Hesston College Chapel

Liz Miller, Hesston, KS; October 15, 2021

There’s lots of gear that goes into a cycling trip, and I’m guessing that many of you, as I was a few months ago, are unfamiliar with some of it. So, I’ll cover some of the essentials:

Gatorade Powder

It was Day 3, in eastern Washington, and it was hot that day. It was so hot that we couldn’t ever get quite enough liquids. Water was hard to drink, and food didn’t go down well, and the iced gatorade we made at the last rest stop went hot in our bottles. Not pleasant at all, but electrolytes.

We went about 70 miles that day. In the afternoon, as we passed miles and miles of fruit trees, I remember thinking, so that’s where my apples come from.

For those last several miles, every sign we passed was in Spanish. Some advertised work. One of them read, “Hugo’s Tacos” and was advertising a mouth-watering snack that I knew would make me feel sick if I stopped. So we kept going. Then we passed a dormitory, complete with campo de futbol, a soccer field, that had a sign, in Spanish, that said “no guests allowed.”

With a clear Spanish speaking population, my mind began to turn to immigration issues. I started wondering about their lives. How did they get there? What were the challenges they faced? According to the USDA, approximately 50 percent of farm workers in Washington State may be undocumented.

Friends, so much of what we know and consume comes from the labour and hands of those who are treated as “other.” Who are necessary to the economy but never quite welcomed.

What would happen if we started thinking about whose bodies, souls, and humanity are behind the things we buy, and the way that those people are being treated?

Front Pouch

Missoula, Montana was where I bought my front pouch, since I had realized during that first exhausting week of riding that I didn’t quite have enough storage on my bike for all the snacks I needed to eat, plus so many warm layers of clothing that had to be stripped after crisp mountain mornings.

It was Day 8 when we rode into Missoula, Montana– finally, riding into our rest day, and this is what our view looked like. But what should have been a celebration at the completion of our first exhausting week of riding was a disappointment for me. We were grouped based on pace that day, and I was put in the slowest group. I had been working so hard to prove myself, and I felt devastated that “slow” was how they viewed me. Not as strong and capable as the rest. A blow to my ego and my belief in my own athleticism.

So, I spent that day with a bad attitude, hanging ahead of the rest of the group, trying to prove that I could go faster. When we finally got into camp, it was just in time for dinner. Everyone was already showered and so cheerful, talking about how much fun they had had swimming in the pool that afternoon. I had missed out and couldn’t let it go.

A few days later, we got to pick our own groups. I was nervous, thinking no one was going to pick me, and another friend voiced similar concerns. We created our own group, and included those who I had ridden with a few days before. This time, I was convinced not to have a bad attitude. It was a shorter day, and we decided we were going to have as much fun as possible.

That evening, our group came together for a conversation, at this campsite: people had voiced dissatisfaction with the ways we had been riding in groups up to that point. We liked riding at our own paces and didn’t enjoy waiting around for others who were slower than them. We all competed with each other to see who could get in to camp the fastest, as if being “first” were still a measure of greater success when we were all accomplishing so much just by completing such long rides (60-80+ miles per day) every single day.

I had been thinking about this a lot within myself: I also liked to go my own pace, but after that day riding into Missoula, I realized that focusing so much on speed and competition was tearing us apart. If we wanted to work at this as a team, encourage each other through it all, and make it across the country together, we had to let that go.

And it was also about climate justice for me– hear me out. When we think about climate change, we know that environmental degradation has happened because of so much resource extraction (you’ve seen it– deforestation and conflicts over oil are examples of this).

Why would we purposely take away the earth’s goodness- it’s beauty as well as its ability to regulate itself? Why would we purposely cause violence to other people? Because taking those resources from the earth in mass amounts and selling them brings profits in mass amounts. That’s the idea of the economic system of capitalism: it’s focused on growth– to make the most amount of money, no matter the cost to the earth or other people.

But– I realized I was doing the same thing in my own body on this trip. I was trying to keep up, to get to the destination as fast as I could, to extract as much from my body as possible in order to gain more respect from myself and my teammates for my athletic ability. In the process, I was missing what was in between where we started and where we ended each day.

If I couldn’t stop the pattern of that extractive capitalism within my own body, how could I possibly say I was working to end that cycle in much greater social systems and in advocacy of the earth? How could we as a team say we were riding for climate justice if we didn’t think about the same embodied systems that dictated our relationships with ourselves and our teammates?

Derailleur Hanger

Who knew that a derailleur hanger was a thing? I didn’t. Not until Wyoming, when we were riding through Yellowstone National Park (which, by the way, was a day of 5,000 feet of elevation gain over 70 miles). Going up all those hills, my shifting was crunchy, and sometimes my feet would come unclipped from their pedals and I felt like I might crash right in the middle of all that traffic on those narrow park roads.

My crunchy shifting? That was caused by the little tiny derailleur hanger that was bent, no bigger than the size of my thumb but causing me all sorts of grief. I rode through all of Wyoming — and most of the Midwest– on that bent derailleur hanger, and started getting the hang of it: through the rest of Yellowstone, up and down the Bighorn mountains, which are part of the Rockies, and through this little tiny town, population 2, called Spotted Horse, where we stopped at a bar– our only water source for miles.

We went in to fill up our bottles, as always, wherever we could get water. Sometimes we would fill up in bathroom sinks, or at spigots outside the building. This time we bought cheese fries and asked the woman at the bar if she could fill them for us.

“The tap water in this town isn’t safe to drink,” she told us. “I can sell you bottles, though.” Our group collectively bought her out of bottled water that day.

That got me thinking about the year that I spent in Honduras, 2018-2019, living with a host family not far outside of the capital city of Tegucigalpa. The water source in that particular community had run dry a few years back, and water had to be shipped in on trucks. One week, they delivered brown water for the entire week. Some of my neighbors only used styrofoam all week because they didn’t have access to clean water to wash their dishes. There was a common phrase at the school where I worked and around the city: el agua es vida. Water is life.

Riding through Spotted Horse that day, unable to drink the water from the tap even though we needed hydration terribly, reminded me again that el agua es vida. Water truly is life. Some people have greater access to that life source, and others have less access. What are we doing to protect the quality of our bodies of water? What are we doing to conserve our precious life-giving resources?

Windbreaker

We’d had a stretch of pretty long days, and the particular day we rode into Devils Tower National Monument, Wyoming was advertised to us by our leader as an “easy” day. Just 62 miles! As it turns out, it was the easy day that made me cry. 62 miles into a headwind is anything but “easy.” I rode into camp ready to tap out– but instead, it was an afternoon of leaning in and spontaneous learning.

As we were pulling up to camp, we saw that we had teepees on our campsite– and not only that, but they were being set up just for us.

We arrived right around the summer solstice, the day after an indigenous ceremony at the sacred site to celebrate the solstice. The teepees needed to be set up to dry out, so we curious humans were gifted with a shelter to sleep in for the night. This was all thanks to our lovely support couple, Dan and Mary Ann, who went ahead of us with the truck and trailer. They were always quick to start up conversations with the local people we met along the way, which often provided our whole group with spontaneous learning opportunities. Having spent a good portion of their lives on Navajo Nation in New Mexico, they were especially curious to learn from the Northern Cheyenne, Lakota, and other indigenous groups that were there for the solstice ceremony.

The two Northern Cheyenne brothers who set the teepees up for us were named Thaddeus and Cleroy. Cleroy was quiet, but Thaddeus talked to us all afternoon, our whole group huddled together, warm inside one of the teepees while the wind howled around us. He told us many stories that are only his to tell, but one important piece of information is that Devils Tower is known as Bear Lodge among indigenous communities. The name didn’t change until the early 20th century, after a military expedition.

