Wish Tour
Now Accepting Donations
Click
Here To Enlarge Map
Welcome
to the Wish Tour!
Below you will find the photos and journal from a two-year,
20,000-mile bicycle journey around the world.
Starting in July 2005, this journal will take readers across
the United States, Europe, North Africa, Trans-Siberian Russia,
Mongolia, China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia
and finish in Australia and New Zealand in 2007.
The journey began more than 20 years ago, as the seeds of
a dream to circumnavigate the globe were cultivated from a
deeply personal and painful experience.
I spent a good portion of my youth in hospitals with my mother,
who suffered from a degenerative kidney disease. As the disease
progressed, she had made one last attempt to see the world
by traveling to Europe.
Unfortunately, when she arrived her health declined and was
forced to return to the states where died shortly thereafter.
I learned two powerful lessons.
The first is to appreciate every moment of this incredible
gift we call life, no matter what it brings.
The second, to live your dreams despite your fears.
Twenty years later, on July 1, 2005, after much hard work
and deep personal sacrifice, my dream of seeing the world
is coming true.
This journey is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Carol
Ann Gunn, who was taken from this world far too early.
Now, please pull up a chair and enjoy the ride!
»
return to top
When:
July 26th-Aug. 3, 2005
Where: Colorado Rockies: Telluride, Crested Butte, Buena Vista,
Salida
Mileage log: 1400-1651
Elevation: 7,000-12,160 feet
“When
I die and my ashes are sprinkled in the places I
love, I wouldn't want people to say of me only, "She
was a great teacher," or "I loved her writing."
I
would like at least one person to come closer, to add,
" she was also lonely, she suffered alot, she was
mixed up, she made some big mistakes ...but she was
important to me." Then I would feel really honored, as
though someone had seen and known me. "
—
Natalie Goldberg, The Great Failure
Free in the Rockies
I was a mad-fish swimming up a river of black ink.
A freak on two-wheels, pedaling furiously through the Rocky
Mountain darkness in attempts to outrun an electrical storm
that gained from behind. I would cycle 10 hours before reaching
my destination, rolling mindfully from the La Sal Mountain
drainage, to the cooler climes above the San Miguel River
Valley. Just short of 10 p.m., and with three miles left to
go, I wasdirty, sweaty and slightly insane.
"Ninety-seven..." I mumbled to myself, giving voice
toby my numbers on my bicycle odometer. A flash of lightning
burst through the box canyon and illuminated the deep forested
slopes with the silver-tone of a wire flashbulb.
"Ninety-eight", I followed, with a bit more intensity.
KAAAHH-BOOOOM! came the subsequent thunder-clap, shaking the
canyon walls, and stirring every atom within my being.
"NINETY-NINE!" I shouted fearfully, and stood to
my pedals where I thrust every muscle and toward the oncoming
horizon. A tremendous tailwind picked up from behind, and
swept me forward like the hand of a giant ghost. Effortlessly
I pedaled at 25 mph I rounded a bluff and the lights of the
town opened before me.
"ONE HUNDRED!" I said triumphantly and lifted my
head to spot a sign that read, "Welcome to Telluride."
A steady rain began to fall by the time I
coasted into the streets of the historic mining town, then
transformed into an all-out assault from the sky. Liquid golf
balls fell, causing a thick coat of water to kick off my tires
in orbital sheet. Another sign appeared that read, "City
Park", and I turned my handlebars toward the scattered
puddles lining the campground. It was there I was to meet
my Trans-America cycling partner, author Joe Kurmaskie, aka
The Metal Cowboy.
Joe and I had spent the last six months planning the trip,
mapping routes, even landing a cover story for Men's Journal.
If ever I had a chance at photographic destiny, this was it.
I tromped through the mud of shin-deep puddles, laughing at
myself, and the world, imagining the look Joe's face
when he unzipped his tent.
I called out and searched, he didn't seem to be there. I surmized
he'd had enough of the rain and move to the shelter of a hotel
room.
"Fair enough." I thought and sent up my tent.
As the patter of rain against my tent flap put me to sleep,
there was something looming larger than the storm outside.
Something I didn't know. It was Joe. He had left the day before
to ride the states solo, without discussion, or explanation.
The next morning, the expanding bubble of my ego, which had
now reached Zeus-like proportions, was about to be burst by
the sharp point of a single e-mail.
After searching for Joe the next morning, I stepped into an
internet cafe and opened the e-mail from Joe. It read, "I'm
continuing on (without you) ... let's leave it at this —
we are on two different journeys ... I need to keep pushing
forward." I was dumbfounded.
A flood of emotions came over me. I searched endlessly within
my mind for the cotter-pin of my own misperception that held
some clue to why he would do this? I was dumbfounded. Despite
all our plans, he simply left. The room contracted and my
stomach dropped.
I was disappointed, hurt, and confused. As I walked out onto
the streets of Telluride and looked at the unfamiliar faces
surrounding me a feeling came over me. I had traveled nearly
a month by myself. For the first time I felt alone. The words
of a favorite writer came to me. It was a passage from Morihei
Ueshiba's book, The Art of Peace.
They stated: "Now and again, it is necessary to seclude
yourself among deep mountains and hidden valleys to restore
your link to the source of life.
They were words to live by. I walked back to camp, strapped
on my backpack, and set upon a footpath at the end of the
box canyon.
I climbed through the mixed light of quaking aspens to a field
of wildflowers thriving in the mist of a thundering waterfall.
I continued gently up the path, through a soft weave moss
and flowers arranged in shocking array of colors: Bluebells,
Yellow Arnica, Columbine, Fireweed, all of which danced beneath
the falls shifting mists.
I moved in closer and looked deeper. I moved past my recent
distraction and looked deeply into the rushing water. There
was something there. Something I couldn't explain. I watched
as the water as it moved in and around each oncoming obstacle,
dynamic, flowing, free.
