Marital Separation

Day 17 found us in Chicago visiting George’s parents. Since they’re late risers, we had the morning to ourselves—which in our world means, of course, a bike ride. This time we knocked out 19 miles from our hotel to Lake Michigan and back.

George and I are together basically 24/7 on this trip (actually, even before this trip), which is both delightful and…a lot. So sometimes, we need to embrace a little marital separation. On this particular ride, I hung out in Illinois while George casually chilled in Indiana. Because what better is there than a literal state border to keep “healthy boundaries.” 

Later, George’s parents took us to Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry, where we toured a German U-boat. Turns out 59 crew members lived on that narrow 252-foot metal tube for weeks at a time. Which, by comparison, makes our narrow 18-foot camper for just the two of us feel downright luxurious. I did the math—each crew member had 4.27 feet of space. George and I will be living large with a whopping 9 feet each. Honestly, we’ll be practically glamping. 

Day 18 was our big push west to Denver. We logged miles, played “Would You Rather” (apparently George would not rather have to sing everthing for the rest of his life, but he would rather have to say everything in rhyme), and pondered life’s greatest mysteries, like why Exit B sometimes comes before Exit A. We also shelled out $175 to fix a windshield chip roughly the size of Rhode Island, which has me considering a new line item in our budget. 

Entertainment came courtesy of a thunder and lightning storm. I spent a solid hour with my phone camera poised like a wannabe storm chaser. When I finally gave up and set it to rapid-fire every three seconds, I actually caught a few bolts. Sure, I had to delete 150 pictures of a dark road, but totally worth it. Also, somewhere in Nebraska, we had our first gas out in the car. I won’t name names to protect the guilty, but let’s just say… it wasn’t me.

Day 19 brought us to Colorado, where we reunited with George’s old college roommate, Chris, and his wife, Kathy, for dinner. We’d planned on biking Cherry Creek Reservoir during the day, before our dinner appointment, but instead, we discovered a large crack in one of our car's tires. These tires were the sad remnants of the ridiculous 22-inch “summer tires” our car came with—basically rubber bands pretending to be wheels—from which we were trying to get the last vestiges of use. After wasting hours hunting for affordable and timely replacements that didn’t exist we gave up and headed to our dinner date. Spoiler: when we finally got home, the tire threads were showing. Mission accomplished—we squeezed out every last mile of those sad excuses for tires.

Hey There, Delilah!

 Days 13–16: 

On our way out of town, we stopped to tour a steel drum refurbishing plant where George’s younger brother is a production manager. Let me tell you—it felt like stepping into a time capsule of what America was like before OSHA, the EPA, and common sense existed. Fumes filled the air, the machines looked like museum relics (because some of them were literally 100 years old), and apparently just nine days earlier, someone lost both a foot and a hand because he skipped the whole “lockout/tagout” thing. The unofficial policy seems to be: if the workers are illegal, they won’t complain. It’s a sobering reminder that this kind of exploitation is happening right here in our own country—a country that should be better than that.

That night we landed in St. Louis, MO, for the real highlight of our trip: grandbaby Delilah! It only took the first 24 hours to win her over. We soon got our schedule down: 1) morning bike ride, 2) Delilah time with some sightseeing mixed in, 3) “work” while Delilah napped, then shocker, 5) more Delilah time.

      

Maddy played tour guide and took us to Elsah, home of Principia College, a school for Christian Scientists who opt for healing through prayer instead of medicine. Good for them that they have such strong faith, but if I break an ankle on a bike ride, I’m heading to the ER, not a prayer circle. We also ate at Maddy’s favorite local spots, saw her husband’s workplace, and went to Trader Joe’s (that might sound ordinary, but when you don’t have one in your hometown, it’s basically Disneyland).

   

When we were out exploring, we stumbled across the remains of International Shoe. You know, the business from the landmark case International Shoe v. Washington that established when a court could assert jurisdiction over an out-of-state company? If you’re a lawyer, this is thrilling stuff. If you’re not… don’t worry, you’re not missing anything. But you already knew that. 

Speaking of businesses, our daughter Maddy just launched a daycare and already has eyes on building an empire. She’s got more hustle than a Girl Scout staring down a cookie quota. We briefly hung out at the daycare, where one saintly human was wrangling three babies and a toddler. I raised seven kids, and even I thought, nope—this is way harder.

Now, about the biking. My favorite ride was a 30-mile trek to the Gateway Arch—bonus points because it’s also a National Park. Google, however, failed to map our route around St. Louis’s sketchier neighborhoods. Picture biking through a zombie apocalypse scene: once-gorgeous old homes now crumbling and overtaken by vines with no cars or people to be seen. Noone walking a dog. No children waiting at bus stops. Not even a bird. Nothing. Luckily, it was 7:00 a.m., which meant most potential threats were still sleeping off their late night escapades. Bonus: my cycling pace improved dramatically—fear really is the best performance enhancer. Forget death by car. We were more worried about death by homicide. Or pothole. St. Louis roads: 10/10 terrible. 