It was a faulty translation of language during the colonizers’ journey that changed the sacred landmark’s identity from that point forward.

Even something as simple as who gets to decide a name, and which name sticks, reveals power dynamics and the ripples of oppression. The words we choose matter– not just choosing kind words, but choosing words that honor people’s dignity, choosing words that speak out against oppression.

Cycling Cap

As we made our way out of the West and entered the Midwest, the early July wildflowers painted themselves along the roadside in vibrant yellows, purples, whites, and oranges. But with the beauty came the humidity that we’ve all come to know.

We were in Iowa, riding into another rest day, mostly on gravel. Iowa gravel is special. You know how Kansas gravel is small and sandy? Iowa gravel is just chunky– and chunky gravel on Iowa hills… well, let’s just say it takes a special kind of determination. Determination which, heading into rest day, I was a little low on. And the sweat was just rolling down my face: down my forehead, into my eyeballs, out my eyeballs, and down my cheeks. By the end of the day, I couldn’t tell which tears were sweat and which tears were frustration.

That was the day I learned the purpose of a cycling cap, this hat that I’m wearing now. It wicks the sweat into the bill and keeps it from streaming down your face. And when it’s raining, it helps keep the rain off your face, too. It turned out to be a lifesaver as we crossed the Midwest and the East.

We took our rest day at the Geyer Farm about 15 miles outside of Iowa City, a farm that is in the process of switching over from conventional agriculture practices (row crops like corn and soybeans) to growing table food. They’ve tried methods like no-till, cover crops, and organic production, and this year was the first season that their neighbor planted kidney beans on their land.

Anna Geyer also showed us her food forest, a garden that had all sorts of different plants growing up together: clover covering the soil, black currants, garlic, kale, squash, fruit trees, flowers, and so much more. The idea was that the ecosystem thrives and is able to self-regulate when all components of a forest are present– like understory, vines, subcanopy, and canopy layers.

Our whole way through the Midwest there was a focus on agriculture. In Iowa City, we got to tour pollinator gardens for Monarch butterflies. After an especially rainy week, we stayed at Hungry World Farm in Tiskilwa, Illinois. In Goshen, Indiana, we toured Clay Bottom Farm. Not far from there, we toured Goshen College’s Merry Lea Environmental Learning Center. All of them had different approaches to what sustainability meant to them, but all of them were justice-minded.

Seeing all those farms doing amazing things made me think about my own family’s farm in Northwest Ohio. I spent a lot of time dreaming about what sustainable growing methods I could try on the land that my family is on. Would I try a food forest, like at the Geyer farm? Or perhaps restore a portion of the farm to its original wetland state, like at Merry Lea?

And were implementing mere sustainable models on the farm enough? I thought a lot about how important it is to follow the leadership of BIPOC growers when thinking about sustainable agriculture. Would I pay real rent to the indigenous communities in my region? Would I participate in the LandBack campaign and return the land to indigenous ownership?

These questions followed me through the final days of the trip.

Purple Handlebars & Ducky

On the hilliest day of the trip, riding into Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, my shifting broke with 35 miles to go. Thankfully, we had made it past the toughest climbs earlier that morning. I stopped at a bike shop in the city, where they miraculously had exactly the shifter I needed for the last 5 days. They installed the shifter, and let me pick out new handlebar wrap. Naturally, I chose purple.

The ducky on my handlebars I’d say is representative of friendship and joy. My coach Joanna gifted it to me in Washington, DC, after letting me borrow it for that last week of riding. The last week was filled with so much laughter , spontaneous swims , tree climbs, and so many coffee stops. Never too much. By the end of the trip, I think I’d learned something about freeing my body from the capitalist system I talked about earlier. No longer were we worried about pace, but instead, we rode with friends and embraced the touring lifestyle. We got in late to camp on purpose, just because we stopped so many times to enjoy ourselves along the way.

Riding into Washington, DC was the biggest accomplishment I think I’ve ever felt in my life. We dipped our tires into the reflection pool of the Washington Monument to commemorate the end of the trip, just as we had done at the beginning in the Elliot Bay in Seattle, Washington.

But we had one final task: to meet with our elected officials. Here you’ll see the Ohio group– myself, Isaac, and Denver– waiting on Zoom for our first meeting. We had three meetings in total, meeting with the staffers of our Representatives and Senator. In those meetings, we told our stories of the summer and made specific asks for climate legislation.

But as I learned over the summer, it’s important to advocate for so much more than just climate legislation. Climate justice includes all sorts of other social justice work: because the well-being of humans and the earth goes hand in hand.

I saw how human and environmental well-being goes hand and hand in my observations around immigration, in my relationship with my own body, in the need for clean water sources, in the way indigenous nations honor the land and seasons, and in all the different models of sustainable agriculture that I learned about.

And after an entire summer dedicated to riding and learning, I can’t be silent about things that are important.

Friends, I believe that none of us should be silent about things that are important– or else we’re just contributing to violence. I know that most of you aren’t cyclists, but there’s still so much you can do for climate justice, even if you don’t know much about environmental issues.

It’s young people like us who can make a difference. Maybe we don’t have it all figured out yet, but when we truly believe that we can make the world a better place, we do. I’ve been telling you about some of the stories that inspire me to make the world a better place. But what is it for you, friends? How will you use your own stories to create positive change on this campus and in this world?

The Act of Slowing Down

Miriam Huebner, Washington, D.C.; July 28, 2021

On this trip I am known for riding off the road a lot. At least daily I ride into the ditch, not because I am bad at biking but because paying attention to the plants beside the road feels a lot more important than paying attention to the road itself. I have spent countless hours looking at the purple petals of echinacea and wild bergamot and the splatters of mulberries on the trail that promise a tasty snack from the trees above. In order to really see the land that I am riding through, biking is still too fast and I need to slow down or risk riding off of the road.

It is strange that at the speed of a bicycle I still often long to go slower. Before this ride started, I imagined that I would be able to really pay attention to the country that I am biking through. However, I still feel like I am going too fast to truly notice my surroundings. I can see the blur of flowers but I miss the pollinators that land on them. Even though we are not going as fast as a car the desire for speed and efficiency is still built into our bodies and minds and intentionally slowing down still feels strange and uncomfortable.

I think that this discomfort with slowing down is a reflection of our broader society. We are pushed to compete with others and internalize the idea that being better or faster than others is our only way to do well in the world. Speed has become so normalized that slowing down, caring for, and deeply knowing the earth that we live on and the people that we live has become uncommon. 

On this trip I have come to realize the importance of both speed and slowness. At times I want to speed down a mountain or push my body to see how fast it can go and relish in its strength, but at other times I want to ride slowly and really notice the land I am riding through, stopping when I see a particularly cool looking mushroom or wildflower. Slowing down to pay more attention to the land and the people I see is important because it is in the act of slowing down that we build community and connection to each other and to the world.

A World of Wounds, Beauty, and Hope

Isaac Alderfer, Fernwood State Forest, OH; July 23, 2021

Famous naturalist Aldo Leopald wrote in the Sand County Almanac in 1949, “One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds.” Leopald spent much of his life exploring the natural world and learning its intricacies and nuance, and his words have long been well-respected in the ecological world. To some extent, he makes a good point.

