BRO QUEST 2009

It's been nine days since we finished our trip, and I have been back in Oklahoma for three of those days. I'm not going to lie, I'm not really comfortable with being back. One would think that I would be relieved to not have to ride a bike, get rained on, camp, eat absurd collections of food, get sunburns and bug bites, perpetuate and worsen nerve damage in my hands/arms, etc, but on the contrary I find riding around in a car and trying to sort out the details of a "regular" life frustrating, scary and above-all, boring.

Some of this might be due to the depression and disorientation that occurs with a major disruption of one's surroundings and daily routine. But on the other hand, this is still part of a pattern of behavior that has been sprouting up since I was in my early teens, a behavior that leads to intense, almost obsessive commitment to some goal or set of goals, which usually results in the completion of the goals, in addition to physical, mental and emotional exhaustion, strained friendships and relationships, and (perversely) an ever-greater desire to push further, harder, to pursue ever more strenuous and esoteric objectives and adventures.

While riding on a particularly long day, I was overcome with a desire to do another Ironman triathlon. Training and preparation for the last Ironman lasted months and led, in part, to one of the most dangerous and prolonged illnesses I've ever had (remember pneumonia-fest '08, guys?) but during the 15 hours that I spent wrecking my body in various athletic disciplines, what can compare? All stresses, cares and even most of myself disappeared from my body and my brain, leaving me and the race itself, with the rest of reality distant and black, like the opposite side of a valley during a thunderstorm. Upon reflection, most of my thoughts and actions are geared towards producing the same effects, towards cleaving my perceptions from their normal reality, I guess it really is a case of being "high on life", and I am hopelessly ensnared in doing more of the same.

It might sound, at first blush, that I am some sort of adrenaline junkie. But that isn't the case--adrenaline can never supplant the feeling of having pushed one's body, one's brain to the absolute brink, to stare all-or-nothing situations in the face and to soldier on.

As Pat mentioned in an earlier post, an elderly gentleman told us that we were living the "real life" on our trip, and that when we finished it was "back to the nightmare". While it sounds overly poetic, it is true--after living homeless for two months, whipping around blind corners at 40mph, one's face turned into a grinning deathmask from wind and concentration, hiking through forests where there are no trails and riding a bicycle until one literally cannot form a complete sentence, who the hell wants to worry about paying a mortgage while sitting in a cubicle and waiting for time to pass?

I realize that one simply cannot live footloose forever, and I realize as well that working 9 to 5 and worrying along with millions of others about money and pollution and heart attacks or whatever helps define such adventures and places them in the appropriate context.

In my early teens I was an avid climber, and I idolized most the rugged mountaineers, who would run risks I could not brave in exchange for a reward that I could not comprehend. I understand now the devotion of those mountaineers, who will risk life and limb to climb frozen peaks in the worst condition, steadily losing fingers and toes over the course of their adventures until finally the icy wind snatches them and drags them into some howling void. And there is some chance that I will run the same risks as mountaineers, but very likely, I am going to continue to push farther, to forge ever ahead into uncharted experiential waters, and I would like to apologize in advance, because I understand that adventurers are often more defined by their absence rather than their presence, be it temporary or permanent, inadequately filled with photographs and incredibly long, masturbatory treatises such as this one. So to my family, I apologize for the empty spot at the dinner table, and to my friends, the empty spot on the front porch or the patio of some watering hole. And to Pearl, I apologize for the times that I wasn't there this summer and should have been, and for the empty spaces as yet unoccupied by me in the future.

This has gotten long, overwrought, and likely gives the (possibly accurate) impression that I am a selfish libertine concerned only with some overly-intellectualized strenuous form of hedonism. But nonetheless, I'd like to invite you to join me on whatever I do next: any and all are welcome to accompany me wherever I happen to go next, and I would love an invitation to whatever you are embarking upon, be it big or small. You know where to find me.

--S

So I am writing this days later, (we've finished the trip) but for the next few stories/blog posts we are going to pretend like we haven't yet finished. TEMPORAL SHENANIGANS.

