Uncovering America Mile by Mile

And on through training...

This section is a quite a bit shorter than the last. It also doesn't feel quite as "Done" to me. Let me know what y'all think! Leave a comment!

If you are new to NakedMiles, check out the introduction or dive right in with Chapter 1.


          As the rest of the week passes we begin training. We ride around town a bit, but the bulk of our training is more academic and philosophical. We learn to run the group with “consensus”, the fairest form of group decision making possible, but also the slowest, most inefficient, and often frustrating. We learn a few basics of road safety, weather safety, and first aid. We learn about our innate prejudices, and how to operate around them so as to prevent oppression. We learn about our topic for this ride: “Food Safety and Security”. I’m not sure at this point if I really get it. It doesn’t really seem worth talking about much, which confuses me. It just seems like there would be so many more issues that have a much greater impact on our everyday lives.
          Take, for instance, the “Toxic Tour.” We take a guided ride around San Francisco’s “SuperFund” sites, areas that are so polluted that no one can go inside, and no one really knows what to do to best clean it up. The areas are right here, and clearly have an effect on the health of the people who live near them. Food? Yeah, that’s important. I’m all for good nutrition. Food Safety? It conjures up images of carrots wearing seat belts, cabbages with helmets. Or at least of signs displaying that mantra of all business bathrooms: “Employees must wash hands before returning to work.”


June 11th, 2004.
          It’s my birthday. I’m now officially twenty-four years old, though I’ve been calling myself twenty-four for the last few weeks, already. After the day’s activities and our church-cleaning chores, I want to head out on the town and party it up. I make the suggestion, and more than a few of the other riders are all for it. Kien, the ride director from Global Exchange, tells me about a cool little bar with a Pacific Island theme in the area. They have tropical drinks served in large bowls that sound, well, large. I’m excited to go out, have nothing but fun, and get a little bit closer to my new friends.
          “Trader Sam’s” is exactly as I expected it to be, the bowls every bit as large as they could be. We look around for a place to sit, but none seems available for the group of us. We share a seats and standing room at the bar, which isn’t bad because the place is not crowded. At least, not yet. The bowls are meant to be shared. Which we do, at first. Then people start ordering me birthday drinks. I get whole bowls to myself. We talk, dance, and drink, drink drink. The pacific island decor blurs into images of faces close to mine. Palm trees are fingers waved in front of my face. Heather, drinking there beside me, is a great conversation companion, though I’m not sure how much sense I’m making, at this point.
          Heather is a petite girl with the strongest calves I’ve ever seen and hair halfway down her back. She’s a dynamo on and off the bike, and I think I find her rather attractive, though I’m far too chicken tell her that. Talking with her is fun because she’s got that rare trait of intelligence without coming across like a cocky know-it-all. Plus she’s into yoga (how about that, Steely Dan!) and will randomly bust into a back bend that looks impossibly painful and refreshing at the same time.
          When the night comes to a close we stumble back to the church and attempt to sleep. I’m on my sleeping bag for about thirty seconds before I have to get up and run to the bathroom. The rest of the night comes in flashes. I’m over the toilet, next to the toilet, always feeling the turmoil of my insides trying to work their way out. Somehow I end up with no clothes on, though I am alone. I can’t sleep, but I keep drifting off in a haze. “Never again” come the words, and I immediately realize that they’ve been uttered by these very lips before, and I don’t mean it any more this time than I did then. Such is the life of a young American learning his tolerances. I spent years completely dry in high school and college while my friends went to parties, got drunk, got sick, got better. I thought I would avoid that by starting later. I guess I was wrong. Now it’s my turn.

June 12th, 2004.
          I can’t get out of bed. Not that my camping mat is the most comfortable place to lie down, but I’m dead tired and still feel like I’ve got to struggle to keep from dry-heaving every thirty seconds. My “friends”, the ones who kept buying me drinks when I was far past gone, are trying to feed me last night’s leftovers. “Come on, Chad, get up.” They say. “let’s get going, we’ve got a lot to do today” and “is your bike ready to ride?”
          “Uh, do I look ready to ride it?”
          I’m not. We have a meeting at GX headquarters this morning that we’re supposed to ride to. I simply cannot do it. Jennifer offers to drive the van over, and I ride with her. I sit woozy and nauseated through the meeting, to which I try to appear to be paying attention. After the meeting everyone hops back on their bikes to ride around town and explore some more of San Francisco. I walk. Alone. Walk, walk, walk. I didn’t realize how far this would be!
          I peruse through the local REI store, a giant multi-level affair. Rachel, Bunny, Heather, Leslie and a few others are there, too. We shop, but I don’t buy anything. I spend the time flirting with Heather, who seems more than happy to reciprocate, but whom I can’t read at all. I have no idea if there is any possibility for more than innocent flirtation, though I am surely interested in knowing!
          When we’re all ready to leave I wave goodbye. They all quickly disappear around a corner and I am left to walk my way across San Francisco. I take a quick break at a soup shop to load up on clam chowder. The salty, creamy goodness slides down my throat more easily than I expected. It’s the first significant amount of food that I’ve been able to keep down all day. Almost immediately I begin to feel stronger and better, and it’s a good thing, too, because I have miles and miles to go before I sleep tonight.
I walk. Walk. Walk. I see all sorts of people doing all sorts of things, but I don’t have time to stop and explore. I have a mission. I have a destination. I keep walking.

          I walk over a shady sun-dappled shortcut through the trees to a road that I am sure will take me north and to the church. About an hour later I’m back to the beginning of the short cut. I have no idea how I got turned around. I consult a park map in Golden Gate park. I wind my way up through the Castro, where gay couples stroll hand in hand under rainbow banners; and Haight-Ashbury, where the kids who were borm too late to be real hippies are giving it a shot, anyway. I keep walking.

          I stop to buy a chocolate bar and a grape soda at a small grocery store on the corner. I think I’m close. The sun is getting low and I’m racing against the moment that it dips behind the horizon. A drum group is performing cultural rhythms that I cannot seem to place. There is a small crowd gathered around. Children hug their parents thighs while attempting to prevent their popsicles from dripping. A group of teens walks blithely by, as if the awesome talent of the performers is not good enough for them. I skirt the edges of the mass, enjoying the beats, feeling the rhythm pulse through me, and immensely relieved that my head is not hurting so much anymore. When the song finishes I hustle along. Only a few blocks left.

          Eight at night and I’m finally back. I snack on leftovers from the others’ dinner. I nap. I talk for a moment with the Jennifer and Kate, Rachel and Kiona, Leslie and Bunny, as they begin to come back from wherever it was that they were. I go back to sleep, the faint twang of a Johnny Cash song making it’s way across the room from someone’s headphones.

posted by Unknown @ 10:48 PM