Things didn't go exactly as planned on our little pre-trip testing weekend, which is why I began this post watching sheets of rain come down over Mt. Adams' foothills, typing a blog post in my parents comfy chair instead of cooking dehydrated camp food somewhere along the Klickitat River. The problems started with the weather.  We don't get thunderstorms very often out here in Oregon, but one decided to roll in.  Friday night, I was outside with my dad, in his shop, trying to finish up the last modifications on my new wheelchair carrying system for the handcycle and an easier-to-use wheel rack for the Bob trailer that Kelly will be towing.  First the rain came, then the thunder, an eerie orange glow in the sky and before long the power was out and my dad and Kelly were scooping trenches in the dirt to keep the shop floor from flooding.  The rain only lasted a half hour or so, but by that time the driveway was gouged from the gravel washing out.  Saturday morning the "chance of thunderstorms" for the weekend had been upgraded to flash-flood and thunderstorm warnings in the Kilckitat Valley (the result of two years of forest fires that have compromised the soil and ground cover in the area).  Over the last few years of doing bike tours, we've learned that if we're going to put ourselves in bad situations, we better have a good reason.  Generally, on a long tour "no other option" is the best reason to slog through nasty conditions.  But when you do have an option "because we'd planned to" is a pretty piss poor reason to do something.  The problem with weather is that you have no idea when and if warnings will actually turn into flash floods, but getting washed into the Klickitat isn't exactly how we wanted to spend our weekend.  We decided to change plans and do a day ride to test out gear, packing and towing systems, and bikes. 

A morning of last minute modifications and re-figuring how best to load up our bikes.  The wheelchair carrying system actually operated according to plan, which meant that I was able to load and strap down the frame of my everyday chair to the rear of my handcycle while Kelly loaded her bike and trailer.  The new system should save immeasurable headache and hassle as it's now quick and easy to load my wheelchair.  Before, on our Ireland trip, we were basically welding the wheelchair frame to the handcycle with bungee cords.  The system provoked a fair bit of fury as Kelly reefed on the bungee cords to get the connection tight enough that the frames wouldn't rattle apart.  In a bid to eliminate as many bungees as possible, an attachment point for my wheelchair was actually welded to the handcycle, and wheel receivers to the frame of Kelly's trailer.

Not on the road until after 11, things immediately started going wrong.  As soon as we got up the driveway my blood pressure had bottomed out and I spun through my gears trying to force blood into my arms.  After only a few miles of flat yet exceedingly difficult riding, I could tell that it wasn't just my blood pressure I would have to deal with.  My blood sugar was bottoming out as well.  We pulled off into Husum so I could down some candy and recover, not exactly a great start to our only test of the summer. It was an annoyingly-timed reminder that, as someone with Type 1 Diabetes, checking my sugars an hour before departure was too long before we left.  After 20 minutes I was ready to ride again.  As we pulled onto the road my bike had a bit of a gangsta lean and I looked back to see a brand new tire flattened against the asphalt.  "Stupid f-ing tube!" We spent another 20 minutes of cussing, talking ourselves down, and saying "this is why we're testing this shit now...better now than in 2 months," etc. before realizing that our brand new pump was not going to work on our presta valve tubes.  Either that or we simply couldn't figure it out, but same difference at that point.  "Stupid f-ing pump!" Eventually, with the help of a hand-delivered adapter from my dad (didn't take long, we were still only 3 miles away), we got the tires aired up and back on the road.  Unfortunately, it was now into the afternoon and the soupy air had gone from uncomfortable to suffocating.  Climbing shallowly but steadily, my temperature began rising, and Kelly started sweating.  By the time we reached the real hills the temperature gauge on my bike computer was reading in the 90's.  My body was attempting to override our foolish need to keep pedaling by shutting itself down.  "Stupid f-ing thermo-regulatory system!"  Pissed off and deflated, we decided to head home.

