SOME PHOTOS!

 Last week friend and photographer Rob Howard and his wonderful wife Lisa (aka KITTY), came down to Philly to photograph me for part of a new series of portraits he's working on. As a result I have a bunch of wonderful images of the space and of my life here in factory that I can share with you. Rob has been taking photos for about a million years--his expert handling of light, his ability to capture the tang and texture of real life, and the ease at which he puts his subjects makes for beautiful, subtle, sublime photos--a few of which you can see here:

UP ON THE ROOF. THESE WATER TOWER BASES REMIND ME OF URBAN FOLLIES...


A BOY, A GIRL AND A PLANT.

THE STILL UNNAMED SILVER TORPEDO THAT WE CALL HOME.

WELL....JUST, STANDING IN A PATCH OF SUNLIGHT.

IN THE KITCHEN. 

ALL THAT VINYL FAKE WOOD HAS GOTTA GO...

NO EXIT.

OPERATING THE FREIGHT ELEVATOR MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A BADASS!

AVI'S DOG APPOLO, GOLDEN PUPPY OF DESTRUCTION. 

VIEW TOWARD CENTRAL PHILLY.

SUNSET FROM THE ROOF.

FEELING THE LOVE

The City of Brotherly Love has been showing its true colors. People are indeed sharing The Love with us....Philly is friendly and weird, and we feel welcomed into the fold. Some burly guys gave Zach a pair of safety glasses while he was out cleaning up the weeds in the sidewalk. Arms stick out of cars to wave you ahead... At every turn people are surprisingly caring and friendly and courteous. Certainly, its a tough town though and you wouldn't want to get on anyone's bad side--its got a real Union-vibe, working class, scrappy. There's something really refreshing and relaxing about the lack of pretension, the grit, the open-ness...

WRITERS BLOCK.

A confession: I'm stuck. Writing on the road was easy--it was immediately apparent what was interesting. Bet you could already tell that from the infrequency of my posts! Argh. I'm sorry, I'll come back. I just need a little water.

NEW FRIENDS

Here we have: Avi Schyular, Casey. New friends in our new abode. A talented, rugged, gentle bunch. I like them very much.

SO FAR SO GOOD.

Ordered pine flooring. Picking up butcher-block. Can't stop listening to Lana Del Rey while I paint.

WAS IT ALL A DREAM??

Laying in bed last night, scrolling back through albums on my iPhone, seeing photos from that epic bicycle trip that ended not so long ago, I felt almost as if it Never Happened. Or that I dreamed it. But there are videos and pictures and this very blog and so it must have happened.  Somehow very tangible things turn to vapor as they recede into the past—you reach out to grab at them and all you touch is a whisper. Its very strange. We barrel forward, and the days turn to weeks and the weeks into a month and then, SIGH…. things become The Past.

Learning to enjoy the intangible is a hard thing for a materialist like me. Sunsets, for example. Sunsets = desperation. You can’t capture a sunset—it evades all attempts to remember it. You want to eat it, taste it, freeze it, wrap it up in a box, HAVE IT, but—of course, the terrible beauty of a sunset is that you cannot do any of these things. And forget trying to photograph it all together. It exists, and is gone and you go on. You surrender to witnessing it, watching it change before your eyes so  s l o w l y, taking it in; I believe we call this An Experience. We experience it. We cannot keep it. THAT is incredibly beautiful, and I’m more than aware of that, but still it doesn’t completely satisfy me. I want the feeling to go on forever.

That’s a little how I feel about our bicycle trip. Its escaping me right now, and try as I did to put it down on screen and paper, its just not happening at this very moment and I have to learn to enjoy its new status as something that happeND. I say this wistfully, not woefully. All things have their time....sigh.