“This", I thought to myself, is what I need to
be. I packed up my bike the following day, and I finished
my tour of the Rockies, taking the water's example.
For nearly a week, I flowed freely through the small mountain
towns of Ridgway, Montrose, Gunnison and Crested Butte. Before
descending to the eastern town of Salida, I sweated to the
top of 12,120-foot Cottonwood pass, and laid out my sleeping
bag atop a knife-edge ridge.
I woke to the glow of the approaching sunrise when something
released me. It was something from Joe's e-mail. The part
about us being "on two separate journeys." Joe was
right. We were on two separate journeys. Mine as important
as his. No longer was I confined to his particular time constraints,
limitations, routes, or photographic subjects.
It was as if I'd undergone some kind of surrender. I could
do what I wanted when I wanted. As the sun came like a solid,
glowing mass and touched the tops of peaks for as far as the
eye could see, I was liberated. From now on, this was my trip.
And I was free.
Back To Top
When:
Aug. 6-12, 2005
Where: Kansas — Garden City, Dodge City, Ford, Cuningham,
Wichita, Elk Falls, Baxter Springs
Mileage log: 1,954-2,401
Elevation: 2500-700 feet
"Every person, all the events
of your life, are there because you have drawn them there.
What you choose to do with them is up to you."
-Richard Bach, "Illusions"
People of the South Wind
There was something out there.
I wasn't sure what it was, but it was there. I pulled to stop
and wiped the sweat from my head. I scanned the long, straight,
impossible sameness of the open plain surrounding me. In the
distance, a farmer kicked a whirl of dust that circled round
his boots like a beloved pet.
The two were inseparable. The people and the wind. Each was
inescapable, and a formidable influence upon the land. This
was Kansas, the Lakota word for “people of the south
wind.”
“Smells like money!” came the voice of co-rider
Alex Calvert ahead me. We had met a day earlier and agreed
to ride along the way. Alex was referring to one of the mammoth
dust and urine-vapor clouds spewing from a nearby cattle feed
lot.
The lots, which stretched for nearly two miles at a time,
and bulged with up to 125,000 head of livestock and emitted
an asphyxiating odor that could land a rider on his knees.
"We're almost there." I gasped, breathing through
my mouth, and pushed harder toward the turnoff to Garden City.
We pulled into town and
up the driveway of a house that a fellow traveler had recommended
along the way. I raised my hand and knocked on the door. It
was the home of Kansas bike shop owner Randy Bartel and Karen
Borgstedt.
"Welcome," they said and invited us in. For the
better part of the evening Randy and Karen fed us, showed
us around town, tended to our bikes, and entertained us with
stories of Kansas, its people and the wind. A wind I would
come to describe as the beauty or the beast.
Bartel replied, "We have no real hills, the wind is our
hill training here." The wind-hills must have been substantial,
for the two were both state cycling champions.
The topic turned to the people. Nearly everyone smiled, waved,
or more often than not, stopped and took the time to say hello.
I asked Randy what gives. "I think its about population
density." He replied. " Every time you take a step
down in city size it seems like people are more likely to
talk to you and wave at you. You have time, there's just not
as many people cross your path."
He paused for minute and finished, "Here, the heart of
the wide-open spaces are reflected in the hearts of people."
The next morning I said my good-byes, and set off solo, pointing
my handlebars south toward Dodge City. A steady, twenty mph
headwind emerged like the head of a gargoyle, casting me into
a spell of slowmotion. Slowing to a average speed of 3 mph,
I watched my life drip by as slow as molasses.
I struggled against the beast for hours, encrusted in layers
of salt and sweat until I stumbled into to small cafe near
the town of Bucklin. When I entered the room, all eyes turned.
There was something different about that room, and that something
was me.
Shining like a neon light of Lycra within a sea of suspenders
and plaid, I took to a small booth and sipped coffee and tried
to look nonchalant.
A grizzled man with a John Deere hat and deep lines carved
within his face stared from the booth next door. "Where'd
y'all cycle in from?" he asked as if I'd just landed
from outer space. The room quieted and the occupants leaned
there heads in like drooping sunflowers.
"San Francisco" I said quietly, hoping to shake
the unwanted attention. A buzz filled the room and the man's
eyes lit up.
He smiled and said, "Hell, I'd be dead by now!"
Not knowing quite how to reply, I commented on my difficulty
finding water along the way.
"Son, there's nothing but grass and dust in this state."
Everyone laughed. They smiled and wished me safe travels along
the way.
I continued southeast on a series of county roads, alternatively
hindered by the blowing wind.
Outside the tiny hamlet of Mulvane, I entered another small
cafe. It was the same scene all over again; the stares, the
inquiries, the disbelief. But this time, as I went to pay
the bill, the woman behind the counter smiled, and said simply,
"Honey, this one’s on me." Here, it seemed,
there IS such a thing as a free lunch.
From there I traveled along a series of back roads, past neverending
fields of corn, soybeans, sorghum and sunflowers which danced
in the wind. I passed breezily through the towns of Ford,
Cuningham, Wichita, and Elk Falls to Baxter Springs.
Eerily, these small towns to would have half of its businesses
boarded up. Farming technology, it seemed had become so efficient
that it simply replaced the people needed to farm the land.
The last 30 years marked large-scale evacuations of Kansas'
small towns populations into the larger cities or out of state
to seek work.
That night I slept beneath an old span bridge in Elk Falls.
The next day, tired and hungry, I pulled into a gas station
offering a special on biscuits and gravy. A man who looked
to be 200-years-old stepped out of his car and fixed upon
me with sparkling blue eyes.
"Where you headed son?" he inquired, his back bent
perpendicular, as if he'd carried a 90-pound sack of cement
all his life. "I'm traveling around the world."
I said to him almost disbelievingly." "My son's
70," he replied," he does all that kinda' stuff...
I always wanted to but I got too old." His face dawned
a wild smile.
"Whenever you get sick of pedaling that thing,"
he said, pointing to the gas price sign that read $2.61 a
gallon,"just think of that...that'll keep you going.