If I were to make a list off the top of my head of the coolest ways to shuffle off this mortal coil, it would probably look like this:

• Spontaneous combustion
• Spontaneous combustion, while on a motorcycle
• Boat jumping accident (I am in the boat and the boat is jumping something)
• Boat jumping accident (I am jumping over a boat)
• Getting crushed under a 15 foot tall wave of molasses
• Colliding with bear on bicycle, being decapitated by said bear

There might be a few more, but this is just the result of a few minutes' thought. Anyway, on the Vermont/New Hampshire border I was riding about 20mph to catch up with Pat (I had stopped to take a phone call) and I saw a big furry head push out through the brush on the side of the road. My train of thought went something like this:

"That's a really big dog"
"Wait, that isn't a dog--"
BEAR CRISIS!

By the time the bear got all the way out on the road (and by the time I successfully identified the creature as a bear), I was only about 25 feet from the guy (or gal). I yelled "HEY!" really loud, hoping to scare it. The bear growled/roared at me and took off across the road, giving a disturbing display of the ursine capacity for speed (they can sprint at upwards of 35 mph).

Very luckily for me, the bear got spooked. If the bear had stood its ground or simply not moved fast enough, I would have slammed into the side of a black bear that was about the same height and weight as myself. While defeating a bear in single combat with a pocket knife and bicycle pump and then taking its fur, claws and teeth as trophies would have been both admirable and impressive, very likely I would have squealed like a little girl as the bear mauled me and then ate me.

This was probably the weirdest experience for me on the trip and also the most dangerous bicycle experience I've had, including the three times I got hit by cars. Just thought I would share the experience with you guys.

At 6:15 on Friday, Stuart and I finished up Broquest by riding into Portland. We put in 4011 miles in 59 days. It was a proud moment for us, and we drank champagne (or facsimile thereof) and called our families at the edge of the Atlantic.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!
Our last day was a fitting end to the trip. We camped behind a supermarket in Alton the night before and wanted to make an early start on the day. We were up and on the road at 7:30, and we had great weather riding into Wolfeboro for breakfast. We changed into our riding clothes and got back on the road thinking we would have a relaxed 60 miles into the finish. We were mistaken. New Hampshire doesn't like to put signs up designating state highways, so we ended up making a loop around Mirror Lake before we realized we needed to change course. About that time, the heavens opened up, and dumped rain on us for 8 hours straight. We corrected our course and were able to make it to the New Hampshire-Maine border by 2. We ate lunch and tried to dry out in Limerick to no success.

Pouring some out in the ocean for our dead homies
The terrain was beautiful - a lot of rolling hills through gorgeous forests. Had it not been raining so much, we probably would have enjoyed it a bit more. As we reached 4000 miles, Stuart pulled over to take a picture of his odometer at the bottom of a hill. I could only see 20 feet ahead of me with the rain. I looked up to see him stopped suddenly and hit both of my brakes. The rain had slicked everything down, so I could not stop in time. With 10 miles left in the trip, Broquest had its first and only bike on bike crash. We both had a quick laugh at the situation then pushed on the the finish line.

We've been having fun in Portland so far - you may have guessed that by the delay in putting up an actual posting since we've been here. It's a really weird feeling to be done and wake up in the morning not knowing what to do with ourselves. I woke up yesterday feeling ready to bike 90 miles, but not knowing where to go. Schedules are starting to tighten. Deadlines are on the horizon. My job hunt is becoming more and more imminent. Our lives as vagrant bicyclists are coming to an end (temporarily). Both Stuart and I are looking forward to coming back to Oklahoma to see family and friends for a few days. It has been an amazing journey, and we have been very privileged to share it with you. Thank you for all of your support, best wishes, thoughts, prayers, love, and patience. More to come!

Putting 3700 miles on a bike definitely does weird things to you. Both Stuart and I named our bikes before our trips, and they've grown into their personalities. I've definitely bonded with Mr. Belvedere, and I have put my life in his hands every day of this trip. I know how he handles, know his quirks, and I've grown attached to him. I plan on keeping him in good condition and getting a lot more use out of him after Broquest.

