Sunday afternoon.  Haven't been on my bike for three days now.
But I've noticed something this morning.  I feel so much more calm and patient.  I had a tent pole break in a wind gust yesterday.  Just a short pole holding the rain canopy up.  Someone else saw it and was concerned.  My reaction?  "Whatever."
It's not that I liked it broken, it's just that it didn't frustrate me at all.
A number of bike or tent issues happened also.  That's ok.
Each time I had to redirect my attention to something else.
I think part of this is because I can't ask anyone else to fix my concerns.  It's humbling and invigorating to be 100% responsible to solve your own problems.
But God plays a role in this too.  He works best in our adversity.
I am so thankful that God takes circumstances and uses them to develop our character.  He uses hardship and challenge to make us stronger, even if He doesn't lessen the hardship.
He uses all things to work together for our good.

Plans are meant to be changed.  Right now I'm on a bus heading to Payson, Arizona.  The heat just got too dangerous.  It was 102 at 10am this morning in Quartzsite.  About ten degrees hotter than yesterday.  So, we improvise.  We're bypassing the desert and suspending the next three days of riding.
A couple of observations about the heat.
First, I have a whole new appreciation for the verse concerning spitting out lukewarm water.  Even when terribly thirsty, warm water doesn't help.  You get a mouthful and feel like dumping out the bottle.  The incredible support crew picked up ice.  Cold water on your head or down your back cool you significantly.  And cold water just makes want to drink more.
Second, the mood in the camp was noticeably more relaxed today.  The heat put us under pressure.  Every decision was dominated by heat concerns.  I have to get to sleep early.  I have to get up early and pack up quickly.  (And you misplace things very quickly that way.). I have to get on the road early.  I have to get to our destination before it gets too hot.  We all felt under pressure.
Gratefully, that anxiety is gone.  It will be nice to ride again with less pressure.

Yesterday:
 God showed up in a cool way.  I had a deep sidewall flat early in the morning.  I knew I could've riden on it all day, so I mentioned that I had to find a bike shop.  A stranger pumping gas overheard me and said, "Hey, I know the guy-let me give him a call."  We arranged to meet at the shop, but when I got there it was all locked up, since the shop didn't open until 10' and it was just after 8.  I knocked, and the guy inside opened the door. "Good thing you caught me, I'm normally not here this early."
He got me fixed up, and as I headed back on the course, there was a sign that said, "Do not trust in yourself.  Trust in God."

Today:
This comes from the Mohave Desert.
Impressions?
Hot.  Very hot.
There's the frequent smell of mesquite.  Beautiful rock formations.  Lonely and quiet roads.  We went a good twenty miles without seeing a house, store, fence or any sign of people, other than the road (and litter).
I was surprised at how easy it was to feel isolated.  When I'd look back and see no one and see no one in front, you feel like the only one out there.  And that's a bit discouraging.  Maybe that's why Moses and Elijah felt solitary discouragement as well.
But God is good.  There has always been someone to arrive in the moment of my feeling alone.  And each one was an answer to a spoken or unspoken prayer.

Keep us in your prayers.
Three more days in the desert.
(At least we aren't here for forty years.)

It's funny how we people find meaning in our ceremonies.  When we commemorate an event - like a wedding or a baptism - the ceremony itself has emotional meaning.
We had a cycling ceremony today.  We symbolized the beginning of the journey by walking into the surf of the Pacific Ocean and touching our back tires to the water.  It's a small ceremony to represent the beginning and leaving the west behind.  The ceremony will only be complete when the front tire touches the water of the Atlantic.
Tomorrow, off for Redlands.  I don't know when I'll be able to blog again, but for now, we're off.

Ok, it all became very real today.  We dropped off the bike and gear.  The magnitude is starting to settle in.  We're going to ride.  Bicycles.  Across the entire continent.  Almost 3,900 miles.
I can't do that.  It's too much, too far, too long.
But I think this gives me a different perspective:  39 miles.
I can do 39 miles.  That's not bad at all.  That's a normal ride.
39 miles is 1% of our ride.  Every time we do another 39 miles, we're 1% of the way closer.
3,900 miles?  That's too big.
39 miles?  I can do that.
So, I don't have to do it all;  I just have to do it 1% at a time.
Sounds like a good life metaphor.

It rained this morning.  I rode anyway.
There's now an obvious layer of grime on me and my previously clean bike.
(Oh, I was clean before, too.)
But the damp roads and misty air made me realize how much more I'm aware of my senses when I'm out riding.
I see more.  I see the inches-high corn plants nudging up from the soil.  I see birds, small rodents, even a coyote that had all been hit by cars.  I see places where the water had pooled on the road and the telltale slick spots of repaired tar.  I don't notice those nearly as much when I'm driving.
I hear more.  I hear the vehicles behind me.  I can always tell when a car or truck is going to pass too close for comfort.  I hear the cluck of blackbirds and the occasional starling hovering over me when I've invaded their turf.  I can hear if my bike's drivetrain is smooth or slightly off.  The sounds are rich on a bike.
So are the smells.  This morning it was damp, muggy air.  And recently "fertilized" fields.  And you can tell if the farm has cows or chickens or turkeys.
Even touch is more acute.  I felt the unevenness of the road and the spatter of rain.  The handlebar's shape is familiar and, after many miles, just feels right.   Each pedal stroke reminds me of the contact between feet, rear end, hands, and bicycle.
For some reason, taste is also a large part of the ride.  Whether the sweetness of Gatorade, or the dry much of a Clif bar, or the satisfying after-ride meal, I notice tastes much more while riding.  Foods I don't normally like just taste better.  Not to mention the natural protein of the stray bug...
Today, I'm simply grateful to God for the way he allows us to experience his world.

So, it's mid-March, 30 degrees, and snowing.
It feels like it has been a really looooong winter.

Consequently, all my training miles this year (so far) have been indoors.  Yep, indoors.
People have asked me if I'm training, and I say that I've ridden almost 850 miles since January 1, but I haven't actually moved one inch.
It feels like it's been a long winter.

But training is necessary - not just for the legs, but for the heart, the neck, the new leather saddle on the bike.  I won't get very far if I don't have some hours on the trainer.

But time on the trainer (going no where) is no substitute for the real thing.  There is nothing like actually cresting a big hill.  There is nothing like the exhileration of going down the other side.  There is nothing like pulling back into the driveway after 40 miles -or leaving the driveway before 10, 20, or 40 miles.

It makes me wonder about the journey of following Christ.  At first I wondered if we actually train.  Do we do the prayer, Scripture, repentance, character-building in the Spirit that truly equips us for the walk?  But thinking about it some more, I wondered if there isn't another possible flaw.  Do we spend too much time training -so that we actually never get on the road?  So, like my trainer (800 miles without moving an inch), do we train hundreds of miles in church services, Bible studies, and small groups, without actually doing anything?

Training is a great simulation, but it is not the real thing.
Let's all put on some good spiritual miles!