He was the last I'd meet of the people of the south wind,
and as I looked back, a gust seemed to carry him way. I pedaled
to the edge of the plains, to the flint hills just outside
the Missouri border. The lyrics from a Bob Dylan song poured
out of my headphones.
He sang, "The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind,
the answer is blowin' in the wind."
I pulled to a stop and looked around. "If Dylan was right,"
I thought to myself, then Kansas surely held the secrets of
the universe.
Back To Top
When:
July 9, 2005
Where: Death Valley Junction, via, Lone Pine, Stovepipe Wells
and Furnace Creek.
Mileage: 130
Elevation: 200 feet below sea level
Riding time: 2 nights.
Welcome to Death (Valley):
Nothing makes a man more aware of his
capabilities and of his limitations than those moments when
he must push aside all the familiar defenses of ego and vanity,
and accept reality by staring, with the fear that is normal
to a man... into the face of Death.
— Major Robert S. Johnson, USAAF
It was 3 p.m. and I had spent most
of the day asleep on the floor of a cheap hotel room when
a knock came at the door. A voice followed, "Room service
... you guys checking out soon?" I raised my head from
my pillow and eyed my room-mates. I was hoping someone else
would reply.
Geoff responded, "We checked in pretty late last night
... how late can we stay?"
There was a silence, and then the voice replied, "The
manager says you can stay 'til 4, but after that he's gotta
charge you for another night." and the sound of the man's
footsteps faded away.
We were stalling.
Like vampires waiting for the setting
sun, we were holed-up in the artificial coolness of an air-conditioned
room in the heart of Death Valley. We were waiting for the
dark — or better yet — the
coolness that it brought. We would wait in vain.
When 4 o'clock hit, we were forced
out. I slid on my gloves strapped on my helmet and threw one
leg over my bicycle. "Keep an eye on me" I said
to Geoff who'd come to follow me by car to make sure I was
OK. "I will," he said, and I began the first few
miles from Stovepipe Wells, to Furnace Creek and beyond.
For those of you wondering what it might be like to pedal
62 miles through the heart of Death Valley in mid-July, I'm
sure you'd expect the word hot. I'm here to tell you what
a pathetically non-descriptive the word hot is for this particular
experience. In fact, take all the your favorite words for
heat, like say inferno, scorcher, blazing, hellfire, boiling,
etc., then imagine placing them inside an oven set to broil,
engulfed by a flame-thrower then submerged in molten lava.
That’s pedaling Death Valley in July.
Within a few pedal strokes I moved
under the weight of a heat so intense, that my lungs shrank,
my skin retracted, and my body reacted generally as if it
was under attack. The nerves running throughout my body became
so acute, that I could simultaneously detect the most minute
changes in the micro-pockets of air surrounding me.
For those of you in need of a number, It was 117 degrees.
Ripping my attention away from the internal sirens that forewarned
the verge of shutdown, I lifted my head and took a look around.
In a word what I saw was magnificent. The single curve of
a bleached-white dune snaked its way through a valley on one
side. On the other were peaks of such variant color and striation,
that it reminded of a sort of geologic casino carpet. To my
right, tufts of tenacious foliage formed the Devil's Cornfield,
sprinkled with the thin green branches of hundreds of surrounding
Creosote plants.
That’s when a car passed. The occupants got a look at
me and crooked their necks in of disbelief. I was an anomaly
— like some strange new fish visible through the windows
of a submersible. There was almost no one outside. Some of
them that were, clapped when I rode by. Mostly they didn't
stray far from the lifeline of their air-conditioned bubble.
As for me, I was climatically naked, with the briefest of
intermissions within Geoff's car, as I slogged slowly, in
an ocean of superheated gas, 200 feet below sea-level.
In a word, stupid.
It all started the night before. I
had entered the park from the western border, rolling breezily
down slopes of the Eastern Sierra from the Mt.Whitney Portal
Campground where I had met good friend Geoff and his son Chris.
I invited them specifically to follow me by car through this
less-than-hospitable environment.
Geoff was child of the sixties whose
mantra was, "If you remember the sixties, you weren't
there."Somewhere along the line Geoff had dropped the
hippy-persona and cleverly disguised himself as a responsible
adult. The only detectable remnants from the summer of love
era were a thinning pony-tail, a cassette tape of the "Fuggs"
and a tenacious head-twitch that made it seem as if he were
constantly avoiding the swing of an imaginary whiffle-bat.
Despite his earlier indiscretions, I had picked Geoff to follow
me across the hottest corner of the Earth for several reasons:
A. He was reliable as a Swiss watch.
B. He was extremely intelligent.
And,
C. He was the only one crazy enough drive at 8 mph for 20
hours through the heart of Death Valley in the middle of July.
We
had long-since decided it was best to travel during the cooler
hours of the night, so we hit the road at sunset, then punched
our way, 8 hours at a time through the dark.
For most of the ride I was merely a shadow within the twin
beam of headlights. I was stuck like glue to those headlights
as we ascended 1,000 feet to the Darwin Plateau, then plummeted
5,000 feet to Panamint Springs.
Descending at 40-plus mph in the dark was a hair-raising affair
at best, and was accentuated around corners, when I would
move outside the coverage of Geoff's headlights and the landscape
speeding landscape would fade to black.
When we reached the bottom at Panamint springs, the atmosphere
abruptly changed. The temperature soared, the vegetation thinned,
and an army of nocturnal creatures hoisted themselves upon
the road in a ceaseless migration to the other side.
Avoiding them at first was like a kind of video game. Tiring
of the game after a climbing 5,000 feet, my reactions slowed,
leading to a number of close calls with galloping jackrabbits,
white mice, lumbering arachnids and palm-sized crickets.
Then it happened.
It was 1 a.m. and I was slumped over my bars with eyes half
closed. I had reached the summit of Towne Pass and was rocketing
down the final 18-mile descent toward Stovepipe Wells. That’s
when a kangaroo rat, roughly half the size of a baseball raced
out, then back, then turned, then... "crunch!"
