy back in Madison had tightened my spokes too tight. As we
passed through a couple small towns I looked (with no luck) for
someone to repair my bike. The only bright spot was when we crossed
the Mississippi River. The scenery, both approaching and leaving the
river, was gorgeous. When we crossed the Mississippi, Mike lost his
favorite blue shirt. The wind blew it off his bike and into the
water. He was not happy. He made me promise to write about his loss
in my journal, so here it is, a documented moment for posterity.

My bike was broken, but we still managed to eke out sixty miles
before we camped. In the morning everybody was up early. With so
many stops, we weren't making very good time. We agreed to ride
longer during the day. But before I could ride at all, I had to get
my bike fixed. Once again, I stuck my thumb out (now with my whole
bicycle by my side), and headed for Mason City, Iowa, approximately
130 miles down the highway. My first ride was with two stoned freaks.

It started raining almost as soon as I got in the car. I couldn't
help but notice that the cat behind the wheel was a bad driver. In
the rain, he had a hell of a time bringing the car to a stop. At
other times, he needed a horn reminder (from the person behind us)
to get started again. I wasn't too surprised then, when he ploughed
into the car in front of us. The collision (both cars were totaled)
occurred at a stop sign. Fortunately, nobody was hurt badly, and
after the pigs released me, I took my bike out of the trunk of the
car, walked across the street, and started hitching all over again.
It took me three more rides before I got to Mason City. I camped in
a park just outside the city.

In the morning, I took my bike to a Schwinn dealer and had six spokes
replaced. The guy showed me how to pack my bearings, also. With my
bike repaired, I went to the store and bought two days worth of
food. I'm now back at the park, boiling eggs, waiting for Denny and
Mike to catch up. I can only boil three eggs at a time since my mess
kit's space is severely limited. I started out on this trip with
$300. and after 10 days I have $235. At this rate I'll be broke in
another month. This is not the kind of budget I can live on. Denny
and Mike, as best I can tell, don't even have a budget.

May 19

Once we were on the road heading west again, I noticed another
noise, a familiar one. It was another broken spoke. We stopped at
Algona, Iowa, and I found an old man who fixed me up for only $1.50.
I gave him $2.00. At that point I threw away everything that wasn't
absolutely necessary, even my lock and chain, and lastly, my books.
We stayed the rest of the day in Algona. We were changing our
strategy. The head wind that had kept us moving at a snail's pace
died down at night, so we thought we would try night riding. We
figured it would be okay because the roads in Iowa were pretty good,
and the traffic was sparse.

We played basketball with some locals in the city park (under the
lights) until 11p.m. and then hit the road. The moon was almost full
and the biking was beautiful, but when the generators for both Mike
and Denny's bicycle lights failed. We had to make camp long before
we were tired.

May 21

After a long day, we arrived in Canton S.D. We camped at the city
park. The days were getting hot. We'd been living on ice cream;
every stop had been a different flavor.

Denny was having money sent to him in some town down the highway. He
had just borrowed another $5. from me and he already owed Mike $15.
Giving out money when I was trying to budget brought out my money
grubbing attitude, especially when there was a good chance that
Denny wouldn't be able to pay me back.

At 7 a.m. I got up and split. We all agreed that we no longer would
try to bike together. It wasn't working. At the end of the day we
would meet at a prearranged destination, that way we could still
stay together as we biked at our own pace. When I left, I didn't
bother to wake Denny because he had made it quite clear (the day
before) that nobody was to disturb him when he was sleeping. He was
very explicit when he said either Mike or I could leave two hours
before him and he could still catch up. Our relations were strained,
to say the least. Mike and Denny can catch up to me if they want
too, but I prefer to ride alone. It's much cheaper that way too.

In Defense Of Whose Freedom

I’ve Abused You
I’ve took Advantage Of You
I Used you Selfishly


Bike Trip
Madison, Wisconsin

Mike was holding Issac Hayes' album cover, talking with
Nate, as Hayes' music blared over the stereo speakers. I was glad
Mike had found somebody to talk to. Every once in a while, Mike
would sound like a broken record. I settled back with a cold beer,
in a comfortable chair, feeling safe behind bolted doors. I was
happy with everything, even the music. I wasn't into Hayes like Mike
though. His black friends in Vietnam had turned him on to old Issac.
I know, because he had told me so many times.

I was feeling lucky. I couldn't help but feel that way after
listening to what the protesters were angry about at the rally. The
guys over in Nam weren't lucky. The North Vietnamese soldiers
weren't lucky either. At the rally, one of the protesters was
carrying a sign that read, "In defense of freedom no defeat is
possible, only victory – Ho Chi Mien." I guess, just like there's
more than one kind of "truth," there's more than one kind
of "freedom" too. The Vietcong surely must be determined fighters;
otherwise we would have won the war long ago, right? Apparently, the
Vietcong were fighting for their own kind of "truth." In their war,
the predator was America. I couldn't understand what was happening
over there in any other way. That's the only conclusion I could come
up with.

