BUNYAN VELO TRAVELS ON TWO WHEELS // ISSUE No. 03
BUNYAN VELO ISSUE No. 03 – OCTOBER 2013 Travels on Two Wheels
EDITOR and DESIGNER Lucas Winzenburg
CONTACT bunyanvelo@gmail.com www.bunyanvelo.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Liz and Donny in Fearg, John and Fiona in West Kilbride, Sébastien and Maria in Bristol, Ted and Eli in Cambridge, Beni and Kerstin in Köln, Lucian and Diana in Brussels, James Lucas of Boneshaker Magazine, Paul Smith of Inspiring Riding, Devin O’Brien of Search and State, Scott Felter of Porcelain Rocket, Lael Wilcox, Marcello Alghisi, Joseph Williams, Steven Tromberg, David Beachley, Kevin Tweed, Cass Gilbert, Patrick Stephenson, and Clark Filip.
CONTRIBUTORS David Berg Isaiah Berg Nathan Berg Jason Boucher Jason Britton Nicholas Carman
Jonathan Cromwell Gabriel Amadeus Tiller Hurl Everstone Kevin Tweed Ben Hovland Tom Walwyn Craig Lindner Logan Watts Zachary Stephen Miller Lucas Winzenburg Aaron Ortiz
PHOTO CREDITS Cover: Jason Boucher Opening: Ben Hovland Opposite: Lucas Winzenburg Contents: Logan Watts COPYRIGHT All content copyright 2013 Bunyan Velo. Contributions have been used with permission and are copyright original sources. No unauthorized reproduction without written consent.
MADE WITH PRIDE IN MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
EDITOR’S NOTE After just nine months, this humble project has grown from a clutter of images and documents on my laptop into an incredible global community of readers, writers, and riders. I’d like to use this space to give my sincere thanks to everyone who has helped us realize this publication. Thank you. I also want to acknowledge those who reached out with a coffee, a beer, or a place to stay during my ride across Europe this summer. Making those connections is a significant part of what makes bicycle travel so meaningful and unique for me. It’s also what inspires me to keep Bunyan Velo going. I couldn’t be more excited to publish another compilation of bicycle essays, stories, and photographs. The authors in this issue present terrific reflections on two-wheeled travel. Some begin their journey in a remote destination on the other side of the world; others start in their own backyard. All ultimately forge a lasting connection with the people and places passed by their handlebars. If you can, please consider supporting this independent publication by purchasing a copy or donating at bunyanvelo.com Happy trails, Lucas Winzenburg Editor
Contents Contributor Biographies............................................................8 Chasing Red and White............................................................10 by Nicholas Carman A Line in the Sand....................................................................24 by Tom Walwyn The Bicycle Cure......................................................................38 by Kevin Tweed An Impromptu Journey............................................................50 by Logan Watts Bikepacking the Kenai Coast...................................................62 by Jason Boucher Lost in the Wind......................................................................76 by Aaron Ortiz Almanzo 100 and the Rise of Gravel Racing..........................90 by Hurl Everstone A Three Day Adventure in the Old West.................................106 by Jason Britton Small World of the High One.................................................116 by Isaiah Berg The Desert Tour.....................................................................128 by Jonathan Cromwell Claiming Space......................................................................138 by Ben Hovland
Chasing Red and White Written and photographed by Nicholas Carman
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ost in the woods, in the rain, only a few kilometers from Belgium, we knock on the door of a wooded estate of mossy tiled roof and small windows. For a moment, we have lost the scent of red and white paint on trees. An old man appears. The house smells of cigarettes, the kitchen neatly cluttered with a quarter loaf of brown bread, tidy stacks of mail, and an unknown bottle of spirits – a very orderly and distinctly Dutch mess. In some of three languages, we explain that we seek the route with the red and white signs, le GR Cinq. It seems that this man has lived here forever, and we are quite sure that the trail passes along one of many forest tracks within sight, but he is unaware. We don’t speak Dutch. He doesn’t speak English. We settle on French. Knowing we are lost, and that we wish to go somewhere, he asks, “Belgique?” Oui, definitely. A pencil is procured, and lines appear on an old envelope. A map is drawn – ride beyond the great white house, left at the stone wall, beyond the cemetery, across the ditch or stream which he is calling a river, then continue along the row of trees toward Essen, marked by an X on the map. You arrive in Belgique. He repeats the series again, exactly. Then, you arrive in Belgique. Merci. Merci beaucoup.