Geoff and Chris' eyes widened as they witnessed flattened
rodent, whose twitching tail angled skyward.
Had I not been so tired I would have been horrified. I finished
my ride at an eerily-lit courtyard of the Amargosa Opera House
near the Death Valley Junction.
Devoid of signs of life, an other-worldly sound startled us.
Then the glaring eye of a pet peacock. We had arrived in Weirdsville.
We pitched tent and I immediately fell asleep in what could
have easily been a set for a John Carpenter horror film.
The next day, during his final escort, Geoff delivered me
safely to the town of Pahrump Nevada, where we would say goodbye.
"Thank you." I said to Geoff and Chris, shaking
their hands.
"I'll either see you in two years with some great stories..."
I said in parting, "or I'll see you in hell."
Geoff smiled back and said, "If you get there before
me get the poker game started ... when I get there we'll work
on finding some kinda air conditioning...."
July 6, 2005
Where: Bridgeport-Mammoth
Mileage: 72
Elevation gain: 3,000 feet
Riding time: 8 hours.
"He who experiences the unity of life sees his own Self
in all beings, and all beings in his own Self, and looks on
everything with an impartial eye."
— The Bhudda
The Awakening
For some reason, the sixth day of riding brought a shift.
I had spent the last eight years washing
away the encrusted mental layers of past conditioning and
moving toward a lighter state of being.
More recently I had passed through the stress of preparation,
stripping my world down to a handful of belongings that I
stuffed into oversize bike bags.
After that, the bittersweet separation from the friends, and
loved ones. Within the first four days of riding I had been
tested by triple-digit heat, strengthened by multi-day climbs,
educated by invariably changing mind-states.
Through it all I practiced. I practiced being mindful, staying
open and listening — to myself, to others, to my body,
to the world around me.
On this sixth day of this journey, the world answered back.
I was pedaling down a stretch of Highway 395 between Bridgeport
and Mammoth Lakes when I became aware of seemingly every blade
of grass, bird or wildflower. That awareness was all-encompassing,
and included every snow-capped peak, and all the rambling
tributaries that carried their liquid cache to an ocean of
Aspen and sage. From that moment on, something just clicked.
I felt a part of it all and all of it part of me. I thought
to myself, "This is it.... This is what I came for."
It would be my home and my teacher for the next two years.
And for two years, just being present and listening, that
was enough for me.
I
continued in a state of reverence down Highway 395, cycling
over Devils Gate, and drifted pleasantly toward expansive
shores of Mono Lake whose shimmering waters took on the tone
of a freshly polished coin. Jutting from the lake were the
phantom-like of tufa towers, bone-white calcium carbonate
formations whose geologic disposition I minimally understood.
Farther down the road, I pulled up to one of my favorite establishments,
the Mono Market in downtown Lee Vining. Once there, I reveled
in the simple gastronomic pleasures of a large sandwich, and
a cold drink. It wasn't just food, but a cycle tourist's fuel.
I felt the eyes of stranger moving over me, and moreover,
my sandwich. It was a small Australian shepherd. Her look
said he also reveled in the idea of gastronomic pleasures.
I set the last bit of sandwich down and she hoovered it up
with nary a chew before I hopped on my rig and road away.
The turnoff to Mammoth Lakes came 2 hours later and had me
cursing a headwind on the last three-mile climb into town.
Then I recognized a vehicle that had pulled off to the side
of the road. It was close friend and former schoolmate Keith
Erickson.
Keith and I had known each other since pre-school, growing
up in the east Bay area and were good friends all through
high school. We shared the same attributes including body
type. As if our very DNA had been stretched in the image of
fun-house mirrors.
Keith was generous, loving, light-hearted character who loved
life and loved to travel the world. He was also known in Mammoth
circles for his legendary Telemark skiing.
"Hey man!" Keith cried out, jumping out of his car,
and I threw my arms around him and giving him a big hug. No
matter how long it had been, the relationship between Keith
and I was easy. We fell into a simple groove of soulful conversation
that lasted the rest of the evening.
He spoke of the winter, his recent last day of skiing,(Fourth
of July) and his two foremost loves; his wife Kim and his
daughter Zoe.
One of the the things I loved best about Keith were his travel
stories. He'd once traveled the entirety of India by motorcycle
with a Hindu Holy-man hanging on the back. The Holy-man or
Sadhu granted them kind traveling immunity and kind treatment
everywhere they went.
When
their day was done they would simply wrap themselves in a
swath of carried carpet and sleep upon the steps of Hindu
temples for the night. I wondered how many Westerners traveled
like that anymore.
We finished off the night at a vista point of the Minarets
Mountains where Keith pulled a strange form of entertainment
known as a Poi. It consisted of a set of chains, with large
cottonball ends that were dipped in kerosene then ignited.
Keith whipped the fireballs into a visual fury with such variety
of orbital planes, he had gathered a small crowd of people
that had come to watch the sunset. After he finished, we all
applauded.
Then someone asked, "What are you doing that for?"
Keith replied, "My friend here wanted to see it... He's
riding his bike around the world right now." Their eyes
darted back and forth between the two of us.
They weren't sure what to make of it, but they smiled nonetheless.
We headed back to Keith's house and slept until the next morning
at 5, when I packed up my bike bags and got ready to leave.
Before I set off Keith put his arms around me one last time
and we hugged goodbye.
A long silent moment passed.
"I love you." he said, be safe.
"I love you too, Keith," I said then road away.
It came to me that I had been lucky to have a friend like
Keith, no matter how infrequent we saw each other.
Several miles down the road I watched the orange glow of the
sun come up, illuminating a mystical layer of thermal steam
rising over nearby Hot Creek. I thought of something Keith
had said the night before.
"Do you know what the difference between a traveler and
tourist is?" He asked me with a smile. I shook my head.