When I was growing up I loved to play in the creek catching crayfish and chasing fish that seemed to always evade my net. I ran through the woods and fields around my house climbing trees, building forts, and collecting rocks for the collection I kept under my bed. I felt like a real explorer and there was nothing I loved more than getting a little lost in my own little natural world. I still often think of my favorite book growing up called the Salamander Room, by Anne Mazer. It is a fantasy story of a young boy slowly transforming his bedroom into a little pocket of refuge for salamanders as moss covers his bed and bookshelf and trees reach up to the ceiling to create a place where his salamander friends can live comfortably. The innocence in this story felt familiar when I read it as a like-minded and somewhat jealous young boy, and now drips with nostalgia. 

I love studying environmental science, I really do. I still catch critters, collect rocks, watch birds, and sometimes find the time to wander without any real purpose through the woods. But now it feels a little different than when I was younger. I know the danger those crayfish are in. I know the woods I walk through were once recklessly clear-cut to feed urban development. I know the rocks I put in my pocket were brought to the surface by a mining operation to produce the energy I use reading my textbooks late into the night. 

This summer as we have ridden across the country I see wounds everywhere I look. In Washington, there are burn scars from generational fire suppression that led to infernos the forest couldn’t handle. In Idaho, parking lots on top of mountain passes provide a place for skiers to park. In the Rockies of Montana, pit mines for coal, copper, and platinum create unnatural gaps between the peaks. In Wyoming, vast short-grass prairie is fenced-in and converted to degrading pastureland. In the Black Hills of South Dakota, indigenous people are exploited and pushed aside to make room for more tourists. In the clear-sky plains of Nebraska, conventional high-input agriculture drains the once plentiful aquifer under the land. In the rolling hills of Iowa, topsoil wastes away as farmers are forced to continue harmful practices to make ends-meet. In river-valleys of Illinois, levees channelize and control the mighty water that so-often fights back. In the cathedral-like Oak-Savannah forests of Indiana, invasive species choke out natives and destroy the fragile balance of a sensitive ecosystem. In the pancake plains of western Ohio, drainage ditches and tiles divert water away from the land as the black swamp threatens to reclaim the square-mile cropped fields… 

There could be overwhelming reason to loose hope when faced with such injury to the land that we have created in such a short period of time, but Leopald is not the only person to build such an intimate connection with the land. Potawatomi scientist and author of Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer describes a different relationship with the natural world. She says, “Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the Earth gives me daily and I must return the gift.” 

Despite the damage to the land that my education and curiosity leads me to see, it also gives me the ability to see a lot of beauty and hope in the world too. I saw beauty in the weathered geology of Washington. I saw hope in the baby moose calmly feeding in a marsh by the trail In Idaho. I saw beauty in the towering mountains of Montana. I saw hope in the ecosystem restoration in Yellowstone. I saw joy in the Cheyenne family sharing about their native land in South Dakota. I saw conviction in the politician fighting for water rights in Nebraska. I saw hope in the generosity and innovation of the Land Alliance Folk School and Farm in Iowa. I saw beauty in the vegetable gardens and hospitality of farmers in Illinois. I saw the power to make change in the words of environmental justice advocate Sibonokuhle Ncube in Indiana. I saw the joy of simplicity and hospitality in the rolling hills of Ohio Amish Country.

We may live in a world of wounds, but that does not mean we should be hopeless. We have surely proven that humans can be a destructive force, but I also know that we have the potential to heal our harms. Each person has the ability to love the land and possesses a unique gift for a way to give back what we receive from the world around us. Though it is certainly not always the easiest option, like Kimmerer, I also try my best to choose joy over despair because joy is what the Earth gives me daily and I must return the gift. 

Doing the Unexpected

Vanessa Gardiner, Berlin, OH; July 21, 2021

When I first heard about this trip from my triathlon coach, Joanna, I thought she was crazy and that there was no way that I could bike across the country. I declined the first time she brought it up because I thought that it would be too hard for a new cyclist like me. However, she kept talking about it with my other track and triathlon teammates and one thing led to another and here I am. I’m in Ohio in Amish country, and sometimes I feel like I’m totally out of my league. 

Before coming on this trip I already knew it was going to be hard: only 1 rest day a week and an average of at least 70 miles a day. The most mileage I had done before the trip was 32 miles the day I got lost on a mountain in Harrisonburg and ended up in West Virginia. I went from biking 15-20 miles 2-3 times a week for triathlon to 6 days a week. 

I’m not gonna lie, that first week of biking killed me. My butt, hands, feet, and back were so sore or numb from just not being used to being on a bike like that. Thankfully the human body adapts over time so it eventually got easier on my body, but it’s still tiring. The trip wasn’t that bad though, I enjoyed getting to know my teammates, meeting new people and learning about different opinions and perspectives on climate change. I also enjoyed traveling to see different parts of the country and appreciating nature’s beauty. And I learned a lot about bikes in the process. Before the trip I knew nothing about caring for bikes but now I know how to change a tire, take wheels on and off, clean my bike, lube chains, etc. 

I know that overall, I’m a stronger biker than I was when I started. My next season of triathlon will be a lot easier because 12 miles is nothing compared to what I’ve been doing for the past 2 months and my knowledge of using my bike to my advantage is much greater. I’m happy I came on this trip, made friends and memories. I’m happy to go home soon but I will also be sad to see everyone go. 

What you notice on a bike and what you miss in a car

Samantha Lioi, Berlin, OH; July 20, 2021

We’ve climbed a lot of hills over the last 3,000 miles or so. I’ve noticed it’s possible to have many thoughts while pedaling up a hill, not all of which have a  positive effect on one’s state of mind. Knowing this, our trip leader, Joanna, has counseled us not to believe anything we tell ourselves while climbing. Generally speaking, this is incredibly useful advice, but occasionally, I do have a constructive thought or two while riding uphill. While traversing the gravelly hills of Iowa, I noted that when I am the one providing the energy needed to propel myself up a hill, I’m far more aware of the power and fuel required, the energy expended, and what it costs.

Sweating my way up hill after hill, I had plenty of time to think about the human energy needed to move a small metal frame loaded with a rider and some gear and snacks up one hill compared with the energy provided by gasoline to move a car or truck up that same hill. Using fossil fuels to propel us up a hill is less taxing on our bodies, but there are also significant costs to land and bodies when we choose gasoline to power our travels. Moving through rain or hot sun on changing road surfaces from the comfort of a climate-controlled vehicle, we’re not pushed to reflect on those costs.

This realization got me thinking about other things I’m only aware of because I’ve been traveling in the rather vulnerable way of bicycling for the last seven weeks. Forgive the unpleasantness of this observation, but we’ve been confronted by dead animals of many sizes and states of decay in ways I have not experienced before. I’ve never seen so many dead birds—including a goldfinch and a giant owl, and many in between. At times, the expired animal’s body is in parts as we pass by. Driving or riding in a car, we don’t have to look at the violent deaths that are byproducts of our large metal machines hurtling down roads at speeds of 50, 60, 70 and 80 miles an hour. For the most part, these creatures’ deaths and their bodies are invisible to us as we drive through their home territories. 

There are smells, too, that one has no choice but to take in while traveling by bicycle. In our days riding through Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, and Indiana, the smell left in the wake of  huge truck trailers hauling animals to slaughter was unavoidable as they passed us on the road. The smell of manure of various descriptions lasts longer as we pass farms at 13-18 miles an hour. Sometimes fumes from a truck engine lingers in the air in front of us. 

A cyclist experiences all of the weather up close as well: wind, whether natural or created by a huge truck passing a bit too close, can make a difference in balance and can greatly aid or impede progress on a ride. We committed from the beginning to ride rain or shine, and recently, for about a week we were wet and muddy more often than we were dry. 

