The Middle: July 8-July 17

Finally, I was going to put all of my planning and expectations on the line. This was the week I had been waiting for. My first Amtrak USA Rail Pass was purchased and my bag was packed.

 

I finished cleaning my room and left a little note for the subletter, Kate. We had met a couple of times so I could show her the room and discuss the conditions of the sublease. Although our meetings were strictly business, there was something about Kate that intrigued me. In the brief note I told her that I hoped to see her when I returned, in September.

 

I hopped on my bicycle and headed towards downtown Portland. I made a stop at the hardware to get a wrench. I would carry the tool with me and use it to take my pedals on and off every time I had to put the Jamis in a box, essentially every time I boarded a train. It was a beautiful, warm sunny day and I hoped that it would be this way for the whole trip. I wasn’t sure yet what I was really getting myself into, but at that point it seemed like it wouldn’t rain the entire time. Little did I know that later on I’d see three straight weeks of precipitation, a hurricane, a tropical storm, an earthquake, and wouldn’t even have my bike with me by the midway point.

 

People:

Kate and I at the starting line

Kate E. - There's a good chance this trip wouldn't be possible if it wasn't for Kate. She is the supercool San Franciscan subletting my space, saving me substantial summertime stress. She's an avid reader and aspiring writer; and because of these things I'm hoping she enjoys alliteration.

A fun thing happened at the crossroads of our summers: we crossed each other's road. Here's a picture of Kate and I at Portland's Union Station. She was getting off. I was getting on.

Have a fun summer in North Portland, Kate, and enjoy the comforts of the gold chair.

Train:

July 8-9: Coast Starlight -- Portland to L.A. (31 hours, 1190 miles, O stadiums)

Between Portland and Eugene I was looking out the window and saw a field of tall grass run up against an evergreen forest.  Hedging the field and woods was a dirt road with some well-worn tracks. "Who goes down that road?" I asked a lot of questions like that as I click-clack, click-clack, click-clacked my way down the Pacific coast.

South of Eugene we roamed up 4800 feet to a pass in the Cascade Mountains. It was during this stretch that the conductor chimed in, "Two years ago... right here... landslide took out the whole side…if the train was running on time that would've been gone too." But it was exciting to look out the window in July and see snow. It's been awhile since I've done that. This section from Eugene to Klamath Falls was gorgeous/stunning/breathtaking (take your pick). If I were a better writer I might take a shot at a description. 

Night fell and the hours stretched themselves like upside-down yawns from upside-down animals in upside-down trees.  

Sacramento at dawn and I said goodbye to my friend Forrest, who I had just met in Portland. I slept intermittently, wondering when the time would come that I'd be refreshed enough to be curious again. The intriguing backdoors of Oregon had given way to the "who gives a shit" cul-de-sacs of California. Gone were the romantically shaded orchards of apples, peaches, and cherries; replaced by laboriously rowed acres of strawberries and lettuces with their hunchbacked harvesters. I slept. I read. I slept. I slept. I had sardines and triscuits for breakfast. I slept. I brushed my teeth.

I must have slept enough because I became revitalized and my curiosity returned. It came back just in time for us to enter Steinbeck country - although, I'll add that I am regarding the two facts as coincidence like I regard most television programming as harmless. Watsonville (setting for East of Eden) and Salinas approached and rolled slowly past. But as hard as I tried I could not picture myself in the Pastures of Heaven. I could only imagine better what it was like, and in doing so, remembered why I loved John Steinbeck: because he is better than real.

Steinbeck Country

The coastline from San Luis Obispo to Los Angeles was a fitting ending. It was like a reward for finishing such a long journey. I was happy staring out the window at the surfers and the beaches and I was content calling my mom to tell her what I was looking at. This section rivaled the southern Cascades in its beauty. But it was softer, mellower, more relaxed. Or that might have just been me.

People:

Forrest P. - I liked Forrest from the start. Full of jokes, energy, and the analogies of a lifelong boy scout; he was the first person I met after boarding my first train. He sat down next to me and we started a conversation where I discovered he was headed to CA to see his family and a Giants' game. I also learned that at 22 he has already spent time in Europe, Mexico, and biked down the Pacific Coast from Vancouver, BC to Mendocino County CA. Now he lives in Olympia, WA with his girlfriend Ariana. Forrest told me a great story about how they met.

Forrest's friend Ed was moving to Washington and he decided to help his buddy move while also taking a good old-fashioned road trip. On their first day in Olympia Forrest met Ariana at a potluck type dinner. The thing is that neither of them were supposed to be there. Ariana had plans to go to another dinner, but was talked into changing her mind by a friend. Forrest was arriving in Olympia eight days behind schedule due to a problem with his '87 Volkswagen Fox. Needless to say they were smitten immediately, spending the rest of Forrest's eight day vacation together.  Three months later he was living in Olympia.

I caught him on his way back down to California to see his family, including his identical triplet sisters. His brother was on leave from Afghanistan where he is a medicine man with the Navy/Marines and Forrest was excited to see him. We both hoped that all of those guys get to come home for good soon.