"A tourist", he replied, "brings home souvenirs,
while a traveler brings home stars."
I was off to get my share.
When: July 1 2005
Where: San Francisco to Sacramento Calif.
Elevation: sea level
Mileage Log: 0-80
Temperature range: 48-104 degrees F
"Afoot and light-hearted I take
to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune."
— Walt Whitman
Song of the Road
"Live Strong"
The statement was simple and direct; "Live strong."
The words adorned a small yellow bracelet
that I unwrapped from plastic and wrapped around my wrist.
It was purchased inside a bicycle shop in mid-town Vallejo.
A middle-aged shop worker with a greying pony tail stood behind
the counter. "How far you guys goin' today?"
"Sacramento", my riding partner Matt Haverty exclaimed
and the owner nodded. I was happy with Matt's response. I
had spent the last six months answering detailed questions
and explaining the particulars of riding my bike around the
world.
I was tired of explaining. I just wanted to ride. Matt glanced
over at me and smiled. It was as if he just couldn't keep
it to himself. "Actually, this guy is riding around the
world."
"Really!, hippie bike-guy shot back. "Wow!...What
route ya' gonna take?"
The explanation cost us a half an hour.
It
had all started earlier that morning on the foggy deck of
the Golden Gate bridge. I had hoped for some departing epiphany,
some nirvanic moment that would lift the heavy layers of stress
from the previous three months of planning. It never came.
Instead it was replaced by something better, more real —
the love and support from core group of family and friends
as we embraced, honestly, soulfully.
We pedaled our way off the bridge that morning, watching the
familiar faces shrink into the distance, then eventually out
of sight.
Then it was just Matt and me, and the open road. We were polar
opposites; Matt was a pragmatist of sorts, who'd spent the
better part of his life building a million-dollar electrical
company. Of late he'd turned his attention toward high-end
bicycle building and both the bikes we rode bore his name.
But that was were the similarities stopped.
Matt was racer. A wining triathlete, and it reflected in his
touring style. With an ultra lightweight steel frame, and
the bare essentials strapped to it, Matt moved across the
countryside like Mario Andretti.
My bike on the other hand, weighed-in at over 100 pounds,
schlepping over 40 pounds of cameras, lenses, chargers and
a laptop. The ultimate bohemith to say the least.
Taking it all in slowly, and mindfully, I had long since eschewed
competition and adopted the handle soulcycler. We made a good
pair.
Matt enjoyed being with someone who slowed down and dreamed
large, while I appreciated his ability to focus on details,
bringing me back down to earth.
He was seeing me off during the first two days of the tour.
We wove through small towns of Rockville, Fairfield, rolling
past fields of sunflower and wheat before we were pummeled
by California's central valley heat.
Just short of combustion, we came upon Solano Lake Park shores,
an expansive pool of emerald-green water,that was reminscent
of a scene from “Huckleberry Finn.” I stripped
down to my shorts and dove in. The water was freezing.
"Whooooohooo," I let out while we dove in again
and again.
It was just what we needed to make it through the blazing
heat along Putah Creek Road en route to the farming town of
Winters. It was there we heard a voice from behind.
"You guys going to Davis?" came from a cyclist who
pulled up from behind. Wearing a cotton t-shirt, bermuda shorts,
thick glasses and a mid-sized afro, he seemed more like a
computer programmer than cyclist. But he had ridden farther
than us, 75 miles in the 104 -degree heat. Sweat dripped from
his head and formed a ring around the neck of his shirt.
"Yes we are, would you like to join us?" I asked
and he nodded.
"Y-Y-Y-You mind if I r-r-r-ride with you?" he asked
with a slight stutter. It seemed more a a plea than a question.
"Sure" I said and reached my hand toward his.
"I'm Rick and this is Matt."
"I'm Edward" he said with a soft smile and with
that we were off. We rode for nearly a mile with Edward right
on our tail until I turned around and noticed he was gone.
Squinting west, about a quarter mile back, I made out the
faint outline of Edward on the side of the road walking his
bike. We pulled to side and waited. When he pulled up he wobbled
as if someone had freshly clubbed him.
"You OK?" I asked placing a hand on his shoulder.
Then it came to me. He had been battling heat exhaustion.
It was why he asked to ride with us.
"I-I-I-I'm OK," he said
We pulled over to a irrigation ditch where I suggested he
soak his shirt, a tactic I had learned riding in the desert.
Matt and I suggested he consume more of the bottle of Gatorade
he had in his bottle rack. He had hardly touched it. Without
the salt and electrolytes the leached from the body like a
thief.
It seemed to work. Edward finished the day strong, passing
us and staying out front as we pulled into Davis where we
stopped and shook hands.
"God bless you." he said as he pedaled away and
finished his ride.
We continued through Davis, across the Yolo Causeway into
downtown Sacramento. We had traveled the first 80 miles without
complications and feeling good. I thought of Matt, Edward
and our long ride in the heat. I glanced down at the yellow
bracelet around my wrist. Today, just for this day, we had
followed the mantra: "Live Strong."
Rick
Gunn, June 2005.
"I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that
my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should
be stifled by dry rot. I would rather be a superb meteor,
every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent
planet.
The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall
not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my
time."
— Jack London
»
return to top
Jan
29 2005:
A thick white fog attached itself to the Tahoe Basin
the day I realized I would ride my bike around the world.
I was on my way to work, when the activation of my headlights
sparked the epiphany. The fog, it seemed, symbolized the continuos
confusion in my life, and the actualization of the dream like
a white light cutting through.
The realization took place on my 4,000th commute, during my
14th year as a small- town daily newspaper photographer. For
nearly a decade and a half I was paid below-average wages
to record history through the lens of camera, shooting nearly
a million photographs.
Following each day, my photographs appeared on the sheets
of recycled paper that the better part of 15,000 souls complained
about on a daily basis.