Tomorrow I'm going to the University of Wisconsin to apply for a
custodian job. My reasons for doing so are changing as I write. In
the beginning, I wanted to saturate myself in book learning,
academic discussions, and art appreciation (if not the actual
creation of art itself). Instead of paying the university for the
privilege of an education, the university would pay me – a hell of
an idea. But now, I think there is another reason why I want to
become a custodian. I do not want to contribute to the predatory
instincts that dominate my own society. I do not want to add my "two
cents" to a money-grubbing value system that exists to glamorize and
to out- glamorize the glamorous. Give me a broom and leave me alone.
Let those who can pay the price wallow in their glamour. I hope they
choke on it. Me, I just want to eat, sleep, and be left alone; that
is, as long as I'm left alone at a university.

The next day, we went looking for Denny back at the Capital. It
wasn't `till late afternoon that we finally found him. Denny had
also found a safe house the night before. Apparently, he was in no
hurry to leave it, either. We started biking out of the city around
dark, but we didn't get far. We stopped as soon as we found a safe
place to camp. On my bike radio, we heard on the news that three
pigs got blown away during the Madison riot. The University of
Wisconsin was a very radical campus.

May 13

Fifteen miles out of Madison I noticed the noise coming from my bike
was getting worse. When I investigated, I found two broken spokes
and a rear wheel that was not very true. We couldn't fix the
problem, so Denny and Mike continued riding on to the little town of
Spring Green while I hitched back to Madison to get my wheel
repaired. I left all my stuff, except my bike wheel, at a friendly
farmer's house and then started to hitch back to Madison. By early
evening I was back on the highway bicycling west, but when I got to
Spring Green I couldn't find Mike or Denny. I spent hours looking
for them before I finally crashed at a wayside.

In the morning I began my search again. I was not happy. After my
third time at the city park (the last time because if I didn't find
them I was splitting), I found Mike with his bike torn apart. The
problems he was having kept them from getting to our prearranged
destination. We weren't going anywhere and I was getting sick of all
the hassle these bikes were causing (much of it not mentioned) and
the extra expenses that kept cutting into my budget. I was ready to
ship my bike home on the next bus, and start hitchhiking west. In
fact, if I had one more breakdown, that was exactly what I was going
to do!

Warning: Zoned For Tear Gas

Tin Soldiers And Nixon Coming, We're Finally On Our Own
This Summer I Hear The Drumming, Four Dead In Ohio

Did You Come To Shoot Me Down Bury Me On My Own Home Ground


Bicycle Trip
Madison, Wisconsin
May 12, `72

Around 4 p.m. the next day, we biked into in Madison,
Wisconsin. Mike and Denny stopped at a restaurant while I went into
a downtown bookstore. We agreed to meet at the Capital building at 7
p.m. I didn't find the book I was looking for, but I bought some
books anyway, and then went back to the Capital and started reading.
At 7:30 p.m. Denny came walking up to me and told me that he and
Mike had been waiting on the opposite side of the Capital for over
and hour. When we left to look for a place to camp, Denny
said, "There's a city park not far from here."

On the way to the park, we cut across the University of Wisconsin's
campus, and, in the large square there was a protest rally going on.
We dismounted from our bikes and listened to the guy talking on
stage. The students were pissed at the asshole move by Nixon to mine
the North Vietnam harbor. This was a very anti-establishment crowd.
Holding our bicycles, we stood on the edge of the crowd, listening
to the speakers harangue both Henry (Kissinger) and Dick. More
people gathered around. The dude next to me asked, "Where you
going?" and I replied, "West, to British Columbia, Canada." I told
him we were from Michigan as he handed me the piece of paper he was
writing on. The paper had his address on it. He said, "Don't be
afraid to use this." I thanked him just as the speaker on the stage
said, "Here they come." Nate, the dude who gave me his address,
pulled his bandanna up around his face as the people behind me
started screaming. Teargas started dropping, and the stampede was
on. I just caught a glimpse of the cops in riot gear, as I started
following Denny.

People were scattering and we hadn't gone far when a canister of
teargas dropped right in front of me. I couldn't breathe. My eyes
were burning, and I was choking. I got off my bike and was hanging
onto it when this person came up to me and covered my face with a
wet bandanna. Another person grabbed my bike and the two of them
helped get me over to some stairs. Denny never looked back, so he
was long gone as these people helped me down the stairs. Once I got
below the gas, I was able to breathe once again. I had barely
recovered when Mike pulled up and said, "Let's go." I could hardly
mount my bicycle, but the road was downhill, so I coasted behind
him. We went out the same way we came in. The gas had cleared
somewhat, and the pigs were chasing the resisting students (the
students with gas masks). Finally, we made it off campus.

Pigs were all over the city, carrying their nightsticks and
teargas canisters. Mike and I figured we would go to the Capital and
wait for Denny, since that was our designated meeting spot in the
beginning. The streets were full of tear gas and with pigs in riot
gear; getting to the Capital was impossible. On one occasion, the
pigs told us to "Turn around and go home." Instead, we went looking
for Nate's place. On the way there, we were questioned by more pigs
and when they decided to let us go, I said, "How about an escort; a
person could get killed around here." One of them was not amused. He
turned towards me and pulled his baton. Fortunately, one of the
other officers called him off before he could start swinging. Then
Mike screamed at me to "Shut up!" When we finally reached Nate's, he
and his black friends (Nate was black too) welcomed us with genuine
hospitality. We were treated to good music, beer, and pot.