During the 16 hours we spent on the train together we had many conversations that often included one of Forrest's signature analogies or jokes. Here's one: A guy and a dog walk into a bar. The bartender says, "Hey man, you can't have that dog in here." The patron says, "Well, he's a talking dog. What if I get him to say something? Can we stay?" "I guess." So the guy says to his dog, "What's on top of a house?" "Roof." The bartender begrudgingly slides the man a beer and says, "One beer and that's it." The man finishes his beer and asks, "What if I get him to say another word?" "Okay." So the patron turns to his dog and asks him, "How does sandpaper feel?" "Rough." Now clearly irritated, the bartender gives the man his second beer and says, "Finish and please leave." Remonstrating one last time the dog owner faces the bartender, "C'mon, just one more. It's hot outside. Do you like baseball? You've got to let me stay if my dog talks some baseball, yeah?" "That dog ain't talking no baseball." "Yes he can. Watch." He turns to the dog and asks, "Who's the greatest baseball player of all time?" Sure enough, the dog responds with, "Ruth." At this point the bartender forces the two out and tells them never to come back. Standing in the street the dog quizzically turns to his owner and asks him, "DiMaggio?"

Post:

Olvera Street

For 45 minutes I watched a traditional Aztec dance group in a public square just off of Olvera Street. I asked, through a translator, one of the performers about the dance and what it meant to him. He replied that they were celebrating the creator (the sun) and showing appreciation for the world he has given them as a home. The dancers continue their traditions in an attempt to both keep their history alive as well as share some of their culture with the community.

I spent the rest of the day on Olvera Street wandering, watching, and waiting for my next train. On the site where Los Angeles was founded I saw:

Beautiful young Hispanic women in Nirvana tank tops holding hands with boys in Dodger caps.

Lovely, older Mexican women wearing long velvet skirts with turquoise eyes standing four in a circle around a huge stone, kneading and pressing a large mound of dough into soft, white tortillas.

Young children held captive in the arms of a parent. Then, at last wiggling free and bolting, unrestrained, to their new friend selling ice cream.

A stunning young lady, helpless and confused, breaking into tears while standing in line for a taco; seeking an explanation from a knowledgeable friend. I could only wonder what uncompromising, apathetic, egotistic young punk could do such a thing. It's always that way in the eyes of a detached male. The other guys are all punks.

Austere ladies clutching open umbrellas, as colorful as their dresses, to block the midday sun.

Pale white tourists in floppy sunhats, draped with large-lensed digital cameras holding Fodor's U.S.A. books with their non-pointing hands.

A twenty-something redhead in pigtails and a bicycle helmet hustling across the bricks in search of who knows what.

Hardly any smokers. After 3 hours I saw my first two. Then, later I recognized another couple. It was the same two, they had just made a smoking lap.

A brother and sister fighting over control of the video camera. Sister won. They always do.

People:

  

Richard - What a guy! I met him at sundown on the Southwest Chief. We left from L.A. at 6pm and hung out until midnight just bullshitting and having a good time. This man has chased the sun a few times in his day and I loved hearing his stories. For 5 straight summers in the early 70's Richard hitchhiked from L.A. to New York and back. Then he took a job as a grip on sets of many movies and tv programs (Cheers, Friends, even a year at Seinfeld).  After 21 years in the union Richard had enough (and when I say had enough, this man really had enough) of L.A. and moved to Lake Havasu, AZ.

I met him on his way back home from a golf tournament with his old buddies (he grew up in L.A.). It turns out one of those old buddies is Larry Yount who is the older brother of Hall Of Famer Robin Yount.  Richard told me about being friends with those guys and how he went to Cooperstown in 1999 for Robin's H.O.F. induction.

Naturally I told him about my trip and we talked a lot of baseball. One of  the more interesting topics we covered was Larry Yount's career in the majors. Evidently Larry was a pretty good pitcher and one day made his way to the majors for what is surely the quickest cup of coffee anybody's ever had. Poor Larry didn't even have time to stir in the cream because he injured himself warming up on the mound before ever taking on his first major league batter. So he was inserted into the game (and into the record books) and immediately taken out without throwing a pitch. Larry never made it back to the show. 

Check it out: http://www.baseball-reference.com/players/y/yountla01.shtml

Train:

July 10-11: Southwest Chief -- L.A. to Flagstaff, AZ (10 hours, 566 miles)

I glided onto the Southwest Chief with a couple beers in muh belly. My wonderful day on Olvera Street had left my in a light and gregarious mood. I made a friend immediately. Richard and I purchased a couple of Sierra Mists and split a small bottle of Seagram's 7. So would that be a 7 and Sierra or a Sierra and 7? Does it depend on how much booze you add to the drink? "I don't know about you Steve, but I never drink a coke and rum or a tonic and gin." 7 and Sierra it is.

We sat in the observation car bullshitting and laughing. Later in the conversation Richard told me he thought President Obama was the worst president ever. I slowly talked him down from that ledge of irrationality before we focused our attention on the hundreds of FedEx trailers docked at their Southern California hub. "No shit, there's another one."