Although the clear majority of complaints revolved around
mistakes with the TV guide, there is always the predictable
amount of static over missed deliveries, perceived political
biases and/or coverage of “hard news.”
“Hard news” is really the collection of information,
visual and otherwise, from traffic accidents, wildland fires,
floods, murders, drownings, robberies, rapes, plane crashes
and the steady diet of disaster and personal suffering that
is at the heart of all newspaper sales.
Ironically, many of the readers who wrote long and intricate
letters decrying our coverage of such tragic events were the
first to the newsstands looking specifically for information
about just such events.
Nevertheless it was the documentation of these events that
were forever etched inside my brain.
There was the woman whose long red hair shone beautifully
from her collapsed skull that lay 25 yards from her body.
She had been hit by a drunk driver.
There was the abandoned cat that I came upon when I was sent
out to photograph a house fire that had claimed the life of
young girl.
I had arrived at the home the day after the trailer fire had
taken place in a hauntingly remote area of the Northern Nevada
desert. The buzz of fire trucks and emergency personnel had
long come and gone.
As I approached the back of the burnt-out mobile home, I peered
into an open sliding glass door moving my eyes across the
living room at the remains of charred furniture and the twisted
shapes of melted toys.
A sudden movement startled me beyond words.
It was the swaying tail of a the family pet, perched in the
dim light and eating off a blackened plate set perfectly for
dinner before the fire.
I moved around to the front of the house in front of the house
to a window where a large cross with a Teddy bear had been
erected by a neighbor in front of the child's room. A handmade
sign read, “We will miss you.”
I raised my camera, clicked the shutter, and began to cry.I
was told later that the single mother had survived and had
simply packed a suitcase and left, vowing never to return.The
witnessing of tragedy was steady and continuos.
There was the retrieved torso, mauled by a bear after being
pulled from the woods after a plane wreck.
There were the methamphetamine addicts, one who was caretaker
for an elderly woman when shed died.
For a month the meth-addicted woman left the corpse to rot
upstairs while she threw parties downstairs.
Still another meth-driven addict crawled into one of the cemetery’s
crypts and twisted the skulls off an adult and baby corpse
in hopes of selling them to a black magician. But by far there
is one image of catastrophe that haunts me to this day. I
had been out on assignment when I'd gotten a call from the
editor informing me of a traffic collision nearby. “Hustle
it over!” he ordered and I arrived moments later. Running
from my car I hastily snapped several photos of one car piggy-backed
atop another — both fully engulfed in flames. As my
shutter clicked the firemen fired streams of water into the
cabs.
The ambulance had come and gone carrying what I thought were
the occupants. I had no idea what was about to come next.
Roughly 10 feet from the car, the flames were put out, and
a thick white smoke began to clear within cab. There, the
horrific remains of the driver, half skeleton, half burnt
tissue stood frozen in a silent, opened-mouthed scream. That
week I had had a succession of nightmares about the man, the
last of which included the burnt man showing up as if to ask
me why he had to die. Another had him looking upon me compassionately,
sorrowful that I was living with the image of his death.
During the last part of the dream the burnt man took flight
and dove head first into what seemed to be my soul. When he
exited out the other side he was fully fleshed and as new.
He thanked me and said good-bye.
I awoke afterwards having come to peace with the event.
One might assume from stories like this that is was the carnage
witnessed that drove me from the newspaper business. It wasn't.
What drove me away, (and slightly mad for matter), was the
mental residue left over from a decade spent under the green
rays of florescent lights, the wrath of those effected by
the job, or the debilitating stress of a 10-assignment-day.
Something deep inside me was saying that there was something
more to my photographic capabilities than the visual documentation
of lackluster events that repeated themselves seasonally ad
nauseum. Christmas bake sales, service club check passings,
first babies of the year, senior volunteers of the week, groundbreakings,
ribbon-cuttings, pets of the week, dimly-lit high school sports
events and local government meetings — the meat and
potatoes of my job.
One morning, I was racing mindlessly on just such a 10-assignment
day, when I came upon a scene that registered on a potential
photograph that resonated as a personal Pulitzer. I slowed
down my car to observe.
It was a simple scene: A cowboy, feeding his cattle, backlit
and subtly illuminated with low-angle light. A small slice
of photographic nirvana. But I could not stop. I had no time.
I knew that being late to the next assignment would cause
a domino effect causing me to be late to, or perhaps miss
one of the next nine assignments. This was not tolerated by
management.
As I passed the cowboy at a high rate of speed, something
clicked inside me. It occurred to me that I was no longer
shooting for myself, nor to feed my soul, but for a system
outside myself. A machine that had little or no interest in
what fed or interested me.
Several weeks later, after 14 years of daily newspaper photography,
I turned in my letter of resignation.
"Twenty
years from now you will be more disappointed
by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did
do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor.
Catch the trade winds in your sails.
Explore. Dream. Discover."
— Mark Twain
»
return to top
You’re
gonna do what?
April-May 2005
Before turning in my resignation, I set one last
appointment with two of my bosses.
Over-caffeinated
and sweating from nervousness, I paced back and forth across
the industrial gray carpet of one of the managing editor’s
office.
Talking furiously, I moved my fingers across a hand-drawn
line that ran across a world map that was poorly glued to
low-quality foam board.
With a quivering voice and a thin veneer of self-confidence
I stuttered, "Starting in July I will quit my job to
ride my bike around the world, raise money for a national
charity and submit journals by Internet from the road every
two weeks.
At the end of my ramblings, I shared my hopes that the paper
would see fit to partially fund the whole affair. After a
long silence I was imagining the two of them handing me my
termination papers when instead the assistant publisher turned
to the editor and asked, “What do you think?”
Another long silence followed and intensified by the squeak
of a swiveling office chair. He turned, looked over and said,
“Sounds good to me.” They were good people plain
and simple.
Not
long after this story appeared by features editor Teri Vance
about my journey on the front page of the newspaper:
At 41, Rick Gunn has a stable life.