Constant need of repair

When I started the tour, my bike was practically brand new. I had put maybe 200 miles on him, and my leather saddle was as hard as a rock. I had never biked more than 45 miles at once and was unsure of how I would last on Broquest. After 2 weeks of riding, I was fully comfortable with biking extended distances and grew into the role of 'touring cyclist.' After a while, my sunburns became tan, my saddle broke in, my panniers became scratched up and dirty, my thighs and calves became huge, and I adapted. One of the subtlest complements from other tourers is when they touch our saddles to see how they have softened (kind of gross). It's a badge of honor.

Mr. Belvedere at the beginning of the tour

Now at the end of the trip, Mr. Belvedere has become cantankerous, and it seems like our bike problems are a reflection of the end of the journey. I know that it's normal wear and tear - most bikes never see that much mileage in their lifetimes, let alone in under 2 months. In the last week or so, I've started to have a slew of problems with him. I wore out my rear tire due to my brakes being engaged. I had 2 puncture flats from random debris on the road. I've been battling with my rear racks and panniers after they decided to dig into my rear wheel. I've had constant issues from my brakes overengaging and disengaging due to weather. It's been incredibly
frustrating that neither us nor seasoned bike mechanics can fix them outright.

Adjusting Mr. Belvedere next to some bikers

At the same time, it's something we realize is almost entirely out of our control. It's part and parcel of the journey. It's just circumstance that everything seems to be failing at the same time. Stuart and I have had an incredible time together, and we've grown attached to this lifestyle, meeting new people, and experiencing America from the freedom of our bike saddles.

On our way into Guelph, ON, Stuart and I ate lunch outside of a grocery store. We met a guy who lived in an off-the-grid collective and did a lot of eco-friendly projects. He was excited about what we were doing and happy for our experiences. He asked about what we planned on doing after our tour. I said something along the lines of getting back to reality, finding a job, and starting a career once I finished Broquest. He told us, "this is reality, you're returning to the nightmare."

Feral kittens offer us hope

Apparently this is the rainiest/coldest summer that New York has ever had. In Western New York the temperatures weren't bad, sixties-seventies and maybe slightly chilly at night. The rain, on the other hand, came down in sheets and repeatedly soaked us every day in New York (so far). We started out from Niagara Falls headed toward Rochester, loosely following the Erie Canal Historic Passage. Turns out there is a bike/horse/pedestrian pass that runs the entire length of the canal, but it didn't really go where we wanted to go, so we had to satisfy ourselves by jealously taking pictures of the wide, beautiful and traffic-free path whenever we crossed it.

Erie Canal and accompanying multi-use path

About ten miles out from Niagara, we ran into a family of Californians that were headed from Maine to Seattle. The father and older son were both riding Surly tourers with trailers, and the mom and younger son were pushing a co-motion tandem with saddlebags AND a small min-pin in a doggie carrier located on top of their rear rack. Apparently the dog would stick his head out of the front of the carrier and rest it on the back of the bike saddle. Happy trails, Californians.

In Rochester we got to stay with the family of Nick Galusha, my former roommate and OKC's friendliest TV mogul. Nick's family were totally AWESOME, thanks a million for the pasta dinner and the breakfast.

We decided to ride across Northern Rochester to avoid traffic and also to see Oklahoma Beach, which is apparently located on Lake Ontario. All went well and good until we got to the bridge crossing at Irondequoit Bay, which was apparently closed during the summer months so that the bay could function as a marina. We were seriously only 30 feet from the other side of the Bay with no way to get across. Given that they Bay is long and narrow, we'd have to ride all the way around the sucker and then back up the other side in order to get to Oklahoma Beach.

Faced with a possible 20 mile detour involving lots of traffic and some rough roads, we hitched a ride on a motorboat:

Crossing a 30 foot water gap
It took us three tries to find a boat willing to ferry us and our stuff across, we tried to pay the captain but he refused to take any money for his services. A really generous guy and an extremely positive experience.

Detour? Don't think so!

Oklahoma Beach wasn't actually that great, just a strip of private land dotted with houses that faced Lake Ontario. We were hoping for at least a place to buy beers/hamburgers/tacky Oklahoma souvenirs.