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A LINE IN THE SAND Written and photographed by Tom Walwyn
The Bicycle Cure
Written and photographed by Kevin Tweed
I
live within the townsite of Banff, Alberta, Canada. My town is located within Canada’s first National Park, and the world’s third – beautiful and incredible Banff National Park. Banff is surrounded by Yoho, Jasper, and Kootenay National Parks, as well as many provincial parklands. There are over 6,000 square kilometers of stunning mountainous landscapes to explore in Banff National Park alone. Banff lies at 1,383 metres in elevation, making it the highest town in Canada. It also boasts in excess of a thousand glaciers and its main river eventually flows north into the Hudson Bay. There are so many different forms of exploration that happen in the parks, but I have chosen to explore my backyard using what is arguably the best form of transportation, the bicycle. However, I did not first come to Banff to cycle. The adventure that first brought me to cycling was brought about by a traumatic and life-threatening situation. This is the story of how a bicycle came to save my life, but it is also a story of the great adventure of coming to know and love a bicycle, and of the wonderful adventures that follow from exploring and living by bicycle. Early in the winter of 2007 I suffered from very serious carbon monoxide poisoning while operating a faulty gas-fired pottery kiln at work. It threatened my very life, who I was, and how my brain was able to perform basic and normal motor functions that most of us would take for granted. I could not walk or speak properly, and could not solve simple puzzles and quizzes that were designed for five year olds. I went through numerous medical procedures and the unlikely cure for my condition was not through the medical society at all. In fact, it came in the form of two wheels – a new bicycle, something I had not owned since childhood, purchased for me by my lovely wife. I would get on that bicycle and the act of pedaling would slowly begin to bring back some basic motor skills, not to mention the biggest smile you could imagine. This is where the real adventure began, in that first smile, and in that first feeling that I had not had since childhood: the feeling of absolute freedom of exploration. Exploration can be a ride around the block or a long and arduous climb within the surrounding mountains. It doesn’t matter to me, as long as the pedals are spinning. I have chosen to reveal myself through bicycling, and the adventure has continued to evolve since my accident in 2007.
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An Impromptu Journey Written and photographed by Logan Watts
E
xpedition. Quest. Adventure. Journey...words that conjure up a broad range of meanings, feelings, and images as different for each individual as are one’s fingerprints. For me, these terms paint epic and colorful pictures of big, life-altering travels to remote and far-away places, and, until recently, were reserved for only the kind of monumental experiences that are born of painstaking planning and the mother of all assets— time. I spent the last year preparing for just such a journey. All of my time was divided between settling business affairs, finding renters for our house, getting rid of a ridiculous amount of the unnecessary things we had accumulated over the years, researching and purchasing gear, and building the “perfect” bikes. Every ounce of energy I had was poured into this trip. The launch date quickly arrived, and we started pedaling from Mexico onward. I had travelled before, quite a bit in fact, but this was different. It was more than I thought it could be. The freedom of the road, the self-supportive nature of bicycle travel, route planning, the sights, sounds, pace… everything was new and, albeit challenging at times, awesome. Then, five months, several thousand miles, and hundreds of amazing experiences later, I reached my planned destination and was on a flight back to my home in North Carolina. After the buzz wore off from seeing friends and family, having that long anticipated IPA (or several), and basking in fresh clothes for a week or so, the hangover set in. I was used to constant exploration and the daily expansion of my world, and it seemed that my life had skidded to an abrupt stop. Of course, my immediate reaction was to start planning our next big bike tour abroad. In the meantime, though, I knew that I needed to set out on my bike. No matter how close to home or how familiar the territory, I just had to go. I was on the search for my next “fix,” something that could give me at least an inkling of the same gratification I had become used to during that epic journey. So, now here we are, smack in the middle of nowhere sitting on worn hardwood planks with our legs dangling from the edge of the old timber shelter. The three-walled structure is perched in a glade near the top of Rich Mountain in the heart of the Appalachians. It’s not raining, but the mist is thick and the dusk is sculpting a stand of poplars into ominous shapes and figures. We sit for a while, marinating in the last smudges of light and sipping whisky from a plastic Pepsi bottle that Dustin smuggled in a borrowed dry bag he had strapped to his seatpost. I have that indescribable feeling of escape, the familiar contentment that comes with an adventure. About 14 hours earlier, I had left my temporary home in eastern North Carolina and headed west to meet Dustin for a weekend of mountain biking in my favorite trail system. In recent
