Between Kosovo and Alaska- part three (back in the USA)

“Sometimes the most scenic roads in life are the detours you didn't mean to take.”

― Angela N. Blount, Once Upon an Ever After

I left the bike cafe late on Friday night, the last of several farewell parties and bike rides, a quiet ending to four years in Kosovo. In some ways everything seemed routine, especially since Tracy and the cats remained in the apartment, and the only real difference was packing up the bikes and leaving no trace of cycling behind. In the morning I rode to the airport as I'd done dozens of times before, sat in the departure area with Aimee (another American leaving), and set for the flight to Istanbul and then long leg to Atlanta. I had no idea at that time what was happening back in Alaska, what political bombshell had been dropped about the same time I'd left the cafe late Friday night, and that everything was about to change.

With my Scott and Fondriest bikes, leaving Kosovo

What I didn't know was that at about the same hour I was leaving Kosovo, it was Friday afternoon in Alaska, and the governor was releasing a bombshell set of line-item vetoes that would set the state on fire, metaphorically speaking (much of the state would literally be on fire within weeks, but that's another story).

I flew from Prishtina to the new airport in Istanbul, a sparkling, multi-billion dollar project that was perhaps too fancy for its own good. I raced through (extra security check, plus layers of document checks before boarding a flight to the US), just wanting a bottle of water to buy, not a Hermes scarf or a Rolex. Then a long flight to Atlanta, where upon landing I tried catching the free airport WiFi to check my mail. At the top of my email inbox was an odd message from the dean in Alaska, saying in effect, "We'll work through these cuts, nothing affects you personally yet. Don't panic."

The new Istanbul airport

That's weird, I thought. I knew it was the end of the fiscal year, and the legislature had agreed to cut the university budget by 5%. But we knew that already, right? Why would Karen try to reassure me over something I already knew about?

The WiFi cut out when entering the immigration hall in Atlanta, and I focused more on getting through and finding the bikes, hoping they were in good condition (they were). My dad met me at the arrivals hall, we drove back to my parents' house across the state line in Alabama, and I tried to get some sleep. Ambitious as I was, I had set up a bike ride for the next morning near Heflin, Alabama, and had invited several friends up from Georgia. Jen wrote the next morning saying she couldn't come, but Jim was driving from Carrollton, and Betty Jean from much farther away in Monticello.

Jim, a geology prof from West Georgia University, had ridden with me since 2014, while Betty Jean was an environmental engineer and cycling hero of mine since I 'd read about her RAAM race in 2015, and we'd become friends and long-distance cycling buddies since the following year. They'd agreed to meet me and ride the Cheaha route to the highest point in Alabama, and met at the Heflin ranger station. I'd tried thinking of everything I needed for the bike to be ready, the Trek 5200 I'd kept stored with my parents for long rides back in the US, and even gave myself extra time in case a tire was flat-- as one was.

But, and this was a big but, I'd forgotten my shoes. For those not into cycling this is not a minor point, as our pedals (and especially my Speedplays) don't work well without specialized shoes. So  -sigh-  we drove back toward my parents', and then rode a simpler route along the state line. Perhaps that was for the best anyway, the Cheaha route is punishing and this was more social, and I could reward Jim and Betty Jean with my mom's cookies while overlooking the Tallapoosa River.

The big problem with the easier Georgia/Alabama routes are the dog hazards. Unlike the rather tame Kosovo dogs, in the South they seem to appear every 400 meters along the road, chasing after us and even affecting which routes we choose. On the circle where I took Jim and BJ^2, one long stretch can really only be ridden south-to-north, as going the opposite direction requires a long climb where dogs are free to catch cyclists. If doing it as a descent, the trick is to keep up speeds above 25mph (40kph) to prevent dogs from having a chance at getting to the road. Admittedly, it's stressful and plenty of my local friends have crashed due to dog attacks.

I preferred the Kosovo cows.

With Jim and Betty Jean on the West Georgia roads

Betty Jean and Jim were, as ever, good riding companions. Always strong but laid back, they're the sort of cyclists who never complain about anything, are never out to prove anything to others, and are aware of their environment. I don't mind cyclists who are competitive and always focused on the bikes themselves, but bike rides can serve different purposes, and for relieving stress over long periods it's better to ride with someone who works with you instead of against you.

There's something deeply cathartic about the bike, and not just as an exercise in physical exhaustion -- in fact that often backfires on a bike, where it can be difficult to sleep after tearing up leg and back muscles. There is certainly the dopamine reaction, the release of euphoria-like chemicals in the brain after pain recedes (especially hard mountain climbs), but for me it has also been the escapist factor, too. Getting away, either alone or with friends, onto country backroads that few others see, escaping the closed rooms where I would just be pacing and fidgeting, focusing instead on the mechanics of the moment: speed, gear ratios, climb grade, cadence, shift position, stand up, signal to others, shift gear again... there is a constancy and simplicity to what needs to be done, and it allows the mind to clear. Well, except for when someone puts a song in my head, those can take ages to get rid of (and Betty Jean has been known to break into song on very long rides).

Group ride near Carrollton, Georgia

Oh, and we went to Burger Chick afterwards. If anyone finds themselves in Tallapoosa, Georgia, this small shack is a must-see experience.

With Linell and Jen at Burger Chick, April 2018

It wasn't until Sunday afternoon that I saw a message from a cycling friend in Colorado (Lisa) who wrote with a link from the University of Alaska president, and she asked how this would affect me. I read the letter.

Oh f*ck.

It would affect everything.