You ain't seen the south until you've seen that red durt

Riding out of Rochester and into Auburn was fun, though we got in late due to a nasty two-hour thunderstorm. The state highways and old US highways in New York have absolutely gorgeous shoulders, wide, freshly-paved and free of rumble strips. We took US 20 (the Cherry Valley Turnpike) east from Auburn, stopping almost immediately to go to an antique boat show, which also had antique cars. And one of the original "fab five" from "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy", who stared at me for a while before speeding off on a boat. Bizzarro-world.

Boat and matching car

We stuck around too long looking at expensive hobbies for white guys in the Northeast, but we did learn some sweet terminology, such as "Lapstrake", which is apparently a form of boat construction in which the boards overlap on the hull, rather than being smooth-sided. BOAT SCHOOL: IN SESSION.

BOAT SHOW, FOOLS

There were some kickass rocket boats too, but we didn't get to see any sweet jumps or like boat explosions or anything, mostly just rich people and expensive toys. We did eat some really good fish and chips, though. I think the town is called Skaneateles?

Boat maxes out at warp 6.7

So it turns out the Finger Lakes region and the Cherry Valley Turnpike contain some really steep hills, probably steeper (though not longer) than anything we've experienced on this trip. The countryside was beautiful and we weren't exactly getting worn out from the hills, but climbing them certainly took a lot of time and as a result we only made 50 miles before it got dark.

About 1/3 of way up a STEEP-assed hill

On the plus side, we did get some really good downhills in, routinely hitting 40-45 mph. On one hill we ended up almost hitting 50mph. In fact, we probably would've, but I had to tap my brakes to avoid rear-ending a motorcyclist who was wandering all over the road. Yes, I almost hit a motorcycle from behind and at high speed on a bicycle.

Anyway, I noticed that my front tire was wearing out, so I had to quit taking downhills at full speed because a front tire blowout at speed is a pretty good way to need skin grafts, blood transfusions and fake teeth.

That diagonal line on the opposite hillside is where we hit our current speed record, 49.29mph

We knocked out a hard day exiting the Cherry Valley and ended up only 25 miles from Saratoga Springs, so we decided to ride in just our regular shorts and no shirts. Which worked great, until it started raining, and then we didn't have dry clothes to wear. Whoops! Luckily we were in town by 11:30 in the morning and just sat around all day.

Doing it up hesher style in Eastern NY

Anyway, I have another flat (that makes seven for the trip). Actually, the distribution of flats has been very odd--a thousand miles and then one flat, two thousand miles with no problems, and then 6 flats over the next 700 miles. I think it's mostly due to worn-out tires. Both us and our bikes are getting a little worn out, but we've only got another 250 miles or so until Portland, Maine. Thank you so much for sharing this journey with us, you should hear from me again in Vermont or maybe New Hampshire.

Stuart and I just got in to Saratoga Springs, which means it's our last day in New York. We have 3 more days of riding till Portland! We're both pretty exhausted and promise full updates later this afternoon, but I just wanted to share this gem with you.

Yesterday we saw a lady wearing transition sunglasses. Riding in a miniature carriage. Attached to a Shetland pony. With her son. Who was wearing an oversized baseball helmet. The Shetland pony went crazy while crossing a bridge, and backed them into the sides of the bridge MULTIPLE TIMES.

Is it wrong to laugh? I hope not.

After having biked almost 3500 miles, I can tell you that bicycle touring changes you, both physically and mentally. Our legs, of course, are grotesque, as expected:

YIKES!
In addition to our legs, though, we've got bruises and callouses on the palms of our hands (from the handlebars), repetitive-stress induced nerve and soft tissue damage to our shoulders, elbows and wrists, and our hands and feet routinely go numb at night due to exceedingly low blood pressure. We can each consume a large pizza in one sitting and then happily eat another meal, we don't bleed very much when injured (Pat first noticed this, it's really really weird) and we have so little body fat that we've taken to wearing jackets when the temperature drops into the high sixties.