It was lively until midnight (apologies to Wilson Pickett and Eric Clapton). Then we retired to our seats and nodded off. Richard disembarked at Lake Havasu. I stayed on for four more hours, getting off at Flagstaff.

Richard in the observation car

Games:

*July 12: Chase Field – Phoenix, AZ

American League   1

National League     5

What a great way to spend my 34^th birthday. My father flew out to Phoenix to kick off my trip and we went to the all-star game together. This was special to me because neither of us had ever been to a midsummer classic before, but I grew up watching the game with him every year on television, over a bag of Munchos and mugs of root beer floats. I really had a lot of fun and so did Dad. 

We took in the sights before the game at the FanFest held down the street. Then we went to lunch at Alice Cooper’s restaurant, appropriately named Cooperstown, where I ordered the Tony LaRussa ribs. Over a couple of beers we drafted our all-time best player/favorite player teams. Here are the rosters:

       Dad                                Steve

C-   Fisk                                Berra

1B- Gehrig                            Foxx

2B- Richardson                     Sandberg

3B- Matthews                       Brett

SS- Ripken, jr.                      Wagner

LF- Williams                         Yaz

CF- Mantle                            Mays

RF- Ruth                               Aaron

SP- Koufax                           Maddux

RP- Fingers                           Eckersley

 

After lunch we made our way, laughing and joking, towards the stadium. Under the 110 degree heat we browsed the stands of vendors for hats and t-shirts. The whole time we talked about baseball, often times bringing others near us into the conversation. I remember a funny exchange when my dad actually asked a Cubs fan why she supported a team that didn’t hire Ryne Sandberg to be their manager.

The atmosphere inside the stadium was really something to behold. Baseball fans were running this way and that, crowding the Arizona team store, and lining up near the field railings in search of autographs. On the field the media swarmed around players like Prince Fielder and Josh Hamilton who were either taking batting practice or watching others hit bombs into the stands.

What the game itself lacked in down-to-the-wire drama it compensated for with enthusiasm and tradition. I’ve heard announcers talk about the ‘buzz’ of a stadium, and now I know what they are referring to. Chase Field had a great energy to it as baseball lovers packed the stands to see the best players in each league display their talents.

Prince Fielder’s three-run shot in the fourth inning proved to be the difference maker, but what I’ll remember are two very different sliding plays. The first was Jose Bautista’s catch in the right field corner. It is too long ago now for me to remember the specific inning, but I know it was an early-game grab that brought the fans to their feet. Bautista, running full speed tracked down a fly ball deep in the corner. He slid to prevent himself from crashing into the wall and caught the ball mid-slide. The other play was Heath Bell, relief pitcher for the Padres, sprinting in from the bullpen. With two outs in the eighth inning National League manager, Bruce Boche beckoned Bell from the bullpen. The hefty reliever chugged all the way from the outfield fence to a few feet before the mound, where he hit the deck and slid in to take the ball from the manager. Everybody, including the players on the field, seemed to appreciate the show.   

                                

Bike:

July 14: Phoenix to Maricopa (20 miles)

I was in a bit of a predicament. My train didn't depart Maricopa until 11:57pm. The route to Maricopa was along a four-lane highway and I didn't really want to chance it at night with drivers at or above 65 miles per hour. But I also didn't want to ride under the sun, with a heavy pack, in temperatures over 100 degrees (not to mention being stuck in Maricopa for the whole day).

So I decided to find myself a movie theater and relax before heading out at sundown. Consecutively I watched two of the worst movies I have seen this year: The Hangover II followed by Bad Teacher (Bad Teacher just happened to be starting right when Hangover II was letting out, so I slipped in for a double feature). But it was a good way to kill some time and stay cool during the Arizona summertime.

The ride was great. Under a full moon I found myself on a huge shoulder all the way to Maricopa. I hardly noticed the traffic speeding by as I belted out PJ Harvey and Stone Temple Pilots.  The desert treated me well that night.

Desert Moon

Train:

July 14-15: Texas Eagle -- Maricopa, AZ to L.A. (7 hours, 407 miles)

There's not a lot to say about this stretch of the trip. I boarded just before midnight and got off at 7am. I slept most of the time. I did manage to talk one of the many young whippersnappers aboard, a young Brazilian.  In between winks he told me that he was part of a youth group composed of students from 14 different countries that was finishing a train tour of the U.S. I overheard two comments that, taken with no context, I found to be humorous. Girl to boy: "Your smile is too big. Please speak English." And another boy to another girl: "Swedish? Swiss?" Girl: "Nope. French." Boy: "Oui, je peux."