He's been a photographer for the Nevada Appeal for 10 years,
and four years before that at the Tahoe Daily Tribune. He
owns a home in South Lake Tahoe. He is rarely without the
company of his yellow Labrador, Tucson, whom he refers to
as "my buddy." But he's getting ready to leave it
all behind for two years, in exchange for the uncertainty
of sleeping in "fields, barns and hostels," and
eating whatever he can find along the way. "Stability
is really a state of mind," he said. "I have 14
years of photography experience, and two years on the road
won't take that away. I'll still have my house when I get
back.
"What I'll gain is something most people will never see."
Gunn, who said he awoke one morning to the realization that
his life was half over, took out a loan on his house, and
arranged for a friend to watch his house and Tucson.
"I asked myself, 'What do you want to do with the second
half of your life?' "
In answering that question, he decided on a 20,000-mile bike
trip that will take him around the world.
But it's not just his own dreams he's looking to fulfill.
Called the "Wish Tour," Gunn has teamed up with
the Make-A-Wish Foundation to help raise money for the organization,
which grants the wishes of children with life-threatening
medical conditions. "To give these children a chance
to pursue their dreams is more powerful than almost anything
for me," he said.
Seventy-five percent of the donations he receives in California
will go to Sacramento and Northeastern California Chapter
of the foundation.
In El Dorado County, 30 children have had their wishes granted
in the last five years.
Executive Director Melinda Carson said the foundation relies
heavily on what they call "external events."
"This is the kind of thing that frees up our staff to
do fund raising and organizing. This is bonus money that comes
our way," she said. "He definitely has lofty goals
and we're happy to be a part of what he's doing."
Donations coming from Nevadans will benefit the Northern Nevada
Division of the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
Jim Parry, executive director of the Northern Nevada chapter,
said studies have shown that hope can change a person's physiology,
helping to increase resiliency and fight illness.
And fulfilling a childhood dream can restore hope. "The
testimonials from families all say it is a respite from the
horrors of the hospitals," he said. "They say that,
in that moment, their child forgot about the doctors, the
needles, the chemo and the pain."
Gunn understands the power of a dream. He was 18 when his
mother died. Her last wish was to visit Europe, and she did.
But when she got there, she was too sick to travel and had
to quickly return home.
"I learned a powerful lesson: Be awake and alive and
pursue your dreams," he said. "In a certain sense,
part of her will see the world now - and that part is me."
Although he has yet to circumnavigate the globe, Gunn is no
stranger to foreign travel. He has visited 16 countries on
five continents, much of it on a bicycle - often creating
a spectacle with his 6-foot 5-inch, lanky frame.
But he doesn't let that or language barriers or anything else
stop him from making new friends in new lands. "My bliss
is to ride bicycles and connect with other cultures through
photography and writing," he said. He's quick to share
those connections with others as well. After each of his trips,
Gunn has presented the photographs to the community.
This time, in addition to promising the "mother of all
slide shows" upon his return, he also plans to take readers
along for the ride.
He is working with local schools to set up a Web site where
students can track his progress and will send photos and stories
to be published every two weeks in the Tahoe Daily Tribune.
"In a way, they can live through it with me," he
said.
"The smells, the sights, the sounds - and the challenges,
for that matter. There will be plenty of those."
Gunn
will begin July 1 at the Golden Gate Bridge with author and
former Bicycling magazine columnist Joe Kurmaskie, aka Metal
Cowboy.
Kurmaskie plans to write his third book chronicling their
two-month adventure across the country, and Gunn will document
it through photos.
After their arrival at the Brooklyn Bridge, Gunn will set
out on his own to traverse the remainder of the planet.
He knows there will be lonely times. But, he said, he's prepared
for that.
"Loneliness is something that's inevitable in this life.
You have to embrace it sometimes."
And his father, Richard, will join him for some parts, as
will other friends. He would also welcome others who would
like to meet up with him in different parts of the world.
As for the dangers he'll encounter, he said it's all relative.
"The most dangerous thing is a life unlived."
The article prompted a flood of responses, several of which
came over the newspaper's Internet comment line.
The
comments read as follows:
Re:
Biking around the world
by Anonymous on Monday, May 16 @ 06:48:28 PDT I have been
reading the appeal for almost 20 years. I think they spend
to much time reporting on themselves.
Rick Gunn can ride a bike to the moon and back, I really don’t
care.
Re:
Biking around the world
by Anonymous on Monday, May 16 @ 20:33:34 PDT So when was
the last time you did something worthwhile for a certain charity
like the Make A Wish Foundation?
I think it's great to read about the few people in this town
that actually think of others besides themselves. My hats
off to you Rick, good luck
Re:
Biking around the world
by Anonymous on Wednesday, May 18 @ 16:37:47 PDT Twenty years
is a long time to spend reading a paper.
Re:
Biking around the world
by Anonymous on Friday, May 20 @ 16:42:12 PDT Keep away from
people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always
do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too,
can become great.
--Mark Twain
Aside from the Internet I began to get numerous and varied
responses from friends and acquaintances, most of which were
united by an underlying theme. Fear.
"Are you going to carry a gun?" a co-worker asked.
Another inquired, "Aren't you afraid of being shot?"
Still another commented, "Normal people just don't
want to do something like that."
A friend simply asked, "Do you want to be buried or cremated?"
Soon I began to make a list of the various of the ways
others thought I would meet my demise. Undoubtedly the clear
majority feared that I'd berun over by a truck, desiccated
by Death Valley heat or drowned by rains while riding the
UK in the winter.
Others promised I would assuredly be dispatched by the
organized criminals in Eastern Europe, Ukraine, Russia
and or southern Italy.
If by some miracle I'd avoided these, then I would surely
perish from
encounters with Trans-Siberian road bandits, Cambodian
Rebels, Laotian Landmines or terrorist belonging to
Jama Islamya in Indonesia.
To be honest, I would suffer these deaths several times over
then to isolated from fear, and disconnected from the distant
members of this rich human family.
