a few photos from the ride

8 of us, slightly underutilized at a build site


the very top of Rocky Mountain National Park


actually not as surprising as one might think


my friend, Eric, doing his favorite trick, the Superman


the view if I had been inside a bicycle


a sign as we came into Napa Valley -- "stay alive by staying out"


the peanut butter bin


Kelly O. proving that we can sleep anywhere

a view of the trailer from up above

the end!

As far as I can imagine, this will probably be my last post - I can't imagine that you all want to hear the details of my life as I move back in with my parents, or look for a job, or work out at the Sports Mall.

I wanted to thank you all (my parents swear that people have, in fact, been following me this summer) for reading. It is a summer that I doubt I will ever forget, and it was a lot of fun to have a digital audience with whom I could share the experience.

I would love to see all of you (whoever you are) on September 3rd (even you Abuelita).

Again, many thanks, and stay in touch -- my email remains carriebadanes@gmail.com .

departures and bike boxes

Though we were officially "released" from Bike and Build as an organization when we put our tires in the Pacific, we were unofficially still absolutely affiliated. Accommodations had been arranged for us, and we even had a few meals provided. However, when it came time to get ourselves, our stuff, and our precious (yes, now I say precious) bicycles to the airports, we were totally on our own. However, when I offered to help Carys get to the airport, I had no idea what an ordeal it would be without the help of the van. Though her flight was at 1:00 PM, we left the church at 9:00 AM. We had packed our bikes in huge cardboard boxes the night before, and I was in charge of that, while she carried her over-sized duffel. The subway station could not have been less than three-quarters of a mile away, and naturally, the walk wasn't flat. Most people would have hailed a cab, but no, we were determined to save a buck. We must have been a sight, with the way people stared at us, but I have sort of gotten used to crazy looks this summer.

It wasn't just getting to the subway, but then transferring trains and catching a bus. The whole ordeal took the better part of the day, and I returned back to the church at 1:30, with plans to take my own bike someplace to get shipped. Another girl needed to send hers out as well, and we then set out, again by foot, to walk the half mile to the USPS. Three of us, transporting two unwieldy packages basically stumbled down Alemany Blvd.

I entered the post office, heaving and sweating. The woman behind the counter took one look at me and said "uh-uh, that's too big." Now, the post office boasts that not rain, nor sleet, nor dark of night will prevent them from delivering the mail. But a box measuring 62 inches in length -- apparently that was material to break them down.

I started laughing. Not only had I just walked with my bike, in a box, over a half-mile, but I had convinced another rider that this was the best way to get her bike out of San Francisco.

Fortunately, an old man in line, donning a pair of sweatpants and a scraggly white beard (the type of people you are probably warned to stay away from) had been listening in on the conversation between myself and the teller, and had started to ask questions about our ride. He then determined that "he was in a charitable mood" and that he would be back with his truck to take us to the UPS store. Left without much of an option, we waited patiently for his return. He did, in fact, show up -- with a truck, and we didn't quite know whether we should be nervous or thankful. After the three of us (one guy was just along for the ride) loaded our bicycles in the car and realized that UPS was way farther than originally anticipated, I chose to be very, very thankful.

He dropped us at the UPS store and gave us all (including the boy without a bike) hugs.

the cross-country celebration!

Though the end had been in sight for several days, I think it really hit most of us our last official host location, a very generous church in San Rafael, California. Their driveway was (appropriately) a 25% grade hill and I arrived to the church courtyard huffing and puffing. Once off of my bike, I noticed their incredible view of the San Francisco Bay, with (this remains debatable) the tip of the Golden Gate Bridge visible. Different church members took us to their houses for showers. In the car, our host informed us that the water we saw was, in fact, the Pacific Ocean. I silently contemplated planning a brief escape from the church to dip my tires in the water and be finished riding forever. However, the idea of riding in a 31 person parade to and over the Golden Gate was ultimately just a bit too appealing to turn down.

We were permitted to sleep in that last morning. And when the morning routine started at 7:00 the excitement was tangible. I, for one, was thrilled that it would be the last official "wake-up" call, the last morning where I groggily put on spandex, and the last time I had to fight with my sleeping bag to get it into the tiny stuff-sack.

Our route meeting (or group meeting -- I never figured out what they were calling for in the morning) was followed by group pictures overlooking the water and we set out. We had decided that we would travel all together, and had sort of elected one of the guys to lead us into San Francisco. He was chosen, not only for his patience, but for his concern safety; he's been donning a high-lighter yellow safety vest over his jersey for the better part of the country.