July 15: Pacific Surfliner -- L.A. to San Diego (3  hours, 86 miles)

This was a fun little jaunt down the coastline. The Pacific Surfliner has a different feel than other lines because it is a commuter train. It makes 7 or 8 trips up and down everyday. The seats are snatched up on a first come first served basis; beer is brought aboard and passed around between friends (even at 9am); many of the passengers are regular riders along the line; and the stops are much more frequent.  I spent most of the time gazing out of the window at the surfers and beachgoers. Here's a clip:

 

Bike:

July 15: Sante Fe Depot to Henry's House (5 miles)

This was an arduous uphill ride through San Diego. The Pacific Surfliner dropped me off downtown at the Sante Fe Depot and I had to make my way up to Henry's house. Henry is a friend of my housemate in Portland. I don't know Henry, but upon hearing of my trip he was kind enough to offer a night or two of lodging here in San Diego. Besides the geography of my particular route, the city and its roads were very hospitable to me. I'm excited to cruise back down when I go to the Padres game.

People:

Henry F - I was talking with my housemate David, before my trip began and he was asking me about where I was going to stay along the way. I mentioned that I'd like to stay with friends or people I meet, not only to save on cost but also because it would be exciting. David asked me if I had a place to stay in San Diego and I responded that I didn't and was kind of concerned about what I was going to do for lodging there. Then David put me in touch with Henry.

Henry is incredible. In fact, from now on when I am referring to something that is "awesome" or "supercool" I'll frequently use some form of the root Henry. What exactly made Henry so Henrilicious?  Many things: his trust, his brain, his love of hats, and his willingness to help others are forefront on the long list of reasons.

Henry's wall of hats

I arrived on a Friday night. Henry was there, but not for long. He left for Sacramento in the morning and left me with full access to his place for three days, which was very Henrified of him. But before he took off we had a feast of fresh vegetable stir-fry, rice, beans, and some crispy kale chips (thanks for a great meal Henry). While we devoured our tasty dinner we found ourselves immersed in a rich and lively conversation that touched on baseball and it's varied levels of entertainment; the San Diegan sweet spots I should be sure not to miss; and a multi-layered discussion revolving around the human animal's physical capabilities, the evolution and modern application of these proficiencies, and the opportunities to access and use these intrinsic gifts in today's world.  Some day Henry and I are going to chase down a gazelle together.

Games:

*July 17: PETCO Park – San Diego, CA

San Francisco   4

San Diego         3

What I remember from this game are only pleasant things: great weather, a very nice stadium with a friendly staff, a great extra-inning game decided by a suicide squeeze, and some good company.

I recall a very nice bike ride downtown to the stadium from Henry’s house and parking my bike in an area specifically designed for people to leave their bicycles. The guys manning the area were super nice and I enjoyed chatting with them about the Padres and their stadium before heading into the park.

The park itself was very welcoming and suited the perfect 80 degree weather nicely. Palm trees ringed the outside and a very soothing waterfall accompanied me up the steps to the main concourse. Once inside the main stadium I realized how open everything was. Not at all worried about rain, PETCO Park was designed for the comfortable San Diego climate. This made for a really nice pre-game lap of the stadium.

With the help of some friendly ushers I was able to sneak down into the lower right-field stands for the later innings. Here I took in the exciting finale with Mike, Dave, and their other buddies. While basking in the Southern California sunshine we watched the defending champion Giants defeat the hometown Padres on a perfectly executed suicide squeeze. 

There aren’t many plays in baseball that are as exciting, especially when the game is on the line. As Emmanuel Burriss took off from third towards home and we all yelled “squeeze!” in unison. Giant catcher Chris Stewart squared around and softly laid down the sacrifice bunt allowing his teammate to cross home plate safely.

The Giant’s had the lead 4-3 and we watched as their loose-cannon-closer, Brian Wilson, walked three batters in the bottom of the 11^th. Wilson, gunning for his 28^th save of the season, was saved himself by a heads up play. Once again catcher Chris Stewart was involved in a sacrifice bunt play, but this time he fielded the ball and his throw initiated a fatal 2-5-4 double play.

People:

Mike and Dave - I took in the second half of the Padres and Giants game with these guys. Mike was down from San Jose and is a big Giants' fan. I'm not sure where Dave is from, but he was pulling for the hometown team and had spent some time living in many exotic locations, namely Hawaii and Pakistan. They knew their baseball and were fun to watch the game with. Mike wants to do a trip to all 30 parks with his wife one day. Do it Mike! And if your wife sees this, do it Mike's wife! Seriously, why the hell not?

The Middle

While reflecting on my summer I had this idea that I would do an overarching review of my trip in three parts (The Beginning, The Middle, The End). It would include revisiting many of the things I experienced along the way, as well as looks at how I began to suspect a specific theme tied up somewhere in all this adventuring and an evolving description of what I thought the meaning of that theme eventually became.

Recently I lost some of my older posts and started to think about backing my work up on a word document. While considering that I had another idea: to re-post many of my stories and descriptions from the other pages. By doing this I could weave together all of my different experiences (the trains, the games, the people, cycling trips) chronologically, in one place, as opposed to having them all on separate pages. At the time the individual pages were necessary because I was not sure of what the future held or when I would have the chance to record my experiences on the blog. But now it is easy to paste them together as they actually happened. This will also give me a chance to add new comments about what was going on regarding my feelings about the trip and the 'evolution of meaning'. With the added depth found in reflection, I hope to tell my story of an incredible summer that helped me realize some very important things.

