Blog 9

Ideas for Short Essay 1:

I watched the video for "Les Cruel Shoes" and think it's a fun idea, doing voiceover with video. It could be a powerful way to tell a story. I've never done a multimedia piece like that, but I think I'd like to try it. I have a GoPro camera and have made videos in iMovie of my adventures, so I could use that as my jumping off point. I'd have to figure out how to do voiceover, though. I also love spoken word poetry and how it moves me, but I don't have the guts to do something like that...yet. Not sure how I'd use video.

Ideas for writing: Can we revisit the essay we chose not to use for our long essay? I may give some thought to resurrecting it in a new light, however, it doesn't feel close to my heart right now.

One idea I have, is to write about the dirty, homeless-looking old man who walks around my town, seemingly aimless. Wherever you go, there he is. After months, maybe years, of seeing him walking and walking and walking, I finally (and very recently) had an interaction with him.

Cabin fever plagued me, so I went out for a walk. I walked to the top of my street and headed down the Boulevard. I made a right on 14th, and then a right on Monroe. When I reached the high school, I saw him walking towards me. Great, I thought, he's going to try and talk to me. Shaggy and greasy and dirty; same stained clothes he always wears. Pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket. Normally he's seen picking cigarette butts up off of the ground and smoking what's left of them. Who the hell does that?

He stopped me. "No dog today?" I laughed. I don't know that he'd ever seen me walk my dog, because I rarely walk him. He's 15 and arthritic, so we don't walk together much. But I smiled, and said that I left him at home this time. He smiled, and I saw a warmth in his eyes that I didn't expect. His eyes were swallowed up by years and years of aging; deep, cavernous wrinkles, that are signature of a lifetime smoker. His hair looked like it was slathered with lard. His clothes, like they hadn't been washed in decades. But his short-sleeved button-down was tucked neatly into his filthy, creased, navy blue pants. His silver hair, slicked like he just stepped out of a 1940's ad. I could tell he craved conversation at the way he caught eyes with me. His cloudy eyes spoke to me, telling me to give him the time of day.

I told him I always see him walking all over town, and he told me it's because he likes to give his wife a break from him. I'm not sure he even has a wife. I imagined him going home to an empty house, the result of being a long-time widower. He told me he is from Greece, and I always thought he looked Russian or Polish, but never Greek. I could hear his accent weighing heavily on his speech though, so I knew it was true. The wife, I'll never know if it's true. Maybe he was never even married.

After seeing this dirty-looking old man cruising the streets for years, I finally spoke to him. He looks scary, but he has a warmth that you can only know if you look into his eyes. I wonder if he's someone's grandpa?

There's more to our exchange, but I'll save it for now. I need to understand why we had this brief encounter on the street.

Blog 8

Long Essay 2 Plans, Revised:

After my meeting with Dr. Chandler yesterday, the course of my essay has changed, so my plans below are null and void...mostly. I still plan to move forward with #2, though, as the story I'm trying to tell is stronger. And as Dr. Chandler said, it's the world "where I live." Or something like that. I agree 110% with her. I have one million stories and lessons I could tell from that adventure.

My essay is going to shift away from telling the story of Annette, though it may touch upon it. The focus will be on how setting changes a person, and what hiking the Appalachian Trail allows a person to do or be–what it did for me.  We came up with so many ideas that I feel overwhelmed, so it may change again once I get back to working on it.


Long Essay 2 Plans:

I'd like to revise my draft of essay #2. It feels like a more cohesive story, and one that hopefully has good meaning. I started to feel a disconnect from essay #1, and am still not sure why I should tell that one–I'll revisit it in the future, perhaps as a short essay. There's some reason I chose to write it, but I think it needs more time to percolate.

To revise #2, I will first see what Dr. Chandler has to say at our meeting. Again, I'm not sure the reason I have for telling this story, either. I don't know if I was successful with segmentation, or with showing the audience, not telling them. My guess is I'll need to work on those skills, and transitions between scenes. I could be wrong, though.

I'll also talk to the friends I was with that day to see what their memory of the event is. I fact-checked myself against their blog entries, as well as my own from that day, but maybe they have some memories that they didn't write down.

Blog 7

Annette shouted, “It’s just a fucking piece of tin on four wheels anyway!” as she pulled into the parking lot, nearly smashing into another car. The heads of 50 southerners dressed in their Sunday best turned in horror; they were waiting to be seated in the restaurant. Internally, I laughed at our grand entrance. We wiggled our bodies over the tops of the doors while pulling the weight of our packs behind us. I was relieved to have landed safely at the Homeplace Restaurant, the most legendary all you can eat restaurant on the Appalachian Trail (AT). It was all about quantity, not quality, and the food came in the masses. With a quick change in attitude, Annette gave a friendly smile and said, “Good luck, girls!”