Heading back, the thick gray thunderheads were already streaming into the valley, but, knowing we wouldn't have to camp under them, the shade provided a welcome relief from the heat.  Slightly downhill most of the way home, I tucked in behind Kelly's trailer and drafted as best I could as Kelly battled the headwind pushing the storm towards Mt. Adams.  By the time we made it back to Husum the clouds had passed and the sun returned. I quickly overheated again as we pedaled the last few miles home. When we pulled back into the driveway Kelly immediately went inside to grab a thermometer and get an objective measure of what my "feeling hot" actually meant.  Rather worryingly, it meant I was effectively running a fever of 102.  I went inside to a cold shower.

It was a miserable ride, but more valuable than an easy one could have been.  Lesson #1: Our gear worked fantastic. the chair and wheel carrying systems operated exactly as they were designed.  These alone should save us 15 minutes of hassle every morning, and allow me to get out of my bike when we take breaks.  Kelly's bike, new pedals, and shoes were all brilliant, and she was able to spin up the hills in a way that'll keep her legs far fresher than they'd been in Ireland.

Lesson #2: Blood sugars and blood pressure are more important than any pieces of gear.  Of course I already knew this, but there's nothing like a not-so-subtle reminder 6 weeks before departure to prod me into refining how I go about keeping these where they need to be.

Lesson #3: I need a cooling system.  Periodically dumping water on my head isn't going to cut it when the heat gets really bad.  Continually pushing my body into fever territory would wear on my health quickly.  I need a system so I can spray my upper body regularly, and while on the move.  Luckily, thanks to the help of my rather clever friend Kevin at 20/20 Tropicals (thus the Facebook pic of my bike in a fish warehouse), a prototype system has already been developed and is performing brilliantly.  A refined design should be debuting sometime next week, more on this when it's finished...

Lesson #4:  There's a reason a trip like this hasn't been done before.  When you're dealing with quadriplegia and Type 1 Diabetes, nothing's as straightforward as it should be.  Not that's these things make a 10,000 mile bike ride impossible, everything is just more complicated and more difficult.  Just ask Kelly, who's going to be towing about 50lbs more than the average touring cyclist. 

All in all it was a stupid test weekend.  But sometimes that's just what you need to get things figured out.

The first good travel book I ever read was Paul Theroux’s “The Old Patagonian Express.”  Like most good traveler’s tales, the conceit is a simple one: Our narrator hops on branch-line train outside of Boston with intentions of traveling as far as he can.  Theroux writes, “My object was to take the train that everyone took to work , and then to keep going, changing trains, to the end of the line.  And (consulting a map) this I took to be a tiny station called Esquel, in the middle of Patagonia.”

Patagonia holds a special place in the hearts of the restless, for it is the ultimate end-point in this world of ours.  When our ancestors wandered out of Africa some 100,000 years ago (exact dates depend on the archeologist your referencing), they had quite the trek ahead of them.  80,000-60,000 years ago they walked into Asia; 45,000 years ago we sailed the Pacific to establish ourselves in Papua New Guinea and Australia.  We entered Europe around 40,000 years ago and didn’t cross into North America until about 15,000 years ago.  It wasn’t until about 10,000-12,000 years ago – coincidentally, around the same time that people in the middle east were putting a halt to the migratory patterns of a hunter-gather lifestyle in favor of the stability of settled agriculture – that we reached the end of the habitable world: Patagonia. The southern tip of South America was the terminus of humanities’ great migration, from the comfortable womb of our birth to the wind-scoured edge of our physical adaptability.    

Not like we ever stopped wandering once we ran out of earth though.  We just had to start manufacturing reasons to move.  Nowadays (you know, the past 1,000 years or so) scientific inquiry and monetary gain seem the most common reasons for undertaking a far-flung journey.  I suspect the oft-mentioned “finding oneself” is up there as well, though anyone who needs to travel to the ends of the earth to learn who they are probably has more issues than a rail car or even a sail boat is equipped to deal with.  But perhaps my favorite journey justification is Bruce Chatwin’s, who traces his desire to visit Patagonia to “ a piece of brontosaurus” that inflamed his imagination from his grandmother’s curio cabinet.  Turns out that the Brontosaurus was actually a petrified piece of skin from a Mylodon – a 400lb, 10 foot tall ground sloth native to Patagonia that went extinct right around the time that humans were populating the region. 