So over the next month or so I will piece together my different writings, reliving my cross-country tour as I go. This will comprise 'The Middle' section of my summary and I will do it in multiple posts, often going week by week. I plan to talk in more detail about: my decision to leave the bicycle behind, how I tainted the purity of my goal to use no automobiles or airplanes, how I feel that purity is overrated, a burgeoning love affair from across the continent, what is truly important to me, and more.


 *I will fill the spaces of the games whose descriptions were deleted with an abbreviated version of what occurred, still accompanied by pictures and memory.  

**I hope this satisfies the wants of you people that have been clamoring for more. Thanks for your support.

Lost Games

Today is a sad day for me. Last night I was tooling around the blog, intent on wrapping up some unfinished business, writing a post or two or three, and working towards putting the final touches on Baseball Games, Trains & No Automobiles. Then I got onto 'The Games' page and noticed that there is a lot of missing content. In fact, a whole month's worth of games weren't there anymore. I don't know what happened to them, they just weren't there.

Naturally I am disappointed for a few reasons. The biggest of which is that I can't go back and read about the good times I had at the All Star Game with my dad, my trip to PETCO Park to see the Padres, the Angels game with James, the Dodgers game with Blue, my fantastic experience at San Francisco's perfect ballpark, my night with die hard A's fans in Oakland, the wonderful reunion I had with old friends in Denver, my sister Julia's first major league baseball game in Cleveland where the Indians pounded the Tigers, or when I crossed into Canada to see how they do baseball up there. I had intentionally avoided reading those entries since I wrote them because I thought it'd be a nice surprise to experience them all over again later. Later finally came and now they aren't there to go back to.

The Beginning

A couple of years back now, I was standing there trying to lift my left arm from its resting position at my hip, upwards and away, so that it might become parallel with the ground and perpendicular with my torso. Two days before I had smashed the back of my left shoulder into a tree while sliding uncontrollably down the side of a mountain I had hoped would be entirely covered with snow. Before I hit the tree I had a rather distressful impact and landed directly on the same shoulder. This occurred about one second after ejecting out of my skis. Skis are supposed to stay on your feet while skiing, but it’s hard for them to do this while speeding over rock. Normally I try to avoid rock while skiing; instead snow is a much better friction limiting surface that you can dig your edges into. Evidently the place I chose to ski was too steep to hold all of the snow (that thin layer of snow dust sure looked convincing) and I realized this mistake as I hurdled down the mountain unable to stop myself. Although my field of vision was screened by the cloud of snow I created from clawing furiously but frivolously at the mountain side, I knew that the area was littered with boulders and spruces. They would surely be able to slow me down. Balling up, protecting your head and waiting for an impact is a hell of an experience. Just when you get to thinking about all the things you still want to do with your life...WHAM! And now I couldn't get my left hand more than a foot from my left hip without a grimace, a groan, and - like a jackhammer in your pillow at 3am - a shot of pain that prevents you from realizing any imaginable thing but it.

Years later the arm hasn't fully healed and I can't throw like I used to. I'm pretty sure I won't ever be able to. Throwing a baseball, one of the things I used to like to do more than anything, now saddens me. Oh I can throw it around and get it from one place to another, but the zip is gone. You see, I never realized that it wouldn’t be there. It’s not something to think about.

The thing is that I'm not a major leaguer, a minor leaguer, or any kind of leaguer and it still pisses me off (frustration comes before the sadness). What must it feel like for Mark Prior? He was a phenom from USC that was drafted by the Cubs and went 18-6 in 2003 leading them to a fantastic season, bringing them within five outs from the World Series (it would have been their first series in 58 years). Soon after he injured himself and now he no longer pitches in the major leagues. I bet he relives that eighth inning all the time. What if Alou caught that foul ball? Or what if Gonzalez hadn’t booted that grounder?

There was another player in the late 80’s named Dave Dravecky. I remember him being a very good pitcher for the San Francisco Giants. One day cancer was discovered in his left arm. Dave was a left-handed pitcher and it was surmised that his pitching days were done. The drive to not give up was so great in Dravecky that, after a surgery removing half his deltoid muscle, he fought his way back to the majors. In his first game back he defeated the Los Angeles Dodgers 4-3. I have trouble imagining just how sweet winning that game must have felt after defying cancer, painfully battling back and rehabilitating from a circumstance that most everybody thought to be career-ending. Whatever feelings he had, they only lasted five days. In his second game back Dravecky’s arm snapped in half while delivering a pitch. He never threw another major league pitch and his left arm was eventually amputated.

If given a glimpse into the future would these men change anything? I don’t know. What I do know is that the future isn’t predictable and sometimes things don’t work out how you expect them to, especially if you leave them sitting around directly in chance’s line of fire.

This summer I had an opportunity to take trains across the country, see friends and family I miss, meet people I never knew, watch baseball, and write all about it. Goddamn, it was a chance for the adventure of a lifetime. I’d always wanted to do this and I was horrified by the thought of one day wondering what it would have been like. I thought and thought about how it could be done. I surely didn’t have the resources to be able to pull something like this off. Knowing full well that it wasn’t a very responsible way to spend my summer I pushed on, refusing to acknowledge there wasn’t a creative solution.