PAVED PARADISE: THE PARKING LOT

We are cradled inside a high-walled courtyard of asphalt. There’s a masonry block wall behind the Airstream, and a 10 foot tall corrugated silver wall to the right that dead-ends into the factory building whose property we’re located on; we have a semi-private zone. Inside this zone it is quiet. Outside we hear the basketball games, the clanging of metal in the dumpster next-door, conversation, trucks beeping as they back up, sirens—we have an auditory window into the world. Inside this wall it is sunny and the breeze is gentle. Inside this wall the asphalt ground is cracked, and bursting up from all the cracks are beautiful green plants. I TREASURE my weeds, they make me feel at home. There are grasses with tufted heads, and Ragweed and Milkweed and Sumac. There is a broad-leafed, soft-stalked plant taller than me all around the interior perimeter of the wall. Someone called it Elephant Ear. There is green and metal and asphalt—it’s a kind-of dream. I love this spot. Honestly, it sounds like I’m making the best out of a parking lot, but its really perfect. The intersection of nature and industry is a spot where I can stand very happily and comfortably.

I'VE HAD THAT PIG SINCE THE WAR!

Well folks, I would love to tell you exciting things, but there's not a lot to report this week. We're just Moving.

ZACH + ACER + I BY OUR HOUSE IN 2010. STRAW HAT, BIKE, DOG, DIRT ROAD. THAT ABOUT SUMS IT UP. BY SARAH MURPHY

MOVING:

It's all Penske trucks and runs to the dump and moving heavy things. It's all logistics and waiting and DMV's and paperwork. It's all spiderwebs on my jeans and parting with things and paying too much money for Everything. It's messy and stressy and getting a cold. It's our dog, clingy and confused. It's moving. It's sleepless nights, and punch-lists and reservations and reservation. Stacks of boxes and clear storage containers and stacks of books. It's a five hour drive back and forth to Philly. It's an Airstream waiting to be moved into place with a forklift. It's Sue's dream about Aunt Marge and the pig. It's fresh tomata's from the garden and stashing things in the garage. It's catching up. It's leaving home. It's moving.....

FLYING UNLOADED

Just in case you ever wanted to train for a race, I would suggest riding with a hundred pounds on your bike for 6 months. When you take the weight off you'll go amazingly fast....trust us, its true!

AIRSTREAMS, BIKES + AUTOMOBILES

OUR NEW BABY, 1983 31' AIRSTREAM SOVEREIGN, 30 JUST LIKE US--MEANT TO BE!

This new phase is coming in like a lion. Since we’ve arrived home a week ago we’ve: experienced the death of my wonderful black ‘o4 VW golf and acquired a Subaru in its stead, we’ve traded in Zach’s old road-bike for a Carbon Beauty AND we’ve become the proud owners of a thirty-one foot 1983 Airstream camper in which we will live for the coming year. Many things are happening, and all the while we are continuing to live out of our panniers, staying for 10 days in my Pop’s guest space above his garage as we get things rolling again.

The move to Philadelphia is certain at this point, imminent and exciting. Our Airstream will be in the lot on Monday. I KNOW what you're thinking—why, of all places, Philadelphia?? That’s the question nearly everyone asks—and the simplest answer is that there are opportunities for us there that don’t exist elsewhere. The people are friendly as all get-out, the city is diverse, arty, gritty and close enough to home that we can visit more than once or twice a year. It’s conveniently an hour and a half from NYC, the city that I have a well-established relationship with. We’ve got friends in Philly working on some very interesting projects, and we have a spot to put our sweet little camper home. It doesn’t have the physical beauty of Seattle or Portland or San Francisco and there aren’t as many facial tattoos as New Orleans or Austin, but the fit is right and we both just feel it.

We’ve ridden our bikes all over that town too, and its FLAAAATTT!!! So much fun, so easy to get around. 

A LONG POST RE: DANGER

Neal, new friend and Fairy-Godfather of Hotsprings who we met in Marathon TX, recently prompted me to go a little more in depth about some of the highlights of our tour and conclusions we drew from it. I found myself trying to get away with bite-sized answers, but I don't think its possible so I might just address some of his queries on a post-by-post basis over the coming weeks. These posts will be a little longer in general, I tried to shorten them but couldn't really get much more to the point than this...