It was Mothers Day, and the rhododendrons had bloomed overnight. It’s just about summer, I thought. It was also the first time we saw Pink Lady Slippers, too, and the girls shrieked in excitement. I didn’t know what the big deal was, but, I learned that these wildflowers were somewhat rare. Bright pink and bulbous and veiny, they look sort of, well, sexual. I felt lucky to be hiking with a plant biologist and a horticulturist, because I was gaining a whole new set of knowledge I didn’t realize interested me at the time. The trail became my classroom. 

I bounced down the trail; the day was warm and I knew it ended with real food. Food was the biggest motivator, and the one thing unanimously talked about. We didn’t take breaks that day in order to get to the restaurant before they closed, and it would then be closed for the next 4 days; there was no room for error when food was involved. We climbed up and down mountains all day, but there was nothing too significant about the climbs. Really, it was just a series of smaller elevation changes, and we were in trail shape having already hiked 700 miles.

I could smell the clean people before I saw them, so that meant one thing: we were nearing the trail head. Day hikers flooded the trail, enjoying a beautiful Mothers Day with their moms, girlfriends, sisters and daughters. All of these beautiful-smelling people noted that we should go to the Homeplace to eat; it was not to be missed. Even more motivation to hike faster. I picked my feet up higher and widened my gait; my stomach grumbled and I longed for town food. I only stopped long enough to photograph the flowering rhododendrons. 

I heard cars in the distance, so I knew we were almost to the promise land of fine southern cuisine. Faster faster faster. Images of plates piled sky-high with food danced through my brain. One plate, three plates, ten plates. Plates of fried things, plates of sweet things. I needed a fix of my sugary southern crack addiction, sweet tea, and wanted to feel the euphoria of it filling my empty belly. Tea and ice and sugar and cups. Drinking out of cups became luxury. 

We hit the road and had a mile of road walking. The girls started to walk along the highway, but I thought, aw hell no. I’ll try to get us a ride, I said. I crossed the double yellow, following with traffic, and stuck out my thumb. Within minutes, a red 90’s convertible Mustang pulled over, and I waved the girls over. Out stepped a slightly-disheveled Annette, buttoning her shirt and zipping her pants. That’s weird, I thought. 

Thanks for pulling over!
Well, I wouldn’t have if you didn’t stick out your thumb!
Good point, I thought, and we all looked at each other. 

She swung her door open into traffic, nearly having it ripped off, and pissed off other motorists. They honked and cursed; Annette revolted.

Fuck you! Let them see my tits, that’s what they want to see anyway! Motorcyclists revved their engines and motorists laid on their horns in that You Asshole kind of way, not that polite, horn-tapping, pay-attention-the-light-just-turned-green kind of way. 

I knew this would be the best hitching experience we’d have on the whole trail. Annette pulled random items from her backseat and stuffed them into her trunk. A white comforter, a wall clock, picture frames, and a variety of housewares. 

I ran away! she shouted. A 30 year failed marriage and a cheating boyfriend, men suck! Annette looked like she was in her 40's, so I wouldn't consider that running away; maybe just escaping.

We all looked at each other, wide-eyed, knowing what each of us were thinking. Spending that kind of time with the same people every single day, words become unnecessary; facial expression says everything. 

The road curved and bent along the base of the southern Appalachian Mountains following the river below. I don’t know which river it was, maybe the James River, but for a second I believed Annette was going to take us all careening over the edge in her red 90’s Mustang, and we’d all meet our fate. I squinted as the wind walloped my eyeballs. Please, Universe, don’t let me die today, it’s Mother’s Day. I haven’t even called my mother yet, I pleaded. I tried to glance at the speedometer, but I was afraid she’d know I thought she was driving too fast. I can’t remember what the speedometer registered at, but it felt like 100 miles per second. 

Annette picked up a white, two-piece bathing suit from her console, and held it up. It looked like dental floss, and she was a rotund woman. I’m going down the river to float!, she grunted. My eyes got wide. Did that mean she was going to float to her death, or do something radical? Jesus Christ, what the hell does that mean. I didn’t dare ask if it was a metaphor, but I felt like it had less of a literal meaning, even though she had the bathing suit to prove otherwise. 

We told Annette about the trail and that we were hiking to Maine. Well, Mt. Katahdin, to be exact, but we always said Maine. The mountain had no significance to anyone else, just those of us on a long walk north. She thought we were crazy, said we were brave. Maybe she craved the same escape from reality.

At the Homeplace, plates and plates of food were dropped on the table until we said stop–a party of eight, the plates were endless. There were plates of fried things and plates of sweet things. Ham, green beans, mashed potatoes, fried chicken, fried okra, cinnamon apples. There were plates of pecan pie and plates of apple pie and bowls of ice cream. Heaven, I thought. The promise land. I couldn’t stuff the calories into my gullet fast enough. And, I finally fed my sweet crack addiction, falling into a blissful food-and-sugar-induced coma. I called my mom and told her about Annette, and the plates and plates of food. She laughed and I laughed. It was the best Mother’s Day I never had.