There are times when you see a news item and it just stops everything around you, not in the world-shattering 9/11 sense of things, but language being used in what should be quite a conventional manner but you immediately feel things unraveling around you. It was the same feeling I had when I saw this tweet pop up, what was for me early morning in London when the Tohoku earthquake occurred (later revised to a 9.1 event). It was a slow feeling of dread that bad things were about to happen, that if I kept looking at the computer I would just see carnage.

OK, this was a political earthquake, but I'm trained for that, too, right? I was between contracts, between homes, Tracy still in Kosovo and everything balanced on a tightrope that had suddenly been cut out. So how does one even raise this issue at the dinner table? How do I write to Tracy to alert her to the news? (Answer: she's used to disasters and war zones, too-- the blunt approach worked.) And what would it all mean? I had previously been a budget director, so I knew that my own position was especially vulnerable, an administrator for a program that did not yet exist, with a contract that did not start for another six weeks. I was instantly reminded of the start of the Michael J Fox movie from the 1980s, where he was unceremoniously fired the moment he showed up for work.

I found myself turning disaster planning skills onto my own life, something I've done time and again but always hated doing. Contingencies, plans A and B and C and mapping out possible alternate pathways, etc, etc. It's enough to drive anyone crazy, and I won't go into details. Suffice it to say that even my scenario planning skills were sorely tested, working through alternate logistics of whether to go to Alaska, what should be taken from where, if and when Tracy should fly to Anchorage (she already had airline tickets, including for the cats), and if somehow I still had a job when I arrived in Alaska, how to start a new program when everything else is being cut.

I had already set out a detailed itinerary of the road trip, which was due to start July 9. I kept abandoning my bewildered parents to ride with cycling friends. Jen, of Kosovo and Albania legend, had stayed in the area longer to see me, and we circled Carroll County while trying to think of how to prioritize protecting my own job, Tracy's well-being, my university program, the related research...

Trying to sort out problems with Jen, cycling Queen of Kosovo

I do not even remember where we biked, other than we started in Bremen. Jen and I had become friends during the Dublin 420 K back in 2016, the same long ride where I got to know Betty Jean and Julie G so well. Jen had flown to Kosovo the following year, after riding in the world championship in France, and we had spent two weeks (usually with Gjengiz and Migjen) climbing the mountains of Kosovo, Albania, and Montenegro. So it was not just the bike, riding with her was a good way to clear my head, to keep from pacing the hallways in my parents' house. Jen had to leave for Canada, but I really appreciated seeing one of my best friends before she went.

Then there was Jason. Jason had been a close riding partner starting in 2014, but especially during the summer of 2015 in the time between Budapest and Kosovo. A soft-spoken Marine, riding with him was never so much conversational as physically demanding- we would push each other's limits, save for 200km or longer rides, when I felt I had to hold him back a bit. He never complained when on the bike, whatever I threw at him or extra distance I caused by poor navigation. He and I rode in some backwoods areas I had not seen before, pushing the pace on the Scott I brought back from Kosovo.

Linell is another story. Jen's best friend and bike/running partner, Linell was the Tennessee state mountain bike champion when she was younger, and apparently never lost any of her energy since that time. From previous rides with her, I had these vivid memories of her climbing hills on her big (53) chain ring, calmly dictating text messages into her phone, and then wondering why everyone else was staring at her. Pure energy and pure goodness, we also rode together on a long, rambling circle around Carroll County.

Rare shot of Linell slowing down to check directions

Riding with Jim on the 4th of July

I also escaped for two days to north Georgia to ride with Julie, another long-distance randonneur and professor at Emory U. She had invited me to come and stay with her and her husband at a cabin near Dahlonega, meant as a group ride but for some reason only I was brave enough to follow her around the mountains. Our roughly 200km ride had over 3000m (10000ft) of climbing, often the short, sharp hills that are easy enough at first, but increasingly wearing as they offer no rest. We were in the back of beyond in north Georgia near the Tennessee border, a hot day spent dodging thunderstorms, visiting general stores where Fourth of July sales had candy and firearms on offer, and where I was completely, utterly lost. Julie always knew where we were, and she did remarkably keep us clear of thunderstorms that we could hear crashing around us.

With Julie in the north Georgia 'secret gaps'

The night before the ride we watched the movie Animal House, my choice and perhaps trying to find some humor in university administration-- though I was beginning to sympathize with Dean Wormer.

What happened in Alaska on June 28th shattered not only my own peace of mind, but those of most Alaskans and others across the US. Ignoring the bipartisan compromise budget the state legislature had worked out over months, Governor Dunleavy had, with one stroke of the veto pen, erased $135 million of funding from the University of Alaska system, along with a number of social programs, infrastructure, and other public goods. No university in the US had ever been attacked like this, given a 41% operating budget cut the afternoon before the new fiscal year, and ignoring the majority of Alaskans and their representatives. My feelings were summed up here fairly well.

I kept texting with Tracy as best I could given the time difference, and give her credit for her coolness under fire. She emphasized that she'd be there with me, whatever we decided or what happened. It was a rotten time to be apart, though that had happened often enough in the past. But we had to sort out what the budget cuts really meant. I figured I would start on the road trip, and kept having visions of Karen (the dean, and my immediate boss in Alaska) calling me when I was on the bike in Wisconsin, telling me to stay in Madison because there would be nothing for me in Anchorage. I did not even know what to pack, not knowing how long I would be in Alaska, and I tossed out earlier plans to mail boxes of clothes and books from Alabama to my new office. The car ended up being packed with a strange mixture of summer clothes, emergency road equipment, my laptops, and admittedly a fair amount of biking gear (including and especially the Trek 5200- the Scott and Fondriest would stay in Alabama).

So on July 9, I left early in the morning on the first day of three weeks across the continent - first stop Blacksburg, Virginia, where my friend were experts in disasters and tsunamis.