DANGER/FEAR

What were some of the frightening/dangerous/scary situations you faced on your Great Bicycle Adventure?

Sadly, nothing epically scary or terrible happened—no insanely bad luck that, while horrible, would make for a good story later on. As for dangerous situations, a few things left enough of an impression to mention--but overall I'd say we're either really lucky or really tough. Zach said that, truthfully, the only thing he worried about was me getting run over, or him getting run over and me being left to pick up the pieces....

1/ THE BRIDGE:

Our second day out we had to go over the Amelia Bridge. It had been dead-flat in in Southern Louisiana until we came to this bridge—it was my second real day of riding (with the bike loaded), I was out of shape AND towing a trailer so….when we came to this short but steep shoulder-less bridge my heart sank. Huge dually pickups and tractor-trailers were zooming past and I really had no idea if I could physically make it, and what then??? What would happen if I couldn't?? Probably, I would die. There was no way around, so we had to go for it. I put every ounce of energy I had into getting over that bridge as fast as humanly possible, pushing as hard as I could. By the time we'd gotten safely across my body was shaking so hard that I thought my knees might give out, I pulled over and cried my eyes out for about 30 seconds before collecting myself and riding onward. Traffic, I have since gotten used to and hills are no big deal—BUT bridges remain windy, shitty, gauntlets that are generally no fun for me to cross at all….

2/ THE THUNDER:

Normally in a thunderstorm you can go inside a building. You sleep in your house, you’ve got nice hard walls—its all good. In a tent, however, very little stands between you and the weather. Thunder is a beautiful thing, rain too, especially when it’s pouring torrentially down—and normally I really really love a good storm. That being said, on several occasions while we slept in our little tent the thunder would become so LOUD and the lightning so BRIGHT and the wind so STRONG that I would sheepishly snuggle over onto Zach’s mat and hold onto him for dear life—my eyes wide open, completely unable to sleep, worrying that we would blow away, be friend to a crisp or maybe just drown in a flash-flood.

3/ A LONG WAY TO FALL, NO GUARD-RAILS:

If you’ve ever driven through the Rockies from Durango CO to Silverton over Coal Bank Pass, and then on to Ouray by way of the Million Dollar Highway you know that a simple slip of the hand on your wheel could send you plummeting to your death. We saw plenty of old cars smashed in the deep ravines to attest to this fact. Over the course of two days we were passed by hundreds of vehicles and RV’s while we plodded along, up up up for eternities and then curving down down down, sometimes coming precipitously close to the Edge of The World... It was very vertical, and vertigo-inducing and kind of like sky-diving—you just have to cross your fingers and GO. There’s nothing you can do once you’ve committed, and its so dangerous that you can’t really give it much attention at all…

4/ ABOUT PEOPLE

Once, only once, was I truly creeped out by people. Considering the hundreds we interacted with, and the thousands and thousands of cars that passed us over 6 months, this is not bad—I remain encouraged about the inquisitive and generous nature of people. But this is a post about fear and danger so, here you are. These people scared me, I'm not sure if they were actually dangerous. It was late in the day as we rode up to a small store in a smaller town somewhere in the Redwoods of Northern California; a group of 5 or 6 vacant-eyed zombies stood, languid in the evening light, draped and seated every which way over a parked pickup truck just outside. They weren’t talking with one another, just staring. They had a boney dog. They were probably just Blitzed Out Of Their Minds but the effect was really unsettling; they weren’t having fun, they looked lost and hungry and dirty and vaguely angry and very sad. It looked as if they’d had some dream dashed to pieces and that at any moment one of them might wander slowly off to die alone under a tree. Some part of me wanted to help, the other part knew there was no help to give and wanted to run away, bike away, very very fast.  Zach stayed with the bikes while I went inside to pick up some beer and a sandwich for dinner, then we got out of there as quickly as we could. We rode the rest of the way to camp looking back over our shoulders to make sure that the ghost truck with its cargo of smokey sorrow and heart-ache wasn’t coming after us to run us down...