Perhaps in less than ideal weather, every rider has wondered to themselves why they volunteered to endure the elements and the fatigue of a ride like this. But we know we have chosen to do this—in fact, formally applied to be part of this team. I’m thinking of people who don’t have choices about being exposed to withering, hot sun, soaking or flooding rain, and polluting fumes. Along our way, and specifically during our panel in Lincoln, NE, we’ve talked about the disproportionately harmful effects of earth-degradation and climate change on BIPOC communities and countries with little monetary wealth. I’ve had the opportunity to see my own poverty of understanding—gut-level, bodily understanding—of the immense amount of energy and resources we consume routinely as part of our North American lifestyle, and the violence to creatures and land woven into it. 

This ride has deepened my awareness of the ways cars and air conditioning—even houses and beds, and the wealth we use to build and buy more and more comfortable ones—insulate us from the reality of what’s happening in the living, breathing world around us. Our homes and cars and comfort so easily insulate us from the voices of the soil and rivers, swallows, hawks, coyotes, oaks, cottonwoods. What steps will we take to open our ears and become people who hear? As I return home, I will be looking for ways to live a life more integrated with, in sync with, the rest of the creatures on this planet. I welcome ongoing conversations with communities who want to live closer to and more gently with our non-human kin. I’d love to hear how you are moving closer to the non-human life all around you. 

Reading from the Same Map

Loren Friesen, Fort Wayne, IN; July 17

As the rain has relentlessly poured down this past week, the comforting embrace of shelter in church hallways could not have come at a more opportune time. A wet day of riding with a dry destination is marvelous. A wet day of riding without cover at the end can be miserable. Dry clothes and a restful, uninterrupted sleep makes all the difference, and I think it’s safe to say I speak for everyone in expressing our appreciation for the number of churches that are generous enough to host 18 smelly riders. 

In addition to the shelter, we have had more events in the past few weeks that have specifically focused on different aspects of climate change solutions, including learning from farmers practicing more sustainable methods to hearing how local members of different church communities advocate for or organize sustainable solutions. 

While I have deeply appreciated all types of interactions throughout this entire journey, these planned events that include people working toward the same goal have been a breath of fresh air for me in several ways. During a large course of the trek through Wyoming and South Dakota, I had several interesting, impromptu conversations with other people, often state locals out on summer break camping at our campgrounds. Naturally, many of these people asked why 18 people were biking across the country, at which point I would tell them about CSCS and then attempt to talk more seriously about climate change solutions. An answer I would often receive, if we got into the conversation enough, is that the climate is warming naturally and there is nothing to worry about.

Sigh. 

Although disheartened when hearing this, as a graduate of communication studies, I am also fascinated by these responses. It makes me think of the ways that we consume information and discern fact from fiction in a digital world pumped with data. When people have brought up this idea in the conversation, I haven’t had too much success getting anywhere any farther with any sort of discussion about the topic. How do you talk about an issue and plan for a solution when your conversant is consuming entirely different information than yourself? 

This is the question that, in my mind, is at the crux of a variety of issues – not just climate change solutions. It’s hard to plan for a destination when two people are reading different maps. It’s hard to organize an action plan when the problem is not mutually understood. For me, information literacy  – how to properly sort through, consume, and discern information – in the digital age, is a crucial foundation if there is to be any sort of meaningful dialogue on the topic. 

The answer to this question is something modern society is still trying to figure out. To what extent do we regulate media companies? Create policies on algorithms around search results and advertisements? Break down information bubbles? 

An interesting thread that came out from the beginning of CSCS’s event in Goshen was the fact that addressing climate change will take more than just environmental scientists. It will take political organizers and journalists and academics and business professionals. It will require all sorts of professions to collaborate together. Somewhere in this includes media and information specialists, those who can educate on media literacy and help create policies that ensure the conversational fabric of our society, while certainly tearing at the moment, doesn’t complete break down altogether. If we are to create solutions to climate change together, I hope we all can understand the problem together.

What is the Goal of the Climate Ride?

Sierra Ross Richer, Channanon, IL; July 12

Five weeks down, three to go.  If this trip was a mile race, this would be the third lap, the part where things get real.  The initial adrenaline has worn off, the lactic acid set in, but the finish line—and the excitement that comes with it—is not yet in sight. The third lap is where the big question arises: why am I doing this? 

It’s a question I’ve been asking myself recently as I pedal the country roads of Iowa and Illinois, through corn and soy bean fields, past rivers and woods.  What is the goal of the Climate Ride? And why am I doing it? 

The reason for the climate ride is obvious: climate change.  But how exactly does one ride for the climate? What are the specific goals and how does one go about reaching them?

We’ve done a lot over the last 2000 miles, but are we doing what we set out to do?

 We’ve started conversations about climate change with people we meet at campgrounds, gas stations, churches and events.  Of course, the question arises: could we do better at engaging more people, starting more conversations? Absolutely. And sometimes the size of our impact is disheartening. 

We’ve also tried to promote sustainable living through bike travel. Biking is a carbon-friendly means of travel and we are quickly becoming bike enthusiasts, but the questions is there again: are we doing all we can to be climate-friendly on our ride? No.  Our group is accompanied by a diesel-fueled support truck that uses petroleum to transport our stuff every day. We consume insane numbers of individually-wrapped granola bars and leave a bulging trash bag behind at every campsite we visit.  If our goal is to be an example of sustainable living, I don’t know if we’re hitting the mark. 

We’ve made connections with organizations and churches along our route, and we’ve enjoyed many delightful potlucks and warm breakfasts from our hosts.  We’ve also built strong relationships within our group, ones that will hopefully last far into the future.  All of these things are goals for the trip, but for me, none of them quite answer the “why” question.  

After some thought, I’ve found an answer that feels right for me. I see this ride as a sort of baptism into a relationship with the earth. It’s a way to publicly announce my commitment to a path of connecting with and caring for this injured planet. 

Like a baptism, this trip is a deeply physical ordeal, an immersion into the physical world of the land and my own body. This trip is changing me, shaping me, and I will not come out of it the same. 

Baptism requires confession—a recognition of one’s shortcomings—and this trip is also reminding me of all the ways I’m not perfect. I don’t live as sustainably as I could; I don’t always interact with the land the way I wish I did.  I admit that.  And I’m sorry.

But baptism is also a chance to publicly announce one’s commitment to a cause, a path, and that’s what this trip is giving me. I can’t bike across the country in a yellow jersey that says “Climate Ride” and pretend I don’t care about the climate.  My commitment is displayed on my shirt and in everything I do this summer. This trip is not only a chance for me to profess my commitment across the country, it also creates a network to hold me accountable for my choices now and in the future. 

This summer isn’t the first time I’ve thought about climate change or done things to try to heal the earth in the same way that the day I was baptized into the Mennonite Church when I was a junior in high school wasn’t the first day I thought about Christianity. But I believe that symbols are powerful, and I want to make this ride a symbol of my commitment to the planet. 

Before the trip began, Clara Weybright spoke to our group in a zoom meeting about the visits we will have with our representatives in Congress at the end of the trip.  She said: “You saying, ‘I biked across the country because I care so much about climate change’ is honestly really, really convincing.” 

I think Clara knew the answer to my question before I did. I am biking across the country because I care so much about climate change that I want to show it to the world. 

A Home Grown National Park

Mary Ann Conrad, Glenview, IL; July 11, 2021

I took a few days off from the Center for Sustainable Climate Solutions bicycle ride to visit my friends Janelle and Omar Landis-Kheshgi in the northern Chicago suburb of Glenview, Illinois where they have created in the vein of Douglas Tallamy’s movement a “home grown national park.”