I think that the parade would have been a bit easier to execute if we had been in, say -- one of the plain states. Even the suburbs of San Francisco are notably hilly; but we pressed on, with tires almost touching. Few of us were familiar with the area, so we scanned for monuments with every bend in the road, anxiously anticipating the sudden appearance of the Golden Gate Bridge. Then at mile 17, we turned a corner and we could see the bridge, enormous and so surprisingly close. Before we knew it, we were with the rest of the tourists at the rest stop on the north side of the bridge. It was there that we proceeded to take about a thousand pictures and to take over the entire tourist area.

From there we set out to actually cross the bridge. I was a little disappointed that we weren't riding on the road, but instead on the sidewalk/bike lane with the pedestrians and families on rental bikes. (We later read that there is a company that rents out bikes so people can ride the bridge, and then picks them up and shuttles them back after the mile ride.) Despite the sidewalk, it was pretty cool. The weather was warm and the whole city was visible; and there was a whole group of friends and family waiting at the end of the bridge. I determined that I probably needed a few pictures from this side of the bridge as well, and hopped off of my bike to take them.

Almost directly below the bridge is a city park and we continued down to the water. As I neared the beach, I saw my aunt, uncle and cousin, who said "we were worried when we didn't see you, but your mother said you would be towards the end!" (Thanks mom).

We dropped our bikes and ran into the water. Then got out and grabbed our bikes and ceremonially dipped our front tires. Wet, and content, we had lunch on the beach, with the Golden Gate Bridge as a backdrop. The only negative of the entire celebration was that one slightly over-eager mother had made those eggs filled with confetti and had smashed about nine on my head.

a note from my parents...

For all of you who have supported Carrie on her “one long ride” (and I hope that remains ONE...singular...that another odyssey is not planned), we invite you to a homecoming party. Please join us on Monday, September 3 from 7-9pm. We’ll have desserts, Gatorade and toasts...the bottles of Red Bicyclette wine are already being chilled!

We figured that Labor Day marks the end of summer and this trip has certainly been laborious all summer! The celebration is at the Badanes house- 4342 Ashley Oaks; Cincinnati....All are welcome!

Anne and Harry

the end of I-80

I feel OK about posting an entry in reference to this weeks riding conditions as we aren't headed back onto the interstate for the rest of the ride. Correct, we have been on the shoulder of a 4-6 lane interstate for the entirety of Nevada, or - 400 lonely miles. In short, I have felt totally deprived of civilization. So, yesterday with about 15 miles left, I shouted (to no one in particular) - "would it be too much to ask for the mountains to part and for a sprawling metropolis to appear before me?" Someone was listening because ten short miles later, the entire city of Sparks, Nevada (which, previous to this trip I had never heard of) was laid out before me in the mountain valley.

The interstate at this point is anything but safe. First of all, the shoulder is covered with some sort of shrapnel. If I had a nickel for every blown-up steel-belted tire I have seen this week, I wouldn't need to start looking for a job until 2008. These steel-belted tires are especially dangerous because they are not only a road hazard, but they also deposit these tiny splinters of metal into your supposedly impervious tires. These splinters cause what are known as "slow leaks" and you only realize your tire is flat after a long break off the bike. Furthermore, here was actually a portion where the shoulder was closed and we were traveling in the right lane with the other "slow traffic." Needless to say, I was so thankful when I saw our exit (which was preceded by a "Cyclists Must Exit" sign). Off the exit, Carys and I decided to do a bit of exploring. We found a 7-11 where we had some version of a Delirium Gatorade.

After 7-11, we hopped back on our bikes, only to discover that I had one of those pesky slow leaks. Calculating that we were probably only about two miles from our host location, Carys suggested that instead of fighting to replace the tube, we should walk. So, I started walking my bike along another fairly busy road. After about a mile, Carys saw a shopping cart in the parking lot next to the road and immediately suggested that we try out the whole "side car" thing. When I refused, she jumped in herself. I put my bike on top of the cart and hopped on her bike, pulling -- until we met back up with the main road.

Today was our very last build day, and I was thrilled when I heard that the site had accommodated a group of 120 last week. After an organizational meeting, a few of us were put to work securing the STYROFOAM walls. Apparently, they put these big pieces of Styrofoam up and then pour concrete inside of it, providing both strength and insulation. Albeit perplexed, I was thrilled to have a job to do.

Now back at the YMCA, we have sort of taken over. There isn't much space for us so we have, like usual, draped ourselves over every available square inch of space. Right now, I am sitting in a dingy hall way off of the maintenance room where only minutes ago. Last night, people refused to sleep in the gym on account of rodents, one of which crawled in and out of Carys' shorts a few moments ago.