I came up with the idea that I might be able to get sponsored. But who would sponsor a guy going to baseball games? Well, I figured if I could make my trip worthwhile and was visible enough (facebook, twitter, newspaper stories, etc.) I might get a few takers, especially if the trip revolved around a meaningful issue. Why not alternative transportation and its many benefits? I could ride the trains around, take my bike with me to get places once off the train, and write down my experiences for people to read. I would take pictures of all the people I met, tell some stories and do my best to generate interest in something very important, while having fun. Bikes, trains and baseball games? No. Summer training? Maybe. But the spark was there.

I contacted kickstarter about my idea so folks could donate to my cause. I thought - perhaps naively -  that this was something people could really get behind: a young man’s journey around the country touting high-speed rail, bicycle riding, friendship, cooperation and baseball. All of it would be in the form of a blog full of written words and photographs. Because I was wary of people thinking it was just a long vacation I set a target date well into the future. Possible contributors could watch as the trip progressed and decide if it was worthy of their support.

Kickstarter said no to giving me a spot on their site to raise money. I was confused. What did they have to lose? Was my idea not as good as I thought it was? Friends I talked to about it praised me for my creativity and social consciousness. Strangers thought it was fantastic and urged me to go for it. Kickstarter, on the other hand, told me that the idea wasn’t based on creative output and that nobody would support the thing because it hadn’t begun yet. I wanted to ask them why they didn’t regard the written word as creative output. I also wanted to ask them to change their name to “safe bet”.

So I set out to see if I could generate support in a different way.

There was never a doubt that the majority of the trip would be done on Amtrak. To spend the summer riding the rails from city to city sounded exciting to me. As far as modes of transportation go, trains are my favorite and I don’t understand why our country hasn’t made more of an effort to imitate other countries and implement high-speed rail. Are we really so out of it that we don’t understand the effects of our oil addiction? Regardless of our national mindset, I thought Amtrak was a prime candidate to support a happy, well-spoken, enthusiastic advocate of their future.

I started researching the advantages of rail travel, the cost of our national oil dependence, where the oil Americans use comes from, figures on public support for high-speed rail, Amtrak’s sponsorships and marketable areas of interest, etc. I wrote papers, gave speeches and engaged in as many conversations as I could about the topic.

I had visions of throwing out the first pitch at Wrigley Field in an Amtrak t-shirt (rides trains on the front, sees games on the back). More reasonably I thought my idea to combine different spheres of interest (my friends and family, the hundreds of people I met along the way, train enthusiasts, fans of baseball, fans of the environment, fans of a healthy economy, fans of adventure, etc.) around one central theme was worthy of a conversation. With a little support I knew I could turn my trip into a topic of discussion amongst quite a few people. Essentially I was prepared to work for Amtrak for peanuts and it would have been my pleasure.


No dice. My great American adventure hadn’t even begun, I had no support and my efforts to get a little help had me exhausted. It became clear to me that if I was to have a successful trip, by successful I mean enjoyable, some things were going to have to change. Just looking at the twitter page increased my blood pressure, so I decided to forget about that. Then I read a story about a guy bicycling from stadium to stadium.  I was deflating. Right or wrong, this combined with my previous disappointments to discourage me from contacting any newspapers about my journey. To be a mobile, high-profile proponent of alternative transportation I was going to have to do it through my actions and my blog.

Hope, Errors and Game Six

"This rabid loyalty also lends itself to opportunities for swelled hope. Although they are not officially eliminated from the hunt, St. Louis is not going to the playoffs this year. By looking and listening to the fans in the stadium it'd be hard to tell. They were adorable the way they clung to post-season hopes, watching and rooting for their team. While they carefully observed the happenings on the field with one eye, they kept their other eye on the out of town scoreboard, jeering the Milwaukee Brewers. I'm sorry to break you the bad news St. Louis, but not this year."

I wrote these words after the St. Louis game on September 11. That was foolish of me. I love the game of baseball and following and playing it over the years has reminded me time and time again that, in the immortal words of Yogi Berra, "it ain't over 'til it's over." This very true statement, that wobbles in the waves of its own simplicity, was hardly more evident than in game six of the 2011 World Series played in the very place where I had previously left hope for dead, scoffing at its persistence: St. Louis, Missouri.


Last night I sat on the edge of my chair for more than three straight hours as the Texas Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals played one of the most thrilling baseball games I've ever seen. The St. Louis Cardinals for Pete's sake. I kept thinking, as the camera panned the often breathless crowd, about how I had dismissed the Cardinals and their chances for October baseball as hopeless during my visit to their home stadium. This same ballpark, surely filled with many of the same people as on September 11, was now hosting one of the great World Series' games. A game that acted as a transition, for fans and players alike, from the brink of certain despair to pure, incredulous joy.