On a quiet sidewalk lined street, their quarter acre property on Parkview Road is truly an oasis of natural beauty where birds and butterflies thrive alongside fruits and vegetables, a habitat corridor that attracts not only wild life but passing neighbors who may pick up free gifts of surplus squash and tomatoes.  “We have several spots where you can just sit, watch, listen, and lower your blood pressure,” says Janelle. 

As we sit on the screened in porch eating soup made from fresh garden vegetables, a house wren warbles liquidly from the tree outside.  We had just toured the outdoor landscape together where Janelle and Omar’s relationship to their natural world is evident and inspiring.  “Oh, look at this… “ Even they, with their intimate relationship to each living plant and its carefully placed label, welcome surprises with childlike joy. 

I wander with camera in hand past tall milkweed and elderberry and am transported to my childhood spaces in eastern Pennsylvania where Janelle and I grew up.  So much has changed in American landscaping since our parent farms of the 50’s dissolved into suburbia.  Omar laments the local garden club’s dependency on garden center plants rather than native species.

“A person doesn’t want to be a plant collector, but a natural member of an eco-system,” he says.  

Janelle gently upturns the thin leaf of a Whorled Milkweed to show me a Monarch egg.  We move over to the Prairie Milkweed to see the larvae which she determines, after consulting her  guide, to be a 2nd Instar.   Janelle is registered with The Chicago Field Museum Monarch monitoring Project where she reports on her Monarch larva regularly.  This year the count is down.  An adult flits above the 8 species of milkweed planted on this oasis and feeds on the tall Joe Pye Weed that almost hides the neighbor’s house.

Although the strawberries are over, I feast on raspberries, blueberries and the last apricot of the season.  Apples, pears, and peaches hang heavy and green on the branches of fruit trees around whose feet wild flower seeds sprout.  Tomato plants line the south side of the house in tall wire cages.  The back garden sports rows of beans, squash, cucumbers, and more—my mother’s, Janelle’s mother’s gardens in less miniature than I’d have dreamed given the space differences.  Across a generation I feel, I smell pure love of the land and love that moves out to share abundance.  As I write, Janelle arrives with a steel bowl loaded with the first cucumber, string beans, sugar peas, summer and patty pan squash—our lunch salad will be incredibly blessed.

I hear Janelle talking by phone with her 100 year old mother back in Pennsylvania celebrating together the amazing bounty, Janelle describing in detail the wealth in her silver bowl.  I think about this place, this small plot of land, Omar’s parents’ home that he has loved for many years and now nurtures so tenderly.  If you get him started, this quiet man will talk on and on, “rant” he calls it, about his concerns for our natural world and our relationships in it. 

This small unassuming place, is an appropriate stop along my climate ride journey. These ordinary people who have raised their family, celebrate grandchildren, and now focus their energy on their garden and the names of each precious plant, they are the ones who can speak to us about climate change and the changes we need to make to address it.   I thought I was coming for respite from heat and campsites awash in the noise of highways, RVs, and street lights.  I thought I was leaving the climate ride only to find that I am where we are slowly learning we need to be, focused less on covering miles and more on savoring place. 

Here I have found indeed a homegrown park, a space where humans, plants, birds, and insects share an Eden I would not have imagined possible.  If we are to take seriously Janelle and Omar’s challenge to live as one in our little ecosystems, there would be fewer jets required to fly us around the world in search of landmark selfies, and we would perhaps retrain our ears to hear the white throated sparrow’s song, our eyes to recognize the little black feelers on the Monarch caterpillar’s head.  I had to look twice to really see, and then all the tiny black lines of the marvelous larvae’s body jumped into focus, the fragile monarch to be.

Our future and the future of the butterfly are connected.  As I watch Janelle and Omar in their habitat I think of Adam and Eve naming things, giving them labels and space to grow.  I remember our parents and grandparents’ staying close to home and close to the land as they nurtured us.  Somewhere along the way, we lost more than we realize in claiming wealth that is not wealth, in assuming we can go anywhere, know all, and own what was never meant to be owned, this garden our earth.

Downward Mobility as a Full Life

Micah Buckwalter, Geyer Farm, Oxford, IA; July 7, 2021

Often over the last month of riding, it has been easy to forget the reason for our trip. Instead of thinking about creating climate conversations and understanding what all is going on in the different parts of the country that we’re traveling through, I find myself just focusing on moving my body from the town we wake up in to the town we’ll be staying in that night. One aspect of the trip that helps refocus us all on the climate issues we’re riding for is an event we affectionately titled “Climey Timey.” 

Every few evenings, one of the riders presents a climate issue that they find interesting or that pertains to the area we’re staying in, and we discuss it in the larger group. About a week ago, one rider presented ideas for reducing personal carbon footprints based on the fact that the greatest indicator of an individual’s footprint is their level of income. He asked us if we would consider choosing downward mobility rather than trying to climb the economic ladder. Would we be fine with living a harder life than our parents? These were not questions that I had thought about before, but they brought about good discussions within our group. 

One theme that quickly came out was that living a sustainable life, even with less money, does not necessarily mean living a harder life than our parents. Maybe riding your bike to and from work or even to get groceries is less comfortable then the cars our parents use, but it is also very rewarding and by no means reduces your quality of life. 

Today, while touring the Geyer Farm where we are spending our rest day, we heard from Anna Geyer about the ways that her  family is transitioning their farm away from conventional crops to be fed to animals towards crops that can be used for human consumption. Although this transition is environmentally beneficial, Anna explained that it was a practice of downward mobility, as the soybean market is skyrocketing right now and they could have made a lot of money if they would have gone down that route. It was encouraging not only to know that there are farmers who understand the critical need to begin this transition, but also to see the principle of downward mobility being played out in the real world. Personally, the idea of downward mobility is a bit frightening to me, but these discussions and experiences have shown me that it is entirely possible to live a full and sustainable life without such a dependence on money. 

A Pact with the Wind

Isaac Andreas, Lincoln, NE; July 1, 2021

Dear Wind,

You are my fickle friend. At times I so admire you; at others I curse your very breath. When I ride with you I see every blade of grass and leaf cheer us along. When I ride alone I witness no such respect. When we were young I was whisked away by your breezy attitude and lofty outlook on life. I’m beginning to wonder if this whirlwind thing is going to work out after all. I feel like I’m losing you. Please, Wind, we can make this work.

Here’s what I will do. I will work to stop emitting carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gasses in order to reduce my impact on climate change and extreme weather conditions which cause you to react so violently. I will also work to protect forests and grasslands so that you have space to work through your own emotions without causing damage. I will listen to what you have to say.            

This is what I would ask of you, Wind:

Wind is fragrant, wind is kind.  It does not whip in a frenzy, it does not gust, it is not loud. It does not flatten tents; it does not steal bike gloves at night; it does not blow sand or rain in eyes; it does not hide behind a Semi to push bikers off the road, it does not disperse trash. Wind does not delight in upheaval but rejoices in self-control. It always is (ideally) a tailwind, always helps push, always cools your sweaty brow, always brings good weather, always lifts. Wind never fails. But where there are forecasts, they will be wrong; where there are gusts, they will be still; where there are resolute tempests, they will pass away.             

I believe there is still time for reciprocity between us. I hope that you agree. I eagerly await your reply.

Best zephyrs,

Isaac

Going through the World Together

Greta Lapp Klassen, Lincoln, NE; July 1, 2021

Twenty three days ago, when we were still getting to know each other and developing our rhythm, we met with Geoff McMillion from Adventure Cycling Association in Missoula. We had crossed the entire state of Washington, but our journey was still getting started, and bike touring was very new to most of us. I’m sure that I wasn’t alone in wondering whether I would really be able to make it the rest of the way across the country. How could our bodies and minds ever adapt to this new lifestyle? Would we really be able to remain fully functional and healthy for so long? 

