Life or something like it

Hours have rolled into days. Days have transformed into weeks. And weeks have disappeared into months. My time is lost in the garbage laden streets of Fallujah, where suspicious gazes and children shouting for chocolate await me with every patrol. They follow me around corners, over crumbled walls, and down narrow alleyways home. The eyes are on me, scrutinizing with malicious intent. I’m never quite alone.

I can still feel the howling wind off the Columbia River over Rowena Crest in Oregon. It was my fourth day of cycling the Lewis and Clark Trail from Seaside, Oregon to Bismarck, North Dakota, and I stopped for a moment looking down at The Dalles. The river was wide, wider than I imagined one could ever be. It was covered in white caps and chop, making the water appear to flow backwards with the wind. I smiled, knowing as soon as I dropped off the crest to the river basin the wind would be at my back.

It had been a beautiful, warm day along the route that paralleled the river from Hood River for almost ten miles. Long since converted to a recreational trail for cyclists and hikers, Old Columbia River Drive was packed with outdoor enthusiasts soaking up the fall sun. And old man on a touring hybrid passed easily on my left as I chugged up the steep switchbacks at a steady four miles an hour. If over 250 miles of cycling through two coastal ranges had taught me nothing, I knew better than to burn myself out trying to keep up with him.

It was a mile long drop into Mosier, Oregon, four miles of flats and two, hard miles up to the top of Rowena Crest. The wind was a welcome blessing compared to the dead air and blistering sun that baked my brain on the leeward side of the crest. I enjoyed my break at the top, took one last look over the river before my descent, and pressed on.

I had always thought a cross country cycling tour would be a mind numbing combination of mile after mile of asphalt, roadside trash, and decaying carcasses. I had thought boredom would be thousands of revolutions of the pedals or dashed yellow line after dashed yellow line. But I was wrong.

I know now that boredom is the here and now. Boredom is an operating schedule consisting of one disorganized Iraqi patrol with barely forty rounds of 7.62 mm between twelve of them. Boredom is burning shit in a barrel for three hours, then volunteering to burn more shit because there is still perfectly good daylight left. And boredom, worst of all, is wishing for a firefight in a busy marketplace just so you can justify your presence in country.

With a shift in locale looming on the horizon and promises of meaner, seedier insurgents with actual agendas for destruction and mayhem, the future looks brighter than ever. My dreams are no longer filled with watching sand blow or babysitting adult human beings with no concept of military order and discipline. They are instead peppered with glorious battles, heroism, and success amidst cheering crowds.

One in particular involved an old woman holding a talking ferret in Georgetown. The ferret was concerned he wouldn’t receive the child discount at the local movie theater he planned to attend. I calmly explained to Mr. Ferret is never hurts to ask, and chances are good he would get the discount. The three of us waited patiently in line until it was the ferret’s turn. As predicted, Mr. Ferret was graciously given the reduction of price and continued merrily to the movie with the old woman. He grinned at me from over her shoulder, showing off his pointy ferret teeth. I, on the other hand, asked for the military discount and was rejected. I stood there, aghast, and watched in envy as my companions left me behind.

The moral of the story is this: I’m bored enough to dream of this crap and anyone willing to write me a prescription for hallucinations is more than welcome to send it my way. Better yet, just send me the goods.

Things are progressing at a painfully slow pace to match the snail’s back we’re riding on. I get my daily meals, my biweekly showers, and my random as hell internet time. I’m content, if not aching for something more worthwhile to do.

Tomorrow, I think I’m going to redesign our outhouse to facilitate proper ergonomics.