All this, of course, is nothing compared to the mental changes that have occurred--mileage is not a concrete measurement but rather part of a larger, more complex "distance we can cover" value that involves road conditions, weather, wind, number of stops etc. On pretty much any day where we are only covering 70 miles we don't even consider it real riding--we'll get up late, take a long time at breakfast and lunch, etc. The effects of essentially being left to your own devices for 6-10 hours of physical effort does strange things to the psyche, too--you start muttering to yourself, create long lists, disappear into your own head, look towards the future, the past, to people you've met and to books you've half-finished. You become a master of keeping yourself amused.

AMUSEMENT

When talking to strangers, you end up taking turns answering the same questions. "We started in Portland, Oregon. It's been almost two months. I don't know why we're doing this, maybe we're crazy? You unconsciously check nutritional labels on everything prior to purchasing it. When you meet other touring cyclists the questions boil down to just three:

• Where from and where to?
• How many miles a day?
• What do you think about <x> gear?

Your coping skills also improve: hills, rain, wind, traffic--they can't be avoided, so you just ride. Outside of Hamilton we hit a patch of road construction during a rainstorm. The traffic was truly awful and the road had a seven percent grade, meaning you had to balance riding your brakes enough to keep from hitting 50mph and not accidentally locking your wheels and sliding under somebody's two tons of transportation. There's a sort of fatalistic grim humor to almost getting hit by a car or running out of water ten miles outside of the next town.

Given that we can't carry everything with us, breakdowns get handled in interesting manners. For example, we repaired Pat's bike the other day with a broken phone and a piece of pipe that we found on the side of the road, a hack that was inspired by the piece of aluminum pipe that we zip-tied to his rear rack to fix the problem on the other side of his bike.

I'm not sure how transition into non-touring life is going to go, but I know that this trip has made me more patient, more resourceful, and more willing to go without showers for days on end. Might have to watch out for that one.

We're trying to make it to Auburn for the evening, we've got more photos and such when we get there.

The Bros are back in town! And country. And we love America a little bit more for all its great glory. Canada was fun but much more expensive than we anticipated.

Yesterday Stuart and I were yearning to cross back into the states. And it felt like Canada held all of its worst punches for our last day. We fell asleep some time around 4 on Monday night and didn't get up until noon. We weren't feeling our best, to say the least and started riding around 2pm out of Guelph. At about 2:15, it started raining heavily and didn't stop until close to 6. Highway 6 into Hamilton was horrible - no shoulder and heavy traffic. Many motorists weren't too happy to see us. About 3 miles outside of Hamilton, Highway 6 turns into a nasty construction zone. Then the construction zone funneled us onto the 406 - Canada's version of the interstate. At this point it was still raining, and I was not feeling it.

Hamilton itself is about 550,000 people, and it looked like it had suffered a similar economic collapse to the Rust Belt. We were able to pull off onto a better highway and eat some food before pushing on. The ride out of Hamilton was gorgeous. The tip of the peninsula is full of rolling hills, wineries, and beautiful townships. Wayne Gretzky even has his own winery. We rode into St. Catherine's around 9pm and thought we still had enough light to make it into the states before it got pitch black. Canada had a few more surprises for us.

Stuart and I had problems with our loads after the rain. I noticed my panniers were digging into my spokes occasionally, and Stuart had to repack his load. Still, every 5 or 10 miles, something would fly unexpectedly out of our packs, and we'd be forced to go back and pick it up. One one of the bridges out of town, I got a puncture flat which further delayed us another half hour while getting eaten alive by bugs. Stuart and I rechecked the map, talked to some gas station attendants who gave us "advice" on where to cross the border.

We followed their directions and all of the signs. After a while, we started biking onto a highway with no lighting. It turned out to be another interstate. About 2 minutes in, cops pulled up behind us shining their lights. They said we were incredibly stupid and riding on the highway was an arrestable offense. They told us how to get to the pedestrian bridge and likely saved our lives. It was a frustrating event at the end of a long day, but I'm glad we were able to make it safely back into the states.