Of course, Chatwin had as good an eye for the dramatic as anyone, and Patagonia is a treasure trove for those looking for good stories.  “In Patagonia” is jammed packed with them. There’s the tale of Charley Milward, Chatwin’s cousin, who collected the “piece of brontosaurus” when he settled to Patagonia after sinking the steamer he captained along the Chilean side of the straight of Magellan.  There’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, who retired to Patagonia after the heat from their North American pillaging became to much to bear.  I use retired loosely, for they while they set up a sheep and horse ranching operation in Cholila at the base of the Andes, they continued to raid banks across the Argentine frontier throughout the early 1900’s.  They disappeared again when the Pinkerton Company came looking for them, eventually winding up dead at the hands of the Bolivian Army in 1908.  Or so the story goes.

Patagonian history is as shifting and unpredictable as the winds that criss-cross the region.  Perhaps that’s because it’s long been a refuge for drifters, outlaws, criminals, and kooks.  Not surprising really.  A common explanation for the generally craziness in Alaska is that throughout history all the wildest folk headed west before eventually running out of room at the Pacific Coast, when that got too settled they decided to head north.  I suspect just as many headed south.

In the 1940’s, as Europe was recovering from the ravages of WWII, Juan Peron, Argentina’s populist president helped turn the country into something of a haven for Nazi war criminals seeking to escape prosecution.  Big name war criminals wound up fleeing for Argentina.  Before he was captured, and tried in Jerusalem, Adolf Eichmann spent time working at a Mercedes Benz factory in the suburbs of Buenos Aires.  There’s even a whole community of conspiracy theorists who claim that Hitler and Eva Braun didn’t die in a Berlin bunker, but rather escaped to live out their days at a chalet in the Andes resort town of Bariloche.  Facts or not, truth is that Patagonia is a grand place to base a story.

And Patagonia is home to a wide range of immigrant populations of a much less nefarious provenance.  Sizeable numbers of Germans, Welsh, Scottish , and Italians have been drawn to the land at the end of the earth. It's one of those places that has a special pull in the hearts of the restless, hopefully one strong enough to carry us over the Andes!

Got a box from the awesome folks at CamelBak and here's what was inside - Podium Bottles, reservoirs, cleaning kits, gloves, water purification system, and electrolyte tabs - enough to keep us hydrated for The Long Road South! Heading out for a training trip to Newberry National Volcanic Monument today for a training weekend and we're stoked test out the gear. Stay tuned for pictures from the riding...

After months of rather sedentary planning, logistical decisions, and computerized prepwork, Kelly and I actually had a chance to get out of Portland this past weekend to do some recon for The Long Road South.  Originally, we'd been planning on heading straight west to leave Portland, getting to the Oregon coast a quickly as possible then starting south.  Almost every time we told someone new of our route they'd comment on the northern portion of the Oregon coast - how narrow the shoulders are, how bad the traffic is, etc.  I've learned to take such comments with a grain of salt, is there any segment of road in the world that couldn't be described a "dangerous?"  But after the 100th or so comment about the northern Oregon coast we decided that maybe we should look and see if there's other options for heading out of Portland.  Thus a road trip was born. 

So Kelly and I packed the car with some camping gear and headed south through the Willamette Valley to Eugene.  From Eugene we went west on highway 126, our first option for getting to the coast.  It's a nice road, pretty and not overly hilly, what for climbing a mountain range and all, but pretty busy - being that it's the main artery between Eugene and the Oregon Dunes.  RV's and toy haulers abound.  We camped for the night in a stand of trees near some big, sandy hills and in the morning set off on Highway 101.  Now Highway 101 in Oregon is part of the Pacific Coast Bike Route.  It's a bike route for a couple reasons.  1. It's incredibly beautiful.  2.  For the most part, it's not a freeway.  See below for photographic evidence.