Of course I didn't know at the time that it'd end up all hugs and kisses for St. Louis in the end. During the game however, I could easily recognize the wrap of hopelessness at the door. I watched on television. I found myself ignoring the knocks and, just like those people in the stands, hoping for a miracle. All of those wonderful St. Louis fans were inspiring me now and I thought about how beautiful it'd be if St. Louis came from behind to win. After all, they'd already come from 10 1/2 games back to improbably catch the Braves and squeak into the playoffs. Once in the playoffs they'd squarely defeated the two teams holding the best records in the National League. Why couldn't they come from two runs down with two outs and two strikes in the bottom of the ninth against the Texas Rangers?

They did just that. David Freese, down to his (and the Cardinals) last strike tripled to deep right, just over the outstretched glove of Texas rightfielder Nelson Cruz. Incredible. The drama was palpable. Alas! Texas is a very good team too and when Josh Hamilton hit a two run homer in the top of the 10th it seemed that all of our previous hoping was now in vain. A comeback couldn't possibly happen again, could it? I imagined that even the strongest of Cardinal fans was finally ready to succumb. Of course it did happen again and perpetuated, as I already said, one of the most thrilling games I've ever seen.

Games so incredible and filled with such dramatic moments can only occur in baseball. That's my belief and it's because there is no artificial time limit telling you when it'll be over. In fact, as the suspenseful games draw nearer to their finish the play seems to slow down and the contest between pitcher and hitter becomes magnified by the pitch-to-pitch anticipation. Additionally, without a clock a team can presumably bat forever as long as they do it well enough. Or a team can be stuck in the field forever if they can't pick up the ball. Of course these things don't even happen in Little League, let alone the World Series. But that is not the point. What is the point is that the game truly isn't over until it's over. And sometimes, sandwiched between those thoughts, is when a memorable experience can be shared.

As I hooted and hollered along with the other patrons at the Greeley Avenue Bar & Grill I thought about some of the other great baseball games I knew of and wondered if this one could possibly compare. Although there are many great baseball moments (Kirk Gibson's 1988 home run off of Dennis Eckersley for example), there are few games that can be hailed as classics. Interestingly, the two that first came to mind were also game sixes: 1975 Reds vs. Red Sox and 1986 Mets vs. Red Sox.

In a post-game telephone discussion with my dad we observed that a few specific circumstances must be in place in order for a game to be so dramatic: the game must be a World Series game, it has to be late in the series and one team (if not both) is facing elimination, the team facing elimination must come from behind, and as an added bonus: the come from behind team must be the home team. 

All three of the aforementioned games met the conditions. Now within those conditions there must be, among a variety of other scenarios, questionable managerial decisions; timely hitting; strong pitching; memorable plays and a dramatic finish. I wasn't around in 1975, but I've heard enough stories and seen enough highlights to know that all of these things happened. I'm of the opinion that the game between the Red Sox and Reds is still the greatest game ever played. From everything I've learned it was a perfect game. A hunch tells that is due to the glorification of reminiscence retold. I don't care.

Unfortunately last night's game and the one in 1986 were marred by errors and this is what generates a distinction. The memorable play in '86 was Mookie Wilson's grounder rolling under Bill Buckner's glove to give the Mets the victory and Buckner a life filled with suffering. In 2011 the memorable play was David Freese hitting a home run. Of course this is the very same David Freese that, in the top of the fifth, dropped a pop up that my sister could have caught; the most memorable of the five (five!) errors during the game. 

But reflecting on these three games and David Freese's transition from goat to hero, I realized something about errors and the very real opportunities they can create. For instance, I made an error in judgment when I wrote off the Cardinals back in mid-September. I could have easily gone back into the blog and erased what I had written; pretending that it hadn't occurred (not that it would matter to anybody but me), but I didn't. Why? Because it had occurred. Now, I realize that sitting and watching the Rangers vs. the Cardinals carries an added point of interest for me. I'm more connected to the World Series and the St. Louis Cardinals than I had previously thought. Sitting in a bar in Portland, Oregon I can easily remember those fans I talked to and how remarkably loyal and hopeful they were. Say what you will about the merits of sports spectatorship, but those fans are real people and I have very real memories of dismissing their hopes as fantasy. Here's the point: the sixth game of this year's World Series was extremely entertaining but, because of my error in judgment, I had a better time watching it than if I hadn't have erred in the first place.

More to come

I've finished my trip. Now, I'm back in Portland doing a mix of reflecting and readjusting. Some people probably call it decompression, but I call it feeling weird.

At this time I still have plenty more to write about. I want to catch up on all of the games I've seen, places I've been and people I've met. Over the last month I got pretty far behind. As the trip wore on it became increasingly difficult for me to keep up with the blog. I seemed to meet more people and have less time to write. It's also very true that I tired of writing on a daily basis. But all of this doesn't mean that I'm not looking forward to finishing, I am.

I plan on adding the rest of my adventures to the blog over the next month or so. For now I'd like to say thank you to all of the lovely friends, family and strangers that helped me along my way. The trip was a huge success only because of so many people's generosity and incredibly enjoyable because of my shared experiences. I'd also like to thank all of the people that have been following along with my blog, leaving comments and encouraging me to continue. It's been an unreal summer, incredible from start to finish.