To celebrate, we stayed at a hotel for the first time in our trip, ate disgusting amounts of food at Denny's, drank High Life, and showered. Continuing our love of America, we slept in late, ate Chinese buffet for lunch, and checked out the Falls.

A few observations about Canada:

• Canadian laws prohibit beer from being sold in convenience stores, grocery stores, or gas stations. Beer must be bought at beer stores. Before 6pm. As touring cyclists, we don't finish riding until 8 or 9pm, meaning we can't enjoy cold beer at the end of the day unless we buy overpriced beer at bars. Beer cans, however, are immediately refundable for 5-10 Canadian cents!
• The population of college aged women is alarmingly attractive. Stuart and I were more than puzzled by this. They were everywhere - gas stations, customs offices, restaurants, construction zones. It felt like we were riding through a beer commercial.
• There is a disproportionate amount of yellow and orange GM sportscars and trucks on the road. We think this has something to do with US consumers not wanting to buy hideously colored cars. Being the nerd that I am, I want to check out the tariff laws to see if this counts as export dumping.
• Canadian bike tourists are impressed when we tell them that we bike 80 to 100 miles a day. They're blown away when we convert that to kilometers

Alright everyone, time to sing along to a song that is very near and dear to our hearts - the Edmund Fitzgerald. (Instructions: hit play below. Try to follow along with Gordon).

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy.

With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early

The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconson
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
With a crew and the Captain well seasoned.

Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling.

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,
T'was the witch of November come stealing.

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashing
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
In the face of a hurricane West Wind

When supper time came the old cook came on deck
Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya
At 7PM a main hatchway caved in
He said fellas it's been good to know ya.

The Captain wired in he had water coming in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the words turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd fifteen more miles behind her.

They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the ruins of her ice water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.

And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early.

Greetings from America's Hat!

We crossed through Sault Ste Marie, MI into Sault Ste Marie, Ontario a few days ago (three? four?). The Canadian version of Sault Ste Marie is about 6 times the size of the American version, and also has all the jobs because of the Algoma Steel Mill, which "smells like a butt" according to Pat.

The north side of Lake Huron is pretty much untamed wilderness with the occasional tiny-ass town plunked down off of the highway. Highway 17, by the way, is narrow, has no shoulder, and is host to a significant amount of truck traffic. I almost got my ticket punched by a cattle truck.

Anyway, Northern Ontario is extremely expensive due to nobody lives there, transport costs, marginal expense, etc. One thing that Canada does have is poutine:

Pat kind of got his manhood insulted and had to order a "medium" plate of fries covered in gravy, bacon and cheese, which he couldn't finish. Here I am with my sweet fake money and reasonably sized portion:

After two days of rain, mosquitoes, hills and gorgeous landscape, we rode through the La Cloche foothills and onto Manitoulin island, which is basically a bicycle obstacle course when the wind is blowing out of the west--the highway curves around the east side of the island, rolling along straight, flat west-east stretches and then turning north-south to cross rolling hills. Essentially, every time you weren't in a head wind you were uphill. It really wasn't bad. We made it to the Chi-Cheemaun Ferry (literally "big canoe") with about 10 minutes to spare, and they let us load with the motorcycles, in front of all the cars. Here's pat pretending to be a real biker:

Anyway, the ferry ride was like an hour and a half and the food was that awesome combination of expensive and not very good. But it was covered in gravy and was high calorie, so hey!

Southern Ontario is mostly farm land and protected forests, with really awesome rolling hills. Also we found a place with all you can eat fish and chips and a live musician who refused to play "Tom Sawyer" or "The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald", which were really all we wanted to hear.

At the end of the day yesterday I managed to wear out a trailer tire en-tire-ly (hahahaha), which meant I had to use the spare I had been carrying since North Dakota. Also, Pat and I both noticed that our rear tires were pretty much worn out, so we're working on that, too. Also I look homeless now?

We're currently in Owen Sound, which is like Guthrie, OK, except with a much bigger downtown. And a huge, really nice park that lets you camp there and also take showers. Back in the USA in two days (we think). Going to leave you with an inexplicably angry puppy (from Tobemory, Ontario):