A whole of supportive comments came as well. Some of the most
poignant were from a group of seniors I met when my father
invited me to the art class he taught. A woman stood up and
announced that I was riding around the world and raising money
for the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Another elderly woman raised
her hand and asked what the charity was about. She was told
that the nonprofit organization raised funds to grant wishes
to sick or terminal children.
The woman responded, "I have a lot of OLD friends who
fit that
description, why won't their wishes be granted?" A woman
across the table dipped her head and said, "They should
have taken care of that before they got old."
And that’s exactly what I was setting out to do.
Surely one of the more positive pieces of encouragement came
from a close friend when I said good-bye.
He pulled me close and whispered in my ear, "Don't
listen to anyone else, you’re doing what most of us
have
always wanted to do!"
»
return to top
Planning:
Fall 2004-June 2005
The end of 2004 through the first half of 2005 will
forever be attached in my mind to a three-ring binder that
I carried around infinitum. In it were daily endless lists
of tasks to accomplish
daily from Jan. 1-June 29, 2005. It was everything I could
do to put in my 40 hours at work and accomplish a pile of
tasks from the list at the same time. Even after I quit the
job several weeks prior to departure, I spent the better part
of eight hours a day sorting out details.
Near
the beginning of June 2005 I sent out this e-mail
to friends and sponsors:
Hello
all,
For all of you that have been wondering why you
haven't heard from me of late...
Try and wrap your head around trying to take care of
details for a 20,000 two-year bicycle odyssey around
the world.
I have spent the last two months pouring over list
after list after list....
These have included, hundreds of minute details
revolving around fundraising, taxes, insurance, bikes
parts gear, camping gear, camera gear, laptops, cards,
garbage, sewer, water, house tenants, dog-sitters,
inoculations (my arms hurt), training, nutrition,
counseling, malaria pills, regional, national and
world contacts, riding partners, light systems,
furniture packing, slide shows, TV interviews, radio
interviews, newspaper columns, make-a-wish contacts,
fundraising, licensing agreements and cash
dispersions, Web site details,
visa information, money transfer arrangements,
rotating bank accounts, auto withdrawal accounts,
wiring services and the endless pursuit of sponsors.
Big
Love,
Rick
The
e-mail left out a fair amount of details and I felt conveyed
little of the stress and anxiety I suffered trying to put
things together.
But then, somewhere around the 28th of June, in the garage
of my father’s house, I finished preparations and I
laid out all the supplies I had and listed them as follows:
1
Hand-built Haverty steel-lugged touring bicycle
complete with 48-spoke rims and Phil Wood Hubs.
2 Tubus steel racks.
4 Ortlieb waterproof panniers (carrier bags).
1 full repair kit including chain and cog puller and
mini bike pump.
2 extra tire tubes
1 Ortlieb handlebar bag (for digital camera equipment)
1 se of lights front and rear. (flashing).
1 Mountain Hardwear 15 degree down sleeping bag.
1. Therma-rest Prolite 4 sleeping pad.
1. Northface Arches two-man tent.
1 Mountain Hardwear 700-fill down Jacket.
1 pr. Mountain Hardwear Microchill fleece pants.
2 Mountain Hardwear Extend shirts (long sleeve and
short sleeve).
1 Mountain Hardwear Powerstretch fleece shirt.
1 pr. Mountain Hardwear stretch travel pants.
1 pr. Mountain Hardwear stretch shorts.
1 Mountain Hardwear Swift Goretex rain Jacket.
1 Mountain Hardwear fleece dome hat with Windstopper.
1 Go-Lite windshirt. (ultralight).
2 pr. Pearl Izumi 8-panel lycra riding shorts.
3 pr. synthetic riding socks.
1 pr. Specialized Tahoe riding shoes (clipless).
1 pr of Teva Guide sandals.
1 Petzl "Tikka" LED microlite (AAA batteries).
1 small pack towel.
1 Snowpeak titanium french press
2 set, MSR Titanium cookset.
1 MSR (ultralight) stove.
1 Butane cannister (for stove).
1 large first-aid kit, including various bandages,
antiseptics, antibiotics, sutures, scalpel, bandaids
and more.
1 Canon EOS-1 Ds 35mm digital camera (11 megapixel).
3 Canon Lenses: 20mm f 2.8, 35mm f 1.4, and an
80-210mm 2.8 zoom.
4 Sandisk 1.0G cards.
1 Canon flash (POS)
1 lens and camera cleaning kit.
1 12" Macintosh G4 laptop with Photoshop, a DVD
burner and wireless remote.
1 Macintosh Ipod with 5701 songs, 10 books, and
Spanish, Russian, German and French lessons.
2 pr. high-end sunglasses. (one clear for riding at
night).
1 bathroom kit including toothbrush/paste, sunscreen,
soap, deodorant, nail clipper, etc..
1 set fork and spoon (nalgene), army can opener,
lighters and a Benchmade folding knife
8 lbs. of Fast Freddie Turbo Blend Coffee. (to be
shipped across states).
240 Clifbars and 140 Clifshots, and Clifshot
Electrolyte drink mix. (to be shipped also).
The
combined weight of the bike and equipment felt very close
to what might be 100 pounds but will be disclosed upon measurement.
I
was packed, fairly prepared. Despite my worries about insubstantial
things, there in cool shadows of my father's garage it came
to me —
The wish tour was about to begin.
»
return to top
Contact
information:
Rick
Gunn Photography
811 Paloma Ave.
South Lake Tahoe, CA 96150
USA
www.rickgunnphotography.com
rick@rickgunnphotography.com
Phone: (775) 721-5005
Sponsors
Tahoe
Daily Tribune
Haverty
Cycle Company
Gluskin's Camera Audio Video
Nevada Appeal
Clifbar
Mountain
Hardwear
Fast Freddie
Brunton
Nevada
Wed Site Design Nevada
Web Site Hosting Noble
Studios
|