WHERE TO GO FROM HERE?

My plan with this blog is to continue posting abour our transition into a non-nomadic life and see where things go from there. I have ABSOLUTELY LOVE LOVE LOVED writing about our experiences. It has been so wonderful for me to have a project like this, and I think a big part of my sadness in ending the trip is that I will no longer have a good "topic" to keep writing about and sharing with all of you. If you no longer wish to receive the weekly email, there is an un-subscribe link at the bottom where you can do that, I won't hold it against you!

IF however you do want to stick with me I will continue posting, and I'll try to keep it interesting: think rennovating an old Airstream camper and making a new life in a rough neighborhood in Philadelphia with a bunch of talented Architects and designers at a beautiful old candy factory...

Theres no doubt that living on the bicycle for 6 months has left an indelible mark on us, and I'm curious to see how some of the things we've learned will effect our lives as we move forward. 

Also--we will continue making the necklaces as well, so if you had christmas gifts in mind have no fear! We're here whenever you need....

COMING HOME + THE ART OF ENDING?

We are home.

As you well know by now, we are masters of the Last Minute Switcheroo--so when we got into the sweltering midnight heat of Philadelphia last week we decided to head home by car instead of bicycling. We were so close, and a million tiny things were beckoning us home so we hopped in the car and had an emotion-filled drive back to the green hills from whence we left so many months ago....

Driving that 5 hour (what would have been 5 days on the bike) stretch home was torment. A HUGE part of me was/is not ready for this trip to be over, who would ever be? I was hoping we would be able to ride around New England through the Autumn and experience home-turf through the lens of bicycle touring, easing slowly back into the real world, blogging and taking pictures all the way. I loved bike touring so much more than I ever thought I would. As we drove I went through all the stages of anger and grief and sadness that one goes through when you lose anything, especially abruptly. By the time we were home and I was hugging familiar bodies and exchanging tears and kisses I'd come to some sort of peace with the decision to end our trip. Not a jumping for joy kind of peace, but an accepting kind of peace. Sometimes you just need to adapt, so adapt we are.

An ending is a beginning, and new adventures await. 

THE ROUTINE

People often asked what a typical day was like for us on the bikes, and though none was truly typical, our routine looked something like this:

I usually wake up first, climb out of the tent and get some water boiling for coffee. Zach packs up the mats and bedding and tent while I get our morning meal together. We eat, drink coffee, relax for a few minutes. Wash dishes, pack up the bikes. Leave about 9am. Then we ride about 10 miles. Stop for a coffee somewhere, and/or a snack, our treat of choice is a chocolate-chip cookie. Then we ride another 20 miles or so, stopping to peel off layers, pee in the bushes, snap photos and snack before stopping for a longer lunch break which lasts ½ to 1 hour depending on how many people are around. Then we ride to our evening spot 20-30 more miles, arriving sometime between 3 and 6pm. Zach sets up the tent, I shower—then I cook dinner, he showers. Then we eat. Usually, shortly thereafter we climb into the tent to read and listen to podcasts before falling dead asleep….

That’s the mechanics of it. Details change all the time. The scenery, the meals, the people, the small catastrophes mark each day with its own unique character. Sometimes we’re camping alone in the wild, bathing naked in glacial run-off. Sometimes we’re camping in a beach-side tent-site with hot showers and 20 other bikers swapping stories. Sometimes we’re sleeping in a stranger’s guest room in a town we’ve never heard of before. Sometimes we eat a dozen hard-boiled eggs in a day. Sometimes we see 40 Bald Eagles fishing, sometimes a dead bear, sometimes escaped antelope run before us down the center of the road. Sometimes we have the wind at our back, sometimes we climb hills all day in the fog. Sometimes we’re excited and happy and sometimes we’re crabby and silent. Sometimes the sun is shining and everything works out perfectly, and some days you can’t catch a break—its all flat tires, traffic and fresh oil + gravel. Sometimes we’re dry and sunburnt by 11 am, sometimes we’re still soggy and wearing jackets at lunch. The path is varied and fascinating...