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FATBIKING THE KENAI COAST Written and photographed by Jason Boucher
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ithout a doubt, Alaska is on just about every adventurers bucket list. The great land has it all – hunting, fishing, climbing, hiking, biking, rafting, and kayaking. The list of possible activities goes on, and changes by the season. Alaska offers endless opportunities and is the source of countless daydreams. Anyone who has visited Alaska has likely left with an incomplete feeling, a feeling of not having had enough time to do or see it all. There is an anticipation of next time, dreams of the next route. I’ve been to Alaska on three bike adventures and I often find myself dreaming about the next one. Alaska offers so much to do, to see, and to learn. This past summer, I was fortunate enough to organize, guide, and photograph a trip to Alaska on behalf of Salsa Cycles and their Reveal the Path movie contest. For me, it was a golden opportunity to relive and share in the experience of riding fatbikes along the Kenai coastline. And so, plans for our rolling fatbike beach party in the land of the midnight sun were put in motion. I’d imagine that a fatbike beach party isn’t what most adventurous bike folks have in mind when they think of riding the rugged and remote beaches of Alaska, but experiencing the wonders of Alaska by bicycle is about more than just survival of the fittest type activities. Our group was diverse in age and experience; some folks rode the entire length, while others just joined us for a day or an evening. Each of us had a meaningful and lasting experience. As I see it, the more people who experience fatbike beach riding the Kenai coast, the more others will understand the power and freedom bicycles have to offer.
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l o s t i n t h e
w i n d
Written by Aaron Ortiz, photographed by Aaron Ortiz and Lucas Winzenburg
T
hink about the last time you yelled, really yelled. Try to recall a time when you yelled so loud it hurt your vocal chords. It feels odd to let go like that. It also breaks one of those rules we’ve all held on to since childhood: use your inside voices. Yelling in that way shakes us both physically and emotionally. As I stand up on my pedals, putting most of my weight onto the crank arms, I gain almost no ground, even in the low gearing I’m using to cut through this never-ending windstorm. The 25 mph headwind with 35 mph gusts mutes the scream I let out in frustration. We are alone. There are no towns, no people, no gas stations, not even a farm – only us, the wind, and the sheep. In this windswept place, we don’t feel like we’re breaking any rules when we fall apart and curse at the wind. Lucas, who’s 25 feet in front of me, doesn’t give any sign that he hears my frustrated yell – it’s simply lost into the vast, windy nothingness that surrounds this awful place. The two of us are all alone, together. We’ve only covered about sixty miles today, despite having already cycled for seven hours. Knowing we still have another thirty miles to ride into this wind before we can stop, there’s nothing to do but sink deep, deep into our own personal pits of despair. I attempt to tune out my surroundings. I think a lot about Jamie and our dog, Duke back home in Maine. What time is it there? It’s 11:00 am on a Saturday in the States. Duke’s probably napping on the couch or moving from window to window, watching the squirrels in our back yard. A wind gust shakes me out of the comforts of home, almost blowing me into the ditch. I adjust and continue to spin the crank, getting almost nowhere with each pedal stroke. I run through the things we could have done differently – had we just woken up earlier, gone on for 10 more miles yesterday, biked longer on day seven, we wouldn’t be here right now. We should have stayed on route A39. It would have gotten better, the traffic would have slowed down. As loud as humanly possible, I yell again, “FUUUUUUUCK!” Lucas, now only 15 feet away, gives no indication of hearing. The rhythmic movement of his upper body
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Almanzo 100 and the Rise of Gravel Racing Written by Hurl Everstone, photographed by Craig Lindner
I