The problem with the coast roads is that they're narrow, twisting, almost always climbing or descending, subject to whatever weather gets blown in from the ocean, and because of their beauty, often jam packed with traffic.  And unfortunately, the placement of large yellow traffic signs painted with a stick figure bicyclist doesn't necessarily make them bike friendly.  Seth's handcycle is a particularly wide apparatus, and through most of northern California the left back wheel would be hanging a foot or two into traffic.  We rolled over and over steep undulations some 500ft high and more, watched the fog roll in like a living thing, and turned the Volvo's headlights on through midday rainstorms so other cars could see us coming.  Much of the terrain and weather reminded us of our hardest days in Ireland.The more we drove, the more we started asking ourselves if there might not be a better option.

In fact, there may be.  Highway 97 runs straight down the high plateau of central Oregon before splitting off into a few minor highways in northeastern California.  From there you can weave through the Lower Klamath Wildlife Refuge, Lava Beds National Monument, McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial Park, and Lassen National Forest, before winding up somewhere around Chico.  From there roads cut west to Clear Lake and down into California's wine country.  It's the Shasta Cascades, remote, dry, and relatively lightly traveled.  All of this presents a whole different set of challenges than those faced on the coast route, but ones we're intrigued by.  Any of you readers traveled in this part of the country?  We'd love advice, things not to miss, or any knowledge you can pass on as we research the feasibility of changing the route down to San Francisco. 

Now most of you who know us know that Kelly and I would much prefer hoodies and fleece to suits and formal gowns, but every once in a while an opportunity comes along that you can't pass up, and it's time to put your fancy pants on.  Last Friday, Oregon Active held it's Spring Formal fundraiser at the Elysian Ballroom here in Portland and invited us to be part of the festivities.  Oregon Active is a fantastic organization that provides adventure therapy programs to help all sorts of people with life-challenging conditions get outside and moving.  And that's exactly what we're hoping to do with The Long Road South, help inspire, motivate, and facilitate people to get moving throughout our ride down to Patagonia.  So not surprisingly, we met all sorts of awesome people at the event on Friday, people who were genuinely excited about what we're about to attempt, people offering whatever support and advice they had to give.  It helps to keep things in perspective, that we might be doing a longer trip than most, but we're all motivated by the same thing - to get outside and have a good time. 

Big Thanks to my parents, Matt, Carly, Kevin, Lisa, Eric, and Amanda for coming along with us and rocking it till the wee hours.  All you Portland peeps, check out the Oregon Active website for how to get involved in some of the awesome events they have coming up this summer.

To head into Portland's west hills on a handcycle for the first time of the season is to be infinitely humbled and intimately acquainted with your present physical condition.  Which is to say that I went on a ride the other day and felt like a sedentary octogenarian trying to hike up Everest.   Not that any of this is a bad thing, it just hurts.  Every year, I get on my bike for first time, I do a flat, easy route along Portland's waterfront and feel pretty good about myself.  I pedal along, don't push the pace, and do a 10 mile ride in just under an hour.  I get back home and I start to think, maybe I'm in better shape than I thought, maybe this year getting into bike shape will be quicker, easier.  I do a couple of these rides and then get ambitious.  I head to the hills. 

This year I was even more ambitious than normal.  I'm going to have to ride the Andes, I thought.  I better be able to handle the hills around my house.  The problem with some of the roads in the west hills is that they're steeper than just about any of the world's highway's.  The easiest route up into the hills from our house is to head up Johnson St. towards Pittock Mansion.  The first mile or two were fairly mellow.  I spun along and felt pretty good from up to 24th St. Then the road reared up.  From there the gradient averages about 10% for the first half mile or so ( to put this in perspective, Alpe d'Huez, the legendary Tour de France switchback climb averages about 8%, with the steepest bits just above 10%).  Needless to say, I didn't stay ambitious for very long.  Immediately I went into self-bargaining mode, Okay, just make it to the next bend, then you can rest.  Still operating without my lowest gears, even that didn't last long.  Pretty soon it was, Okay, just make it to the next shady patch, then you can rest.  I hate doing this, hate it.  But sometimes all the strength you have won't get you more the a hundred feet or so.  So you go until you can't go anymore, you stop, and then you do it again.  I made it less than a mile, about 4 hundred feet up into the hills before I turned around and headed down.  Another first day in the hills, another day of pain, another day of realizing it's never going to be easy.