After today we have only six more ride days. Thank you all for all your support: letters, wall posts, emails... it is fun to know that there are actually people out there reading this.

the local park

Like I have said before, we usually sleep in churches, high schools, RV parks, campsites...

So, yesterday, as I rode into Battle Mountain, NV - I took notice of the fact that we passed up both a church and an RV park for a small shady green piece of land in the middle of town. Kids and families were playing on the swing sets and Bike and Builders were laying on their thermarests on the grass. I couldn't help but laugh. I am not even sure that we got permission to stay there; so all night I expected the cops or the mayor to come and kick us out.

As evening rolled around, we started looking around for places to go to the bathroom and brush our teeth. I asked one leader what we were supposed to do and she pointed me across the street: to a CASINO! Perplexed, I asked if we were supposed to simply waltz into the casino with our toiletries. Equally perplexed, she responded "of course."

Oh, I forgot to mention that we were actually less than 50 feet from train tracks. The train was scheduled to run every 45 minutes, all night. If you can imagine, at this point, I am already laughing at how absolutely ridiculous this host location is. As if the soccer practice wasn't enough, these local kids show up for some type of dance lesson in the park pavilion. Hispanic music blaring, casino lights glaring, trains rolling by and 31 of us, and our stuff draped all over the city park.

There isn't much to do in Battle Mountain, and we had dinner at 5, so when the sun started to set, we decided it was time to turn in. I have made my philosophy on sleeping outside pretty clear, and so I headed towards the tent I had set up earlier in the day. I have to say that we did an excellent job with the tent. It was taut, fly was perfect, everything staked down...beautiful. I couldn't help but smile to myself as I passed the rider who argues that it is always better to sleep under the stars. Additionally, after some debate, Carys and I put our bags into the van. I couldn't imagine it raining in a place this dry, but we had attracted a lot of attention in town, and I didn't know who would be hanging around the park after hours.

9:30 PM: all five of us were zipped into our tent, listening to the train screech by. I don't know how it happened, but eventually we all fell asleep.

4:07 AM: Sprinklers in the park go off. We awake to strings of expletives and squeals of laughter and the spray of water against our beautiful and secure tent. I couldn't help but laugh at the idea that the Israeli soldier was in the middle of the sprinkler bedlam.

We opened the window of the tent to see everyone running around gathering their sleeping bags, thermarests and loose items all while dodging the sprays of about 19 different sprinklers. Then, over all of the noise, bells sounded and the train came heaving and whistling right through the park.

I laughed myself to sleep, and laughed when I woke up in the morning, totally dry and at least partially rested. I also laughed when I talked with the soldier who adamantly (and ridiculously) demanded that sleeping outside was still far better than sleeping in a tent.

the bazaar

When we aren't staying in churches or high schools, we usually camp out somewhere. Wells, Nevada falls into that category. Wells is home to two RV parks, a Burger King and a brothel. Signs for McDonald's aren't labeled with miles, but with time. One read, "McDonald's, turn right in one hour." This is the middle of nowhere. And we arrived here after a long day of sweep. So long in fact, that I actually fell asleep on the side of the interstate

After the scorpion incident, I decided not to mess around and I pitched a tent right away. Several others decided to sleep on the grass. Please note, we weren't in the middle of the woods or anything, our camp site was bordered on two sides by parking lots, one by the main road, and one with another RV. Basically, we set up camp on the front lawn of the RV camp. It wasn't just us, and all of our bikes, and luggage, and food on the site, but it was also laundry day, which meant that we had 90 chamois shorts hanging dry on fences, trees, bushes and cars.

Dinner was especially tasty. Hose-water macaroni and cheese. It took all of two seconds to realize we were going to have to rummage through all of the bins in the trailer for some seasoning.

Then, perhaps the Bike and Build idea that I am most proud of: the Clif Bar Bazaar. As you might be able to tell, our diets aren't exactly ideal. So, in order to mix things up a little bit, we all brought our trade-able goods and started bartering. I made out like a bandit - I traded a Luna bar, a pack of gum, four beef sticks and six MoJo Fruit and Nut Bars for a candy bar, patch kit, someone else to wash my dinner dishes and, the big one, someone else to ride sweep (riding behind all the riders) the next day.

Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite

There are all types of people on this trip. Perhaps the most intriguing is this boy who spent his last three years in the Israeli Army. Nothing here is difficult for him. He claims he could bike 200 miles at once and eat six feet of Subway. He has never had a headache in his life and told me that "better" is not an opinion, it is a fact.

He called me over to his thermarest one morning and pointed out a SCORPION that was crawling around by his bed. Anyone else would have been screaming and running away. He had his hand about a foot away, snapping pictures of the little yellow beast's erect tail. Then I heard him say "I think the yellow ones are the most dangerous." Of course. Then he smashed it with a trash can.