Here are some pictures from one of the craziest weeks of the unreal summer (NYC on Sunday to Pittsburgh, Minneapolis, Chicago and finally Detroit on Friday):

The Pennsylvanian

Blogging in the lobby of the William Penn Hotel in downtown Pittsburgh

Wet Labor Day parade in Pittsburgh

My daily acceptance of the rain

Pittsburgh Pierogies (found at PNC Park)

PNC nestled up to the Allegheny

I took pictures of Chicago during a layover

Chicago River

Nice sky, hills, the Mississippi

 Me, Aunt Margo on the shore of Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis

The Chicago Skyline from the White Sox ballpark

Jay and Cory at the Tigers game

Comerica Park has a ferris wheel

Good Food

I'm hungry as hell. I remember saying that 16 hours ago. I was on a different train then, the Texas Eagle, which was taking me from Fort Worth to St. Louis. Since then I've eaten a pocket-sized snack pack of s'more flavored almonds and a very dry bagel with far too little cream cheese. 16 hours ago I was craving enchiladas, which is odd because I had mexican food, very good mexican food, the previous two nights in Texas. Although it is a tough task in our homogenized world of Wendy's, Chili's and Applebees, I like staying as true to the areas that I'm visiting as possible when I have a meal. In Fort Worth that meant mexican food.

Now I'm on my way to Kansas City, so that means barbeque. I couldn't be more excited to dive into a rack of tender baby back ribs smothered in way too much sweet and sour Kansas City barbeque sauce. I'm starving. I have Toto playing "Rosanna" live on my headphones and I'm too weak from hunger to change it. Okay, that's not totally the case. It's playing, I just don't want to change it. I have a soft spot for Toto, but they're no Huey Lewis and the News. So as long as I'm at my computer getting my 80's fix and famished I thought I'd mention some of my favorite meals I've had:

Al Franken's walleye - when I was in Minneapolis my aunt and uncle took me out to a place called the Green Mill. I noticed that there was an awful lot of walleye on the menu. I asked if that was a common meal in these parts and was met with a resounding affirmation. It wasn't like a Stuart Smalley Daily Affirmation, but I did learn that Al Franken comes into the Green Mill on Fridays to order the very same walleye dish that I had just ordered. I don't always agree with Senators, but it was fantastic.

El Farolito burrito - see the blog post "My Mission in the Mission"

*Burger in L.A. - Burgers are very American and I've had quite a few on my very American tour of baseball stadiums across the country. The name of the joint escapes me, but the best of the bunch was in L.A. with Blue and Tess. I don't know what, if anything, L.A. is known for in the cuisine world, but this was fantastic and I'd kill to have another one right now.


*Thanks to Blue's input for reminding me the name of the restaurant: Father's Office


Benny's chili relleno - The first thing I did when I got to Denver was drag my sister and brother-in-law to Benny's. It's not the healthiest option on any menu anywhere, but the deep fried relleno, stuffed with melted cheese and covered with green chili is arguably the reason for human existence. Once you've had this dish the meaning of life becomes clear: to enjoy it.

Pizza on the grill - My stepdad Dennis told me he was looking fo more flavor and purchased a charcoal grill when I was in Florida. The day after that he bought a grilling cookbook. We both identified the pizza as something we had to attempt. We coated the sides not stuck to parchment paper of our homemade pizza crusts with olive oil, and cooked them briefly. They stiffened above the heat of the charcoal enough to add our sauce and topings of cheese, mushrooms, peppers, onions, and whole cloves of garlic. We withered under the heat of the Florida sun enough to polish off a Yeungling every five minutes. I have a suspicion that pizza on the grill is now a new family tradition.

Indian food in the East Village - So four men stand on a set of steps that lead to four separate Indian restaurants, each gesturing and hollaring to passers by why their restaurant is the best. I was the guest so Holly and Ryan let me choose which one I thought would be best. "Ours is best!" "Look at our safety rating!" "I'll give you free wine!" "Free wine for all three of you!" I chose the one at the upper-left of the stairs. For a very affordable price we had more than a tablefull of traditional Indian delights: Samosas, Saag Paneer, Mango Lassi, Chicken Tikka Masala, and some things I've never had before.

Cheese enchiladas at Joe T Garcia's - Josh took me to a great restaurant in Fort Worth. As far as I know there are only four things you can order here: margaritas, cervezas, enchiladas, and fajitas. We sat outside in the comfortable courtyard full of fountains, trees, and yucca plants. There was no menu. I said that I had never been there before and inquired about enchiladas. I was told that the cheese enchiladas were excellent and that they'd been serving them since 1935. How can you argue with that? Along with the enchiladas came tortillas, rice, beans, guacamole, beef tacos, chips, and salsa. I would go back to Fort Worth someday just for this meal.

I am still hungry. We are slowly approaching the Kansas City station and I am beginning to ready myself for an attempt to assault a plate of ribs. There are more meals to mention, but I'm afraid that if I talk about food anymore I could harm myself by inflicting irreparable psychological and physiological damage.