The Final Leg, the Last Hurrah, the Corvette of Passion Rides to Hezbollah

20/6/11

New Lebanon, NY



Jose can you see, by the dawn's early light...


Well, America, I'm back. Back in the US-something-something. Back with a vengeance. And twitching muscles.

Wait a minute there, returning to the US is fine, feeling vengeful is completely natural, but what is all this talk of twitching muscles? And, just one minute, you are back in America? Please, if you would give me but a single minute of your time, I am trying to sell this amazing new vacuuming device that cleans both ragged claws and scuttled floors, silently!

Did you not get the memo? That's right. I flew from CDG (Paris Charles de Gaulle) to BOS (Boston Logan International) June 14, where I was met by the most kindly of faces, namely those of David D. Aguilar (of dribblepenetration.net fame) and his mother. The next three days I rested and relaxed, wined and dined, and chatted the days and nights away with the best of pals that money can buy.


Why is Dave accosting that clearly blind girl with a mystery bottle of cologne?


Certainly, it was nice getting back to my old haunts, but I realized that Cambridge is just another nice place in the world that I have been and that I have no special ties to it other than having lived there for four years. Perhaps I have developed a kind of permanent restlessness in all places away from my true "home," but once I arrive I will have a better feeling for the veracity of that hypothesis.

Speaking of arriving home, I, naturally, decided to extend the bicycle trip from Europe into America and cycle from Cambridge back to Lockport, which I have done now twice. After a few mechanical problems delayed my departure a full day, I set off west on Route 20 on June 18 in the late morning. That day was hotter than I had experienced in Europe, hovering at 80 F and dripping with humidity. With my former -- and, from this account, forever applicable -- nickname "Sweatshop" in mind, I certainly should have been drinking water by the gallon instead of sipping it like I would a fine eggnog. My first 30 miles progressed smoothly, with the sweat dripping and with me cruising along at a respectable 17 mph, stopping as regularly as I would in Europe to rehydrate and refuel. Suddenly, going up a hill I realized that my heart was racing at an incredible 180 bpm, and I felt


You've been chosen as an extra in the movie adaptation of the sequel to your life


both tired and drained, being completely out of breath. I had to stop and take five, which turned into 30, as I made efforts to cool down and take in as much water as I could handle. A second problem was my lack of appetite, which prevented me from wanting to drink or to help replenish my salts.

It was within the next ten miles that the cramping took hold. At first, I noticed my hands tightening on the handlebars and my lower back spasming if I were ever to turn suddenly. Certainly, I became concerned, but at that point I was brashly continuing ahead at full throttle, determined to ride the 80 miles to my destination and constantly writing things off as less than they obviously were. I was of the mindset that I had been cycling ever since September, and so my body was clearly able to handle these minor stresses and setbacks without so much as a hiccup. Well, I was ignoring the hiccups but could not turn a blind eye to the throw-ups, as it were.

While I did not actually vomit, the situation worsened considerably. The cramping suddenly became more pronounced and spread from the small muscles in my hands and feet and into my calves and quads, which, may I remind you, are the primary movers of the pedals (and the goal of cycling is to move those pedals). There was a point where I was racked by a particularly violent bout of cramps that prevented me from riding even in the lowest granny gear. I took shelter under a tree to try to cool off while I devoured the only thing with salt that I had: a can of salmon. 30 minutes later, I was ready to give it a go again and made it another 5 miles before I stopped to refill my water bottle. I chose a place I have been to twice now as the watering hole, so to speak.


No matter how many times I pass this sign, it never gets old



It is a pizza/subs/sandwiches place in the town of West Brookfield that is owned by a Greek man and was being run that day by his son, whom I had spoken with a year ago. He said he was training for a triathlon and so would happily fill my water. We got to talking, and my story seemed to spark some remembrance in him of our previous encounter. At any rate, as I was leaving, he assured me that I would reach my destination -- a mere 15 miles away -- in 40 minutes. This was at 18:00.

Following an arduous struggle over the ensuing terrain including numerous failed attempts to hitchhike when I could no longer pedal, I reached the house where I was staying at 20:10. It was amazing just how slowly I was moving in spite of my best efforts to finish before evening. I couldn't help but laugh at myself -- through the constant tears, of course -- when I was twisted my foot trying to keep the bike from falling into a crack in the road, which of course resulted in a particularly nasty cramp that lasted for ten minutes. But at least I was finally safe and sound, with the worst of it behind me! On one hand, I no longer had to worry about making it anywhere and could just relax, but on the other hand, I could not sit down or move in any way without the various muscles in my body completely seizing up and contorting my features. I must have been quite the interesting looking visitor, entering the house drenched in sweat with eyes bloodshot from the windy downhills and unable to sit still due to uncontrollable muscle spasms. But I swear: This is the best way to make friends.

The following day, the cramps had subsided but the twitching calves still remained. I took it as slow as I possibly could and drank as much water as my body would let me.


Day man, fighter of the night man, champion of the sun; he's a master of karate and friendship for everyone


However, the entire day I was afflicted with a severely diminished appetite and a general lethargy despite having forced enough food and water into me to take care of nutrition. In addition, I saw some major climbs that day, some lasting 2 miles in length and all steady and unrelenting. Even as I neared my destination, it was all I could do to continue pedaling, which I remember telling a reporter four years ago was the key to traveling 1000 miles on your own power. Keep going. Just keep going.

This time around, I have decided to stop going. The strangest sensation overcame me after I had showered and sat down last night with my two hosts. After ten minutes in the chair, I could not make my muscles move to bring me to my feet. The feeling of nausea was still rather strong, but the scarier thing was an inability to move. Along with my lower back, my feet, my hands, and my legs, my jaw got in on the cramping action.


The last surviving photo of the man, the myth, the ledgebomb



At my lowest, there was a glass of water on the table in front of me that I just could not bring my body upright enough and my arm out enough to grab. My rule has always been that if and when I become too incapacitated to drink of my own glass of water, I need to rest and recover. The only thing that would trump this is if I still retain my appetite, for then all is well. I tell you, seeing a delicious pasta with meat sauce dinner and a glass of homemade beer in front of me and knowing it should be magically delicious but not wanting to actually put it in my mouth, even when I hadn't eaten anything substantial all day, is one of the worst possible feelings in the world, other than maybe seeing your only existing copy of your memoirs fall into an inconveniently placed paper shredder knowing all the while that they were written before the amnesia-inducing accident.

At any rate, I have a train tonight at 7pm. I feel like a real pro with trains, having taken quite a few in Germany with Andorf. I am curious as to the similarities and differences between the European and American systems. I am also glad to be recovering from whatever ailment afflicts me at such an inconvenient time in my travels. But most of all, I am overjoyed and tremendously excited to be reunited with my family following ten months of separation. The final chapter of the travels is coming to a finish, but it is not yet over.