Salty Flats

What is west of Salt Lake City? Nothing!

After the most awesome game of Coast ever (Coast is exactly what you imagine it to be) and hopping through Salt Lake City (including an intersection where 20 of us used the crosswalk) we were back onto I-80.

Coast is just one of the games we play on the road. Back in Kansas I passed the time with a clever play on 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. I did all the verses in the song "99 miles of cornfields to go, 99 miles of corn, light it on fire, watch it all burn, 98 miles of cornfields to go..." However, none of these compare to my favorite game: Pull. This is where I pedal up next to someone, usually Carys, and grab the underneath of her saddle, holding on for as long as I'm allowed.

About a week ago, the group stopped for coffee in a cafe in Colorado. Carys and I happened upon the black and white floor of what, I imagine, must have been some kind of restaurant. We threw down our bikes and played a quick game of checkers. As a reward for winning, Carys had to pull me behind her for an entire mile.

The games are important considering the terrain. It seems like the beginning of every ride has a sign that reads "No services for X miles," X being almost exactly the same as the day's projected mileage. This means that we pass nothing along the way. Yesterday's lunch stopped was pushed back a few miles so that we could have it in the town of Knolls. In case you ever consider visiting Knolls, let me tell you what is there: again, nothing. In fact, all Knolls had to offer was one bush to pee behind.

The lunch that day was equally barren. I had spaghetti with potato chips in it. Later that afternoon, we crossed the salt flats. If it hadn't been 95 degrees, I would have thought we were somewhere arctic. It is white as far as the eye can see. Towards the end, the flats turn into shallow lakes. Before the end of the day, we had slipped into the water to make salt angels.

Location: Starvation

Before I begin, I'd like to add the disclaimer that things are probably not really as bad as I am about to make them out to be. Despite the following, I am very content.

As we move west, things become farther and farther apart, churches as host locations become less frequent, and making dinner on our own becomes the norm. Goodbye pot-luck, hello pot-o-noodles. Every morning we receive a cue sheet that has both the route, projected mileage, and a little tiny picture of what the elevation will be like. One morning last week, I received the cue sheet, and felt good about the 75 mile ride. I did not feel good about the fact that we were going to be spending the night at a place called Starvation State Park. Starvation, though a beautiful campsite on the side of an enormous oasis-like-lake, represented the beginning of a long stretch of what I would call a slightly barren part of the country. That night we had burritos, but a leader (perhaps having never eaten a burrito) bought baked beans for the filler. The showers at this location weren't much better. Some other camper had actually used one of the showers as a toilet. Needless to say, Starvation was the first place I wore shoes in the shower.

The next morning, we set out for Park City. Despite the baked beans and the fecal matter, morale was high as we were headed directly for a day off in Park City. I have been to Park City before. They claim to be an Olympic City, but they seem more like the kid brother to Salt Lake City. Except for the mountains. I think we climbed straight up that day. I spent almost the whole day fantasizing about hitch-hiking. By the grace of God I arrived near the front of the group and (you may have to read this twice) got first choice of sleeping location. Thank you Park City Community Church Youth Group for your wonderful couches. Honestly, two nights on that couch felt like winning the lottery.

It was also at this location that we seriously evaluated our own food situation. Having run out of Gatorade mix, one of our leaders thought no one would notice if we just started having Kool-Aid. I, however, being on "Cooler Crew" noticed that we had stopped using any type of sport drink in an effort to save a buck.

That morning, I looked at the cue sheet that indicated an 80 mile ride. At first, today didn't look too bad: only 68 miles, an uphill but then a huge downhill and 30 miles of relative flatness. Then, when we looked closer we saw direction number five which read "right onto some road" and direction number six "left onto another road where some road has a T intersection." This is pretty much the cue sheets way of saying "you will not arrive in the host location tonight."

Sure enough, at mile ten, the entire group had stopped at the intersection of some road and another road, completely clueless as to the next move. So, we did what I think will become more and more of the norm, we hopped onto the nearest interstate! Now, there are positives and negatives to interstate travel. Negatives: six lane divided highways are scary, rumble strips and police cars monopolized the shoulder and most cars aren't anticipating 30 kids out for a morning highway ride. Positives: wow, we took a direct route! The interstate shaved off eight miles of our ride and eliminated one of our climbs, it was also a 5%-3% downhill grade for 10 miles where many riders hit their top speed for the trip. (My top speed remains 47.9 MPH, which was recorded in PA).**


**This entry does resemble the rider journal on the B&B website. Carys and I co-wrote that entry, so I felt OK about posting it here too.