MAKING TRACKS

AUG 19: We are aboard the California Zephyr, an Amtrak train that runs from San Francisco to Chicago. Two nights and three days of riding through mostly wilderness, then a transfer in Chicago that will take us 25 more hours to Philly. This particular train is pretty well setup. It has two levels, a splendid--if crowded--viewing lounge, sleeping cars, coach cars, a dining car, and a concessions area.

We glide through orchards, canyons, mountian-tunnels and vast desert plains dotted with scrub... its pretty fantastic. No gas stations and billboards—only the occasional dirt road, bridge, river or bare-assed mooner to keep the landscape engaging. The world flashing by the windows as the rhythmic sway of the train lulls our bodies into a soft trance-like lethargy...

As I write, crumbling boulder hills jut and roll off to my left. For a moment we are at the base of cliffs towering hundreds of feet above us, then the view opens as the track curves, then cliffs again—pale red-orange. I can see the front of the train as it rounds curves. I am facing forward. We are crossing Colorado about 24 hours into the trip.

 

87 HOURS ON THE TRAIN

We are going back east via train! We thought it was fitting--way faster than riding, but still on the ground. We're going to Philadelphia, then we'll ride a few hundred miles back to the Catskills to tie up some loose ends before either A.) riding off into the sunset once again or B.) moving ourselves to Philly or some other suitable location! Who knows where we'll pop up next! The train doesn't have wifi so we'll be dark for a few days. My booty is going to be aching for some biking when we get off...87 hours is a very long ride...

WRAPPING UP THE WEST COAST

Riding down Route 101, then hopping onto Route 1, we followed the Northern California coast South, ending this leg of our tour in the Bay Area. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge on Sunday the 11th after 72 miles of riding. The cross wind on the bridge was just BLASTING, and we rode across it quickly and rather unceremoniously--dodging masses of rental-bicycle-city-tours and trying to stay out of the way of the serious riders coming up from behind. I'm glad we did it though--it felt satisfying to glide beneath a blanket of gray mist on that iconic red bridge, legs surprsingly un-tired.

Zach on Route 1, looking over the edge of the road. Being passed by hundreds (maybe thousands) of cars on this winding road every day was tiring, but rarely did we actually feel in danger.

Going over the Golden Gate Bridge.

NOT BIKE RELATED, BUT RELATABLE

Ever feel like this? I have a hard time saying stuff sometimes too...

SAN FRAN

Arriving in Berkeley tomorrow if all goes according to plan. 80 miles, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge! Got a train back to the East Coast on August 18...

ME AND THE DAMN TENT STAKE

AUG 5 or 6: Apparently we have some sharp-ass tent stakes. They are the good kind, and they do their job well, but as far as I’m concerned they are evil. Last week I had the pleasure of splitting my toe open on one of them—a nice deep triangular gouge that spilled a good two-tablespoons of blood into my flip-flop. Yes, Zach had warned me (repeatedly) that the ground was too hard to pound the stakes all the way in, and he tried to bury them with rocks, but—by the time it got dark and I was shuffling things into the tent to get ready for bed, I'd forgotton all about his warning...PAIN!...I nursed my mangled toe all week, and it was healing up nicely until last night, when I did the exact same damn thing on the exact same damn toe and MAN….
 

THE LESS BLOODY, MORE PAINFUL SECOND TIME AROUND...

...it hurt even more the second time, which I didn’t think was possible. I almost cried. Would have, but there were other people around. It kept me up half of the night, throbbing away. I know its unbecoming to talk about small wounds as if they were a big deal, but, I figured--this has GOT to be good for something!

And I know I should have put my sneakers on, but it was hot and flip-flops feel good after pedaling all day in closed-toed shoes. It’s really gross, you should know. Fleshy and bloody and NASTY. Send a prayer for the middle toe on my right foot, and pray that I learn my lesson this time because Zach (with his charming brand of tough-love) has threatened to cut it off the next time this happens…