Today I headed for a climb again, up the slopes of Mt. Tabor.  It's wasn't easy, I still had to caterpillar up the steep bits.  But it didn't hurt as bad as the first day.  Beautiful day here too...

It's supposed to stay like this for a while, the six day forecast has nothing but sun.  It appears that summer has arrived in the Northwest.  Just over a week of being on my bike and I'm starting to feel my body adapting to the movement again.  About four and a half months before we head south.  Four months of work to get ready for a year on the road.  There are a lot worse ways to spend your time. 

And stayed tuned, because shortly, I'll be started a new series of posts, looking at the various countries and regions we'll be riding though.  Some teasers from the first post: Penguins, Butch Cassidy, a sailing Beagle, and some far-flung Welsh villages.  Any idea where we're headed? 

-Seth

So I'm wheeling down 5th Ave in Portland today, on my way back from lifting at the Portland State gym.  It's cold and wet so I'm hurrying along, thinking about the tuna melt I'm going to make for lunch, getting annoyed with the guy who's obliviously drifting into my path.  I pass him and angle to the right.  Ahead half of the sidewalk is cordoned off with traffic cones and construction tape extending from the pink siding of the Portland City Grill Building, the tallest in Portland.  As I approach the last cone, slowing because I'm not going to make the light to cross Burnside, a loud but thin crash erupts behind me, like a giant banging the world's biggest cowbell, and a whoosh of air and tiny bits of plastic blasts the middle of my back. A guy in a brown rain jacket is looking past me with wide eyes, "Holy Shit!" he exclaims.
    I turn around and see a two foot piece of metal tubing laying on the sidewalk, what looks like a part of the pneumatics that stabilize the window washing platform hanging 30 floors above.  "That would've killed somebody" the guy in the brown jacket wonders aloud as he walks past me.  I look again, the metal casing is just inside the construction tape, and must've landed two maybe three feet behind me as I rolled by.  That somebody was almost me.  Instantly expunged as I wheeled along the sidewalk four blocks from home.
    Now what does this have to do with a yearlong bike expedition?  Everything, in fact.  One of the most common questions Kelly and I get when people hear about our trip is, "Isn't that dangerous?"  Sure, I suppose it is, more dangerous than sitting in my apartment.  But over the last 6 years I've traveled all over the world -- wandered around SE Asia for 2 months, cycled the narrow, shoulderless backroads of Ireland for a month, lived in San Salvador, where gang violence and petty crime are daily occurrences, where I was forced to dart among the craziest traffic I've ever seen -- and the closest I've come to dying, or even getting seriously injured just happened right here in Portland.  Good ol America.  Shit happens.  Wherever you are.  You never know when a piece of metal casing falling from 200ft might end your craving for a tuna melt.  Might as well get your adventure in while you can.

It was a beautiful day here in Portland.  Bright blue skies are something we're used to in the summer, but the winter, not so much.  Such fortuitous weather needs to be taken advantage of.  So Kelly and I put the bikes in the car and took a little trip out to Haag Lake, pressed up against the foothills of the Coast Range.  Sure, the temp was barely into the 40's in the sun, but we bundled up and figured that grinding up the steep, rolling hills that encircle the lake would keep us plenty warm.

 After a quick Adapt warm-up (even more necessary when it’s 40 degrees and you’re about to go from sitting in a car to grinding up hills in a matter of minutes) we set off.  Kelly trailed behind at first, trying to fiddle with the GoPro that were going to use for footage on our trip, but as soon as the gradient kicked up, she was at my side and then off.  Unless she’s loaded down with touring gear we don’t even bother keeping together when we’re riding.  Kelly’s much too strong of a rider to keep piddling along at my pace, it doesn’t do either of us any good. She learned that on the first big ride we ever did together.  When we climbed the road to Eaglecrest Ski Area in Juneau, Kelly took off the other direction, doing a 5-mile out and back and still catching me before I’d crested the 6-mile climb.  She rode circles around me, darting ahead and whipping back down while yelling encouragement: “Come on, you got this!”

I wanted to kill her. Snotty little B, dancing around on the hardest climb I’d ever done.  I gave her the nastiest glare I could muster and said, “You are not helping. I’ll see you at the top.”  She was gone around a bend before I’d made it another 30 yards. 