Blog 6

Brain storming for Essay 2

I threw my snow tube down on the ice-covered sidewalk, then backed up ten feet to get a good running distance. I hunched down, then sprinted towards the tube, belly flopping down on it, sailing down the sidewalk.

Whooooooooo! This is fuuuuunnnn!

Bam. The ice stopped, but the sidewalk didn't. The tube jerked to a hault, thrusting me forward, smashing my chin into the pavement, now a bloody disaster.

It was the winter of 1987, and I was six years old. My cousins rushed me back home, which was just across the street, and I ran up the stairs screaming and bleeding all over myself. My parents immediately put me in the car and took me to the doctor, where they sewed the bloody disaster back together.

I was always the daredevil, doing random stunts and falling down; that's just one story from my childhood.


Another idea I might write about is my best hitchhiking experience. Annette, the angry man-hater who "ran away," picked up my friends and I. We had a mile of road walking, and after hiking up and over mountains all day, I wasn't about to walk another mile. We hit the road and up went my thumb. Within minutes, the red 90s convertible Mustang pulled over.

She swung open her door into traffic–there was no shoulder. Immediately people started honking, so she cursed at them, saying things like, "Fuck you" and "Let them see my tits, that's what they want to see anyway," as she buttoned her shirt and zipped her pants. She stuffed random items from the back seat into her trunk, like a white comforter, a wall clock, and some picture frames.

Score! I thought. This is going to be one awesome ride! The next mile seemed to move so slowly, even though Annette was whipping that car around those windy mountain roads, ranting, trashing men and talking about running away. She looked like she was in her 40's, so I wouldn't consider that running away; maybe just escaping. But who knows, I only knew Annette for a mile.


These are my ideas for now, but they are likely to change. I've had so many adventures within an adventure that I can draw from.

Blog 5

Plans for Essay 1

I need to cut the fat; there's some excess words in there that don't help carry the story. I'm not sure every single sentence is necessary, either.

After my meeting, I feel like I'm getting much closer to the point of this story. I think that I did ok implementing segmenting, however, I will revisit that.

Dr. Chandler commented that it seemed a bit choppy with many transitions, though she was able to follow the story; I will try to trim down and tighten it up a bit.

The title – I just slapped it on, but really, I'm not sure it even relates to the meaning.

I do think that, in time, this story will be easier to write once it has percolated a bit.

Blog 4

The Weight of a Ride

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, rattlerattlerattle! Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, rattlerattlerattle! Dammit! I realized the mechanic back in Baker City, Oregon screwed up my chain–I think he added the wrong speed links. Every third pedal stroke my chain clanked and rattled through the front derailleur–it sounded like a janitor’s oversized keyring, jingling away. McKinley told me she’d stick with me if I wanted to spend the night in Cambridge, Idaho to get my chain fixed the next morning, so we pulled over and called it a day. 

I met McKinley just days earlier. The week prior to meeting her, I had been riding with Ross and Bob, who I had dubbed Cheech and Chong because of the amount of pot they smoked. Every ten miles they’d say, “Wanna celebrate?” and would pull over to get silly. After spending so much time with just men, I was ready for some solid girl conversation. On my last morning with Ross and Bob, McKinley came shivering into the cafe, where we were all sitting at the breakfast counter, pounding plate-sized pancakes and bottomless cups of coffee. I had been stalling a bit, it was a cold morning and I had three consecutive passes to climb and would do it solo. Cheech and Chong were heading in a more northerly direction across America, and I was dropping down towards Colorado. McKinley took the stool next to me and ordered a coffee. I tried to play it cool and pretend I wasn’t ecstatic to see another girl on a fully-loaded touring bike, but my heart was pounding with excitement. A girl! Who looks about my age! And she’s riding across America, too! We chatted over coffee, exchanged numbers, and McKinley took off into the chilly, damp morning. I told her I’d see her later on in Sumpter at the campground. The stars aligned, and I had a new friend. 

McKinley and I headed to the park to set up our little 3-walled homes for the night. The only joint in town to get food was a dimly lit, smoky, dive bar, so we followed our grumbling bellies towards food and beer. As we sat there eating crusty bar pizza and drinking our cheap beers, two surly-looking Harley dudes, smoking cigarettes and swearing like sailors, asked us what the hell we were doing. We looked out of place. 

"Biking across the country.”

“Are you fucking kidding?! We wouldn’t even do that on our motorcycles!” 

We laughed. I was amused. Maybe we were crazy, but ignorance is bliss. We were having so much fun traveling together and everything became funny. 