While sharing about his work at Adventure Cycling, Geoff painted a picture of what it meant to participate on a bike tour. Not only is it environmentally friendly and good for you, but it lets you see the world around you at a slower pace, experiencing the country and meeting new people in a new way. Bike touring, he promised, would restore our faith in the American people and humanity in general. According to Geoff, while bike touring is about self-sufficiency and resilience, most cyclists discover that the random strangers who help them along the way are the most impactful part of their experience.Would we – a hefty, well-supported team of 20 – come to the same conclusion? I wondered.  

We carry all of our camping gear, bike repair equipment and food with us in our well-stocked support vehicle. Sometimes we pass through entire towns without speaking to locals. We are a well-oiled machine and we always have the comfort of knowing what our daily routine will look like, (more or less). After all, we have a constant supply of avocados, chocolate milk and granola bars to fuel us, no matter where in the country we are. But life has a way of always throwing you for a loop, especially when you try to stick to a careful plan. Thanks to a series of curveballs, freak occurrences, and happy accidents, our well-oiled machine has cracked more than once. And when our system falls apart and we are left completely vulnerable and exposed, strangers have come to the rescue. 

First, there was the kind family from California who picked us up and drove us three miles up a mountain so that we didn’t have to hike to go on a cave tour. Then there was the man from Michigan who carried my group 12 miles on the busy roads of Yellowstone when we were slightly dehydrated and had a flat tire, even though it meant rearranging his entire car to make room. There were also the two men who greeted us in Gillette, Wyoming, made us coffee, and then paid for our breakfast at a local dinner. 

A week ago, when we entered Nebraska, most of the group got lost and found themselves dehydrated and with multiple flat tires due to goatheads. Later that day, our campsite was nailed by a massive dust and rain storm, and the support vehicle got a flat tire. As we tried to protect our belongings from water damage at our primitive campground 15 miles from any sort of town, the only other people at our campsite, a couple who lived in their RV, generously let us sleep in their home for the night. Without Jane and Charlie, our group would have spent an extremely miserable night in the storm. 

Now that we have crossed Nebraska, passed the halfway point and gotten a little more comfortable with the less appealing aspects of bike touring, its safe to say that nobody – not even the most brave and independent ones of us – can make it on our own. We are fragile and interdependent, just like our earth and the ecosystems that support us. We are told that we should be able to make it through life alone, yet on this trip, I am learning just the opposite. 

Without this group, and without the people we have met along the way, I have no doubt that I would have given up by Missoula. Yet here I am, almost a full month later, still peddling along, albeit slowly and creakily. I might not bike every single mile, but I am still making it, one small interaction at a time. Grace and empathy aren’t as scarce as we think they are, and together we can fill the world with abundance and beauty, if we only stop to ask for help. 

The Gift of a Biking Pace

Liz Miller, Valentine, NE; June 27, 2021

Twenty people are hand washing their clothes in a sink or a small plastic tub. I watch the rinse water run clear over the fabric and exit brown as it passes through. Soon the clothes line sags, full of clothes, strung between as many trees as grow on our campsite. Laundry. Setting up shelter and a place to sleep. Getting from one place to another. On a cycling trip, every act of life takes more time, more care offered by my own body. 

As I scrub and wring out each piece of clothing one by one, I notice the burn in my arms. These strong arms. Likewise, as I pedal from one town to the next, crest one hill and descend to the base of another, I feel the warmth in my legs. These strong legs. 

I realized the other day while passing fields in the midst of wheat harvest that my sense of time and distance has begun to change. I have family in Lincoln, and 100 miles west in Grand Island. In a car on the highway, the trip takes about an hour and a half. I gleefully realized that I could make that trip in a day on my bike— just a day! And it doesn’t seem so long or daunting or such a waste of time anymore to spend a day cycling instead of rushing there faster. Perhaps the visit would be that much sweeter because of the effort I gave to arrive. 

That time and energy is sacred, a spiritual act— and a gift that I can continue to offer to the earth and my loved ones as I move through life.

We Ride through Stolen Lands

Anna Paetkau, Crazy Horse, SD; June 24, 2021

This past week completed week three of the climate ride. In my personal opinion (which was shared by many others on the ride) this week was the most difficult in many aspects. Firstly we completed not one but two centuries meaning that we rode for 100 miles those two days. Sandwiched in between was the biggest climb of the trip, the Big Horns baby. Our legs were dead and our minds fried from the draining heat and the incredible challenge. Despite our sorry state, we realized we were not fully appreciating the land we were on and the history that allowed us to even complete this trip. We ride on stolen land and many of our ancestors were responsible for settling it. How could we continue this ride while acknowledging and appreciating the land and its previous inhabitants?

A couple of riders came up with an antidote to our problem while riding through Yellowstone National Park. They suggested we have a couple of people do research about the land we were traveling on. This research would include its previous indigenous occupants and potentially some history of its importance. Another group of riders also had the brilliant idea of researching how climate change was affecting our surroundings and sharing that with the group too. I volunteered. Little did I know, the week I would be sharing would be the week I would be the most exhausted. Our fearless second-in-command Tyler Goss asked me if I was ready and I half heartedly said I could pull something up. Disheartened by the fact that my sharing would not be as in-depth as I would have liked, I started putting some ideas together. 

The day I was supposed to be sharing was the day we were staying at “Devils Tower”. Riding up to the incredible rock formation, I wondered how it got its name. Although the thought soon left my mind at the prospect of post riding snacks as we pulled up to our campsite. Instead of being greeted by our usual grapes, chips, and chocolate milk, one of our support drivers, Mary Ann, introduced us to a family at the entrance of the campsite. They were members of the Northern Cheyenne people and were at the park celebrating the solstice.

The park was sacred land and part of the buffalo migration that this family followed every year in order for ceremonies and celebration. Marianne introduced us to Thaddeus who had graciously offered for us to sleep in the two teepees he and his brother Cleroy had set up for their stay. It had rained the night before and so it was important to let the teepees dry out in order to prevent mold. With the agreement that we would help take down the teepees, we had found our housing for the night, 

Thaddeus gave us much more than shelter however. After an invite to dinner, he stood in the teepee with a group of riders and gifted us with his vulnerability and insight. He shared that he was one man that could only speak for himself and to his experiences/ teachings, and then opened up about his difficult upbringing and the multiple mindset shifts he endured in order to become the person he was. He was raised in a Catholic boarding school and taught Christian ideals whilst also being taught traditional practices from his great grandmother. He shared how he let go of his anger of being raised with two conflicting identities and his journey of forgiveness and self discovery. In the spirit of his wisdom, I will not share his personal stories as I cannot speak for him or to his full truth. 

He, however, gifted us with more than just personal stories. He unknowingly saved me from my conundrum of poorly planned land acknowledgment by sharing his family’s story of the sacred land we were on. The name Devils Tower is the white given name of the natural monument. It got its name from white settlers viewing sacred ceremonies of indigenous people and thinking that they were devil prayers. Despite the derogatory origin of the name, the South Dakota government was unwilling to change it back to the indigenous name, Bear Lodge. While I will probably not change a state government’s mind with this reflection, I can share the story of Bear Lodge that Thaddeus shared with us. 