I’m a self-motivated person.  It’s often a huge benefit, not needing external stimuli to push myself physically.  But my misery doesn’t want any company, and when I’m really struggling, everybody else (especially those that are kicking my ass) can just shut up and let me suffer. 

Since then, we always ride at our own paces.  On the hills, Kelly’s speed is something I couldn’t even get to in a 100ft burst.  When she stood up and started cranking up this shaded hill on the backside of Haag Lake, she was gone before I even had a chance to start hurting.  So I down shifted and tried to settle into a rhythm.  It didn’t work. I haven’t been on my bike enough to make hills this steep anything but painful.  I caught up with Kelly a few times in the first few miles as she stopped to play with the GoPro and our new Cannon camera.

I’d caterpillar up the hills and tuck in behind the cranks to avoid the biting wind on the downhills. The first four miles were a real wakeup call.  I can be in the best general shape ever, but there’s nothing that’s going to get me ready to ride halfway around the world except being on my bike. 

Luckily, once I finally warmed up, I was able to find my rhythm.  Kelly rode around the whole lake looped back, I was on the final climb when she made it to me.  I was still having to stop and take breaks, albeit less frequently than at the start.  I’ve been messing with my gearing, trying to figure out away to eliminate the flopping of cables attached to my handcranks.  Right now, I’m using an 8 speed internal hub, which is smooth shifting and has wonderfully functional coaster brake.  But it doesn’t have a wide enough gear range, so I’m unable to spin my way up the really steep hills.  A real granny gear is going to be that much more important when I’m carrying the extra weight of my touring setup.

By the time I made it back to the car I was feeling easy contentment that usually finishes a nice hard workout.  I got 12 miles in; Kelly rode 19.  Maybe it was a bit more difficult than it needed to be, but at least I learned a few things.  Always good to get moving, even better when you catch a bluebird day in December.

In September 2009, Kelly and I completed a month-long bike tour around Ireland that I chronicled in this article for New Mobility Magazine.  That trip got us hooked on cycle-touring as a means of travel and we've been thinking about where we could go next ever since.  In the fall of 2013, Kelly and I will be heading on The Long Road South, a yearlong bicycle and handcycle expedition from our home in Portland, Oregon to Patagonia, Argentina.   It will be a self-supported expedition, no crew, no support vehicle, just a handcycle, a bicycle and a trailer, and all the gear needed to ride, camp, and live for a year.

Why?

I’ve been lucky to have the continual support of family, friends, and community since my accident, which has allowed me to travel and compete at a level I never dreamed of in my able-bodied life.  We’d like this trip to generate some publicity for what disabled athletes can accomplish when they have the right infrastructure behind them.  We’ll be partnering with Oregon Disability Sports, based out of Portland, and throughout the trip we’ll be meeting up with disability sports and disability rights organizations to share our story and contribute to the mission of increasing independence and access to sport for people with disabilities across the Americas.

            Because there’s a great big world out there and we’d like to see as much of it as we can.  Because engaging with the world in a physical way is the most satisfying way I know how to live.


The Unknowns

            Much of this trip is an expedition into the unknown.  No one on a handcycle has ever rode many of these roads, and to keep our pace even, Kelly will be hauling much more weight than the normal touring cyclist.  Not many people have experience with self-supported handcycle touring, much less on this scale.  That’s why other than the region we don't have an exact destination.  We're confident we can make it Patagonia within a year, but how far south will depend on a host of variables that will remain unknown until we actually start pedaling these far off lands.  Which is exactly why we do crazy things like this, no?  To see what happens.

How You Can Stay Connected and Get Involved

            We’ll be active on social media – Facebook and Twitter – and blogging our progress in the run up to this trip.  Stay connect through longroadsouth.com, which will be updated as we solidify plans, connect with sponsors, raise funds, and generally get ready to hit the road.

Know of a place we need to visit, an organization that we should connect with as we ride south, or a company that might be interested in sponsoring our trip?  We want to hear about it!  This is a big project and we can use all the ideas and help that you can give.