Their names were Cambridge Bob and Baldy Bob - Cambridge Bob was from Cambridge, and Baldy Bob was, well, bald. We warmly referred to them as “The Bobs.” They wore leather Harley jackets, chain-smoked, and drank beer by the pitcher. Between crude jokes, one of the Bobs would say, “Hey, look at this picture of my granddaughter, isn’t she cute!” We realized that they may have looked gruff, but were just a bunch of grandpas that rode motorcycles and cursed. A lot. 

The Bobs gave us a bottle of homemade strawberry jam and homemade biscuits. McKinley and I later dubbed the jam Liquid Gold–I could have taken shots of it and been drunk on happiness it was so damn delicious. Every bite made me see fairies eating jelly beans while dancing on clouds and rainbows. Liquid. Gold. Deliciousness. 

We told them we’d be going over White Bird Hill on Old 95 in a few days.

“I hate White Bird Hill and I’ve done it on my motorcycle! I wouldn’t do that on a bicycle! That SUCKS! You girls should stay on Old 95 and avoid regular 95, it’s dangerous, even for  motorcycles. It’s curvy and full of tractor trailers and there’s no shoulder.” 

Hill was the operative word, because it was more like a mountain. It was a 10-mile climb on an extremely windy road, with multiple consecutive switchbacks at a 7% grade. It did suck. All ten miles of it. And it was hot. 

“You girls should come to our annual Harley picnic! It’s this Friday and runs all weekend. We’ve had it every year for the last 25 years at the same campground.” It happened to fall right on our route and was an appropriate distance away. We wouldn’t have to bike any epic long days to get there that Saturday. We thought, “Why the hell not, sure!”

“Thanks for the beer and Liquid Gold, Bobs! See you Saturday!”

The next day was mostly uneventful. Off we went with our bottle of Liquid Gold and a sparkly new chain. Towards the end of the day we rolled over a bridge and heard music echoing in the distance. 

“Awesome! That’s a rodeo down there! We have to go!” 

We made a hard right and headed downhill towards the rodeo. There were authentic cowboys and cowgirls. The events included barrel racing and cow-milking. The crowd cheered as the horses ran wild, dirt kicking up forming dust clouds. I had never seen anything like it before and neither had McKinley, so we were giddy with excitement. We overheard some cowboys say, “Hey, check out the biker girls!” as we walked by in our spandex, pushing along our heavy bikes. I felt so underdressed and out of place, but, we were often the outsiders anywhere we stopped.

There was never another time on my trip that l felt so awkward. Everyone was dressed in traditional cowboy/girl attire: jeans, plaid button-down shirts, and hats, while we were in tight bike shorts. Immediately I felt like I was being inappropriate to the rodeo community. I didn’t even feel out of place at the Mormon camp in Wyoming, where there were 100 people dressed in baggy, colonial clothes, reenacting their ancestors pilgrimage. 

We camped on the rodeo grounds, and everyone was happy to have us along. Thought I immediately felt like an outsider, they were just as quick to welcome the newbies and show us a good time. Stopping at the rodeo made us have to ride a longer day to the biker party, but we had already ridden some long days, what was one more? 

McKinley and I attended the cowboy breakfast and I ate biscuits and gravy like a champ. I hadn’t eaten meat in three years, so I ignored the greasy sausage crumbles floating around in my mouth. That’s all there was to eat, so I was graceful about it, and thankful for such generosity.  Outside  populated areas, I realized that most people are carnivorous, especially in ranching communities. So we followed suit. McKinley called it her “non vegan adventure” and I called it my “non vegetarian adventure.” I decided I’d eat meat if I had to, but would resume a vegetarian lifestyle when I reached the Atlantic. 

The day led us through 80 miles of heat, hills, headwinds and…WHITE BIRD HILL. We climbed and descended, climbed and descended, climbed and descended. Climbclimbclimb descenddescenddescend. We stopped and ate a three course meal for lunch. We rested. We sleepily pushed on towards the campground, hoping to make it before dark. After some speculation if we had gone the right way following directions scribbled on a bar napkin, we made it just as night fell, exhausted, at 9pm; That was 12 hours in the saddle. A sigh of relief. As we rolled in on our bikes with our little blinking headlights letting the crowd know we had arrived, we heard, "Hey Bob, your girls are here!" And a crowd of 100 cheered. This was the first time in 25 years they ever had people other than Harley friends at their picnic. We were honored to be their guests. 

“Do you girls want steak or burgers?”

“Burgers!”

I piled 2 cheeseburgers and a mountain of potato salad on my styrofoam plate; The weight of my food threatened to snap in half. I was starved for food, starved for rest, and starved for a typical social setting after being on my bike for weeks; I received all of those things from a crowd of strangers. Were they scary motorcycle gang people? Nope. It was just a bunch of regular people in leather who partied more than the average, telling stories about their grandkids and families. They fed us to death, and were some of the most generous people I met on that trip.