A long time ago, there was a young bear that fell in love with a human woman. The woman did not reciprocate the feelings of the bear and so she climbed a large tree, what is now known as Bear Lodge. Four men shot the tree up into the sky to allow the woman to escape the bear. She became the North Star. The four men became the Little Dipper, always pointing to her. The young bear grieved at the now stump and clawed at it. (If you look at Bear Lodge, it resembles a clawed stump quite well). The bear went home knowing that the woman would not come down. His home was a couple of mountains away at Bear Beaut. His father and mother punished him for breaking the natural laws and told him that he would be forced to pray for the humans for the rest of his life. They forced him on his knees and elbows and put a crown on his head to symbolize his fate. If you go to Bear Beaut, you can still see the mountain that looks like the praying bear. 

It is important to note that this is my retelling of the story Thaddeus heard from his family and isn’t necessarily a general story shared with all North American indigenous people. What it is, is a different narrative to the white washed history that plagues this nation. The climate riders were gifted with this alternate history. After hearing Thaddeus’ stories, we dove deeper into conversations as a group on our white washed education and the idea that language and names hold so much power. By using white given names for sacred landmarks, we are perpetuating the gennocide of indigenous culture and uplifting white power. Such a small change in our language can begin the necessary dismantling of colonialism that runs deep in the veins of this country.

I challenge our riders and the people following from back home to take the time to question the names of land and landmarks used in this country and to even question common phrases. What is the history behind what we are saying? How does it continue our conformity to colonialism? I will be carrying these questions with me throughout the rest of the ride and beyond, join me in the conversation.

A Yellowstone Poem

Tony Bartlett, Yellowstone, WY; June 19, 2021

We saw a yak yak yak 

Oh wait a bison bison bison 

It tried to attack attack attack 

And we said bye son bye son bye son 

In the woods woods woods 

We saw a bear bear bear 

And all we did did did 

was stop and stare stare stare 

We got away way way 

Back to the site site site 

We couldn’t sleep sleep sleep 

From all the fright fright fright

Reconnecting with the Land

Denver Beck, Gardiner, MT; June 14, 2021

As I think about the root problems of climate change, I think about the growing disconnection with the place that we inhabit. Erasure of traditional ecological knowledge, advancing technologies, capitalism, and environmental exploitation are just some of the factors that have created a deeply rooted disconnect between humans and nature. 

Many of the systems that we operate in on a daily basis perpetuate this disconnect. Simple acts of driving cars or buying food from a supermarket show the separation that has been created between humans and nature. The Indigenous people of the Menominee nation refer to sustainability as a balance that needs to be maintained between different sectors of life. To have a sustainable balance and to maintain this we need to rekindle our relationship with nature in a way where we begin to work with it and alongside it, instead of against it. Riding a bike across the country inherently connects a person with the land they are passing through. 

Moving slowly, more quietly and through less human polluted spaces starts to lessen the separation between us and nature.  In general terms, I think this is part of what we are attempting to do with the climate ride. We aren’t implementing any grand, new mitigation or adaptation strategies; we aren’t really even attempting to live 100% environmentally friendly lives. A lot of us flew on a plane to get to Seattle and we have a support truck and trailer following us, burning gas and carrying our food and gear. What we are doing, however, is attempting to reconnect with the land around us and spread this to others. 

In addition to some of the other goals of the trip like engaging in conversations about the climate and creating a network of climate ambassadors, I think part of the goal is to rediscover the shared relationship that all of us have with the environment we live in.  And though we have deeply tarnished it, whatever we can do to make steps towards reconnection and begin to maintain this relationship can play an important role in addressing the climate crisis.

An Ode to Gravel

Isaac Andreas, Gardiner, MT; June 14, 2021

Gravel. By now, most of the riders agree that it’s difficult and sometimes scary to ride on, depending on the grade. Some have even spoken choice words against its very existence. 

But Jesus said to love your enemies, so, in that spirit, here is an ode to gravel. 

Gravel is my rock (not my salvation).

When I am sore, gravel massages my aches and pains (it really digs in). When I hit the rocky parts of life, gravel is there (causation).

When I take things for granted, gravel gives me some perspective (even highways are superior).

When the world is silent gravel lifts its rasping voice to occupy me (stifling conversation).

When my bike is naked, gravel dust covers it (not great for the drive chain).

When I fly too fast, gravel reminds me of my mortality (jarringly). 

When I cannot wash my clothes, gravel washboards my very soul (bump bump bump bump). 

Thoughts from Rosalia

Dan Conrad, Rosalia, WA; June 5, 2021

Last night we camped in the community park of Rosalia, a small rural town in far eastern Washington state.  Rosalia was named in the late 1800s for the beloved wife of one of the community’s founders.  On a green grassy lawn we were surrounded by tall poplars, spruce, and firs for shade.  For the first time in four days we had access to a kitchen with a stove and a refrigerator which offered the opportunity for ice cream and brownies for dessert.  Are you aware there are communities of Mennonites and Hutterites in eastern Washington state?

Looking for a spot to perform my morning exercise,  I spotted the stump of an ancient cottonwood many years my senior.  I could feel something of its pain, and selected it for the blessing it would bestow on me.

Two nights ago we had the opportunity to interact with Dick Raunch er, camp host at the fair grounds of Ritzville.  Dick and his lovely wife Malinda are in their 80s and volunteer time to the camp as a way of “giving back to the community.”  Western rural communities are suffering due to an extended drought and the Covid Pandemic.  Dick’s passion is climate change and the crises facing humanity, and he has written a book Waiting is Not an Option (self published, available on Amazon).  He shared with us as a prophet and wise elder.  He foresees a grim future for humanity as the greed of capitalism and expectations of perpetual growth implode.  Like John the Baptist he implores repentance.  Like Noah he recommends that those with eyes to see build their arks and prepare for the deluge he anticipates.

Reflecting on his words and contemplating our tent camp last evening, I thought “We are a camp of refugees on a cross-country pilgrimage.”  And yet, we are a pampered lot.  The best in bikes, camping gear, and outdoor clothing.  Computers, GPS, and superb technology. Support from a Ford 250 XLT. pulling a 10 foot trailer making 10 MPG.  Ice cream and brownies.  How do we truly identify with the poor?

“If you identify with the poor,” Dick asked, “how do you respond to  beggars in our midst?  Do you share with them, which would be the human response, or do you say, ‘if you worked harder you would have what I have?”

Here is my challenge to MCC, Goshen College, Eastern Mennonite University, MEDA, and all of us.  What if our next climate expedition for sustainable climate solutions were a cross-state trek of 20 people on foot, carrying tents, clothing, rice and beans in the fashion of the world’s refugees.  The task of the foot refugees would be to travel less and to interact more, to invite conversation and participation in the walk along the way, and to experience more closely the foot-sore journey many in our world confront.  Would there be willing participants for this journey?

Finding Connections

Liz Miller, Rosalia, WA; June 4, 2021

Communal mindedness and connection with our bodies and the earth were two of the guiding principles we established on our first day together, but in this past week of riding, the connectedness I’ve experienced has extended far past my own body and this small group of ours. I’ve noticed the way cycling across the country has and will connect me with my past experiences, a global community, those who have come before, and my home spaces. 

My past experiences

Just the ride to the airport set the stage for this trip’s surprises and the cohesion between my past and present experiences. Vanessa, Anna, and I got a ride from Vanessa’s family friend, who asked us in the car if we spoke Spanish. When he found out I had learned in Honduras during my SALT year, we ended up chatting for the rest of the car ride, talking about all sorts of places and foods that we both loved. I didn’t know three years ago that the seemingly disjointed moments I was living would bring continuity and understanding to what I am living now. 