n May of 2007 I arrived at the starting line of the inaugural Almanzo 100 Gravel Race in Rochester, Minnesota, just as director Chris Skogen was sending off the riders. I unloaded my Eddy Merckx Super Corsa, set up 45 x 17 fixed-wheel, and, after receiving my cue sheets and brief instructions from Skogen, took off after the peloton. Catching a few riders at first, I finally latched on with two guys on 29er mountain bikes. Both had just come off an attempt at the previous weekend’s Trans Iowa Race, so I figured I wouldn’t be seeing these two for long. But, descending a dicey gravel secteur, putting my 32/28c tire combo into a two-wheeled drift, I slowly pulled away and never saw another rider, all the way to the finish line. I had “won” the first edition of this now classic race. “Won” is in quotation marks because there weren’t a lot of riders at the start. Of 13 starters, I think only two or three officially made it to the finish in Mankato – year one of Almanzo was a point-to-point race starting in Rochester and finishing in Mankato – and I don’t think anyone was really treating it like a serious racing endeavor. It was more of an all-day rambling ride through the rolling hills of southeastern Minnesota. Hell, I certainly didn’t consider myself a “racer,” just a lifelong rider who had only recently discovered the joy of riding fast down the (gravel) road with no particular agenda. Nevertheless, I was hooked. But let’s back up a bit. The Almanzo 100 was created by Chris Skogen as an unsanctioned, unsupported, and, most importantly, fee-free gravel endurance cycling event to welcome any and all riders to challenge themselves, their equipment, and possibly their riding partners in a sort of frontier version of the local club ride. Word spread in the local cycling communities, and when Skogen announced Almanzo 2.0 would take place the following spring, my postcard for registration was sent in immediately. Year two would see the start line swell to nearly 75 riders, and not your average Sunday-go-to-meetin’ daytrippers, either. Some real leg-breakers were toeing the line. There certainly would be no “repeat victory” in my future. And that was fine by me, because completing the Almanzo is a victory in and of itself.
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SMALL WORLD OF THE HIGH ONE Written by Isaiah Berg, photographed by David and Nathan Berg
THE DESERT TOUR Written by Jonathan Cromwell, photographed by Zachary Stephen Miller
A
great expanse of sagebrush and sand lies out to the west, rolling away into the dusty skyline on a great tide of pastel yellows and browns. I stop to listen: nothing but the expeditious crack of dragonfly wings, whirling and surfing the great rolling gusts of wind that come crashing down from the faraway mountains. Here, the wind comes and goes in powerful swooping crescendos, gaining momentum through the gentle hills and valleys in the distance before sweeping out onto the plains and off into infinity. The undulating roar pushes hard on our bicycles, but we lower our heads and persevere, crawling forward at a snail’s pace. On the horizon, a pack of pronghorn antelope blaze through the scrubby brush, dancing across the distant, pale blue sky. The land out here hides nothing. I know what’s around every bend, over every rise, all stretched out before me for miles, bleak and expansive. The earth is naked and unashamed. It’s a strangely reflective place, one where you can get lost gazing off into the distance, and caught in the breadth of the land, awed by the expansiveness and indifference of the broad landscape. Our bicycles fly over roads of dirt and sand and rock, a whir of well-oiled cogs and spokes bouncing toward the edge of the earth. There’s no destination out here, only more open space: more sun, more sagebrush, more sand. Despite the impression of motion, we seem to exist in an interminable landscape, caught chasing the ghost of progress, moving headlong into the horizon, not really getting anywhere. Ahead, more of the same. Travelling by bicycle is a dramatic shift in perspective. It is a brief and blurred, though
authentic window into the minutiae of life that we so often quickly glaze over. It forces me to slow down a little, and to notice the details. My thoughts are set adrift by the rhythmic revolution of my feet; I become more outwardly attentive, more focused on the intricacies of the landscape and the details that are flying by in my periphery. A sense of childlike wonder begins to creep back into me. I keep my bicycle churning toward the horizon. Forward, forward, forever forward. I notice the ripples and waves etched into the wind-scoured earth, cresting and rolling across seas of sand. Undulating dunes sprawl out in the distance. Off to the side, a mile or two away, a cluster of small cottonwood trees clings to life around a sinewy, trickling creek, desperately absorbing what little water is available from the parched land. Overhead, great white billowing clouds fold, crash, and scud across the sky, caught amid the turbulent tumble of the atmosphere rolling out over the Earth. I see the decrepit buildings that dot the horizon and the patterns of the hills. More than anything, I sense a great emptiness that permeates this immense, sandy basin. The roads are rutted and weathered, they fade indistinctly back into the sandy desert, slowly becoming one with the landscape again. Almost nobody lives out here, so it seems momentous when a car appears on the horizon and slowly bounces its way across the valley toward us, eventually whooshing by, off toward the big city. The brief rush of wind and noise in an otherwise silent world leaves me a little breathless, but I quickly settle back into the rhythm and let the silence and isolation settle back over me.
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