My global community

Dusty, rural Washington wasn’t the place I expected to think about global community, but it has been just that. First, we passed a sign that read, “Necesitamos trabajadores.” Next, rows and rows of fruit trees. Then a taqueria called “Hugo’s Tacos”. After that, a dormitory with a sign, “No se permite visitas,” complete with a campo de fútbol right next to more fruit orchards. I don’t know a lot about the migration patterns and needs of Washington state, but  I do think about how climate change is part of the reason people migrate. I think about how immigrants are a vital part of the US economy and bring rich culture with them. I think about how Spanish language accessibility is crucial, even and especially in rural settings. I think about how I am a part of a much greater world.

Those who have come before

It was day 2 of riding, and we had a 2-mile tunnel to pass through on a gravel rail trail. I found myself in tears in anticipation of the later adventure, and it was only 7:30am. Just about a month ago, I lost a second cousin in a tunnel train accident. My family lost a sister, daughter, grandchild. My SALT year lost a dear friend, so full of life, adventure, and depth. As I rode through the tunnel surrounded by my coach and another SALT friend, we sang hymns together. It felt fitting to honour people we love through song and support, and it made me reflect on the many ancestors of myself, as well as ancestors of this land who have come before, and whose presence remains. As I honoured a family member that day, I also hope to learn about and honour indigenous communities throughout the duration of this trip.

My home spaces

I and another climate rider were at dinner with our coach, Bob, just a few days before the ride. As we chatted about our excitement and fears over pasta, we both mentioned how we hoped we had everything on the packing list. It said to bring a warm coat, but all I had were several thinner layers: a raincoat, a long sleeve, a sweatshirt. “If it gets cold, I’ll just wear all of them,” I said. Before I knew it, Bob left the room and returned with two high-quality, packable warm coats, one for each of us. “Take these,” he said, “I won’t need them this summer.” So far it’s been hot, but tomorrow and on will get colder as we continue climbing in elevation toward the Continental Divide. I’m looking forward to having something that keeps me from shivering through the chilly nights. 

It’s true— this whole trip wouldn’t have been possible without the support of my family, my community, my multiple homes. Frank, the guy who sold me my bike on Facebook Marketplace; Les, who made sure everything was working properly and I was fitted and ready to go; Bob, who lent us the coats and has mentored me these past two years; my family, who rides with me every day as I wear the perfect patterned socks I’ve been gifted for the past three Christmases. And so many more. Each day is a surprise, but as I move, I’m constantly surprised by the rootedness I feel to the many different contexts I’ve lived and families I’ve found.

Thoughts from under a Shade Tree

Mary Ann Conrad, Ritzville, WA; June 3, 2021

Such relief a tree brings!  I ride in the support vehicle past the bikers and marvel at their energy and willingness to keep pedaling in 100 degree weather.  Dan and I arrive at the day’s campsite and unpack what we can handle, visit grocery stores and bike shops, pick up ice. 

And then those riders roll in sweaty and triumphant, and I am reminded of why I am here.  These young people are precious and alive.  I want to support this generation in coping with the world we have bequeathed them.  I am inspired by their humor and enthusiasm, their undaunted spirits when heat wilts mine 

It’s the people, along with the trees, who have made this trip a blessing so far—first of all, the climate riders themselves, and second the people we have met along the way.  These are pure strangers who suddenly feel like friends—Brad and Kay, who I met in the KOA swimming pool.  They stopped by our trailer to look at the route, invited us to charge our phones at their campsite, and cheered us on.  There was a California couple whose name I’ve unfortunately forgotten who were also encouraging and provided several of us opportunity to practice our Spanish.  There’s the gas attendant here in Rittsville who shared with Dan the local concern for area drought and how it has affected the farmers.  Here in our Fairgrounds campground we are welcomed by hosts, one of whom has written a book related to climate concerns.  Finally, today we are visited by the pastor of Menno Mennonite Church, Bryce L. Miller, with greetings from his congregation and stories of farmer concerns and the soil blessings in past years of ash from Mt St. Helene’s.

Whatever heat we shall endure in this ride and into the future of our planet we will ride it out together.

Learning to Slow Down

Greta Lapp Klassen, 6 days before journey’s start; May 25, 2021

After a long week of projects, essays, exams, and bike rides, my body crashed. A few nights ago, I woke up at 3 am with a burning throat and a headache. The next morning I didn’t feel much better. I tried to make the pain disappear by consuming lots of citrus and cough drops, but these quick fixes couldn’t get rid of the message my body was desperately sending me: Take. A. Break. 

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have pushed back against these warning signs. I would have taken a few days off to recover and recharge. But, we are a week away from biking across the country, and I have been trying to get in as many long rides as possible. After procrastinating all day, I finally mustered enough strength to lace up my shoes, clip on my helmet, and get pedaling. I took a slow easy ride around town, not planning on going more than ten miles. 

I was nearing the end of my ride when I heard a car coming up behind me, and decided to move onto the sidewalk, a maneuver I have made dozens of times before. This time however, something was off. Instead of gliding onto the sidewalk with little more than a bump, my bike toppled, and I, clipped into my pedals, toppled right along with it. 

My whole right side was smashed against the sidewalk, with my shoulder and head taking most of the blow. Immediately there was blood everywhere, dripping all over my body, bike, and onto the sidewalk. I grabbed a roll of toilet paper that I had with me and held it to my face, where I sensed the blood was coming from. I managed to bike home, and after some tearful phone calls and a virtual consultation with my doctor, I went to the emergency room, where I received four stitches on my chin. 

The next 48 hours were filled with ibuprofen, neosporin, bandage changes, and ice packs, as I tried to soothe my black eye and deal with two competing thoughts: “It could have been worse,” and “how did I let this happen?” 

The second thought has a clear answer. My body needed some TLC (tender loving care), and I refused to give it any. We have been taught our whole lives that productivity comes first. Capitalism has no room for rest and repair. Instead, it points us to a supermarket that offers us a wide variety of cough drops and syrups, enticing us to fork over our money just so that we can keep on working. After 21 years of living with this mindset forced down my throat, it feels almost impossible to resist it, especially when I feel like the thing that I should be doing is inherently “good,” like training for a cross country bike ride for climate change. 

Yet look where this mindset has gotten us: I have a black eye and a busted chin, and our earth is dying. The earth, our only and vital life source, has been abused beyond belief, chopped down and poisoned and melted for money. And we are feeling the effects. We have been for decades. Yet we have brushed off the warning signs and demanded that the earth do what we tell ourselves to do: push forward and protect the bottom line. 

Capitalism asks for speed, novelty, and action. The earth invites us to slow down, appreciate its ancient gifts, and be still. The earth looks out for us. Capitalism could care less. So, how can we rewire our systems to think and act like the earth, especially when doing so is not rewarded by society? How can we slow down when our financial and emotional well beings depend on succeeding in a fast world? How can we learn to listen to our bodies and our earth and trust the messages that they are sending? I don’t have an answer, but I sense that somehow, by biking across this giant landmass that we call the United States of America, I might figure a few things out. 

I am far from perfect, but I truly believe that perfection is the enemy of progress. I do not have to be a perfect environmentalist or advocate to make a difference or to care about climate change, and by putting this invisible standard on our work, like so many well-meaning circles do, we exclude the very people we should be inviting in. People who aren’t vegan or vegetarian, who sometimes drive the quarter-mile distance to work, who use Amazon too much, who fly in airplanes and enjoy it. People who don’t protest or badger politicians enough. People who, quite frankly, are too interested in the arts to make climate change the single and solitary focus of their life. (All of these people, by the way, are me.) 

Although I might not fit the traditional mold of an environmentalist, I won’t let this deter me from witnessing the beauty and destruction of the earth this summer, and I hope that this experience will point me in the right direction. Maybe I will finally learn to listen closely to my body and the earth, and take what they are telling me seriously.