Once past the homicide district our route took us on the river trail following the Mississippi river to the Gateway Arch. After posing on the "Rocky-esque" stairs, we rode straight through the heart of St. Louis to get back for some more Delilah time. At the end of our ride, Google Maps had the audacity to ask if we “felt safe on this route.” Not only did I not feel safe, I felt like Google's guinea pig. 

Another morning we biked to Forest Park, which is basically Central Park on steroids. Central Park is a measly 843 acres. Forest Park? A beefy 1,326. It has everything: a free zoo, a science center, art and history museums, an amphitheater, a skating rink, tennis courts, a golf course, cricket and rugby fields, a lake with boat rentals, fish hatcheries, and over 30 miles of trails. Oh, and it hosted both the 1904 World’s Fair and the 1904 summer Olympics. At 7:00 a.m., the place was buzzing—clearly, when you get 12 million visitors a year, you have to start early.

So yeah—St. Louis gave us great bike rides, Trader Joes, and a park that makes New York look like it's not even trying. But all of that pales in comparison to what really mattered: time with sweet Delilah, who turned every day into the best part of the trip.

Every story has a soundtrack. There's only one appropriate song for this post! 

Pedaling the Erie Canal

 Day 10: 

We zoomed church as we drove to Rochester, New York where we met up with our friend, Jay Parnes, from the ZSCCA (Z-Series Car Club of America). Jay is a retired dentist who now spends his days wrenching on BMWs—a career pivot we fully support. Since it’s difficult to find a mechanic you know you can trust, George had wisely pre-ordered parts and shipped them directly to Jay: front and rear differential fluid, transfer case fluid, plus transmission fluid and filter. All neatly waiting.

Not only did Jay tackle the car maintenance, but he and his wife, Deb (an OBGYN and professor of medicine), also graciously opened their home to us. Talk about a full-service stop—repairs with lodging included. While Jay worked his magic in the garage, we got out of the way and wandered through Rochester’s art festival. Think Tri-Cities’ Art in the Park… but quadrupled.

That evening, Jay and Deb—both vegetarians—served us a meal made with the freshest ingredients. After days of road snacks and questionable travel fare, it tasted heavenly. We definitely ate more than etiquette recommends, but it was sooooo good!

Day 11:

Jay had one last item on the to-do list for the car, so once again we made ourselves scarce—this time by hopping on our bikes and pedaling over to the Erie Canal. We explored its history and even made it halfway to Palmyra before realizing time wasn’t on our side. (If only we’d had another hour or two, we’d have made the full trek.)

By noon we were back on the road, heading toward Newark, Ohio, to see George’s brother and his family. We rolled into town just in time for tradition: an evening walk with the nieces and nephew to Dairy Isle. Ice cream always tastes twice as good when it’s part of a family tradition.

Day 12:

While the nieces and nephew were in school and the grown-ups were off to work and classes, we snuck away on a little pilgrimage—to the NuCamp factory, birthplace of our trailer. We learned about the latest upgrades, took notes, and even booked an appointment for a trailer makeover next April when we’ll be passing through again. 

Getting there, though, was its own adventure. The two-lane road was brimming with cyclists that refused to cede their positions to let cars pass. But wait… this was Amish country. Could it be? Yes. The Amish have traded in their buggies for bikes—many of them e-bikes. They might not use electricity at home, but once they’re at work? Game on. 

The whole thing reminded us of Mormon loopholes: no coffee or tea, but hand me a Red Bull and we’re square (though not me personally). Every culture has its workarounds. 

On our way back from the NuCamp factory, we detoured through Sugarcreek—Ohio’s one and only alpine village, complete with chalet vibes and the world’s largest cuckoo clock. For those of you who've been to Leavenworth, Sugarcreek's one square block doesn't quite compare. Still, we had to stop. I mean, how often do you get to see a giant cuckoo clock with a full band popping out every half hour? 

That evening, George turned into the family bike shop, tackling his niece’s long-neglected ride. Meanwhile, I was on duty with the 4-year-old nephew—translation: keeping him from further dismantling the bike and ensuring no more bike parts were lost.

George was in his element. He swapped out a derailleur, ran new cabling, adjusted brake lines and pads, and trued up both wheels. By the end, he was beaming with satisfaction. To cap it off, we all hopped on our bikes for a short family ride, proof that his handiwork was road-ready.

Our son Alan once worried that life on the road might mean we’d fall short on “hours of service” needed for a fulfilling life. Well, between babysitting and bike repair, we can officially log this week’s quota! 

Every story has a soundtrack. Here's a song to pedal along to: 

"Camping" in the Adirondacks

 Days 8 & 9: 

The entire reason for this “pre-trip trip” was to rendezvous in the Adirondacks with George's college friends. Our hostess was the fabulous Laura Zung—wife and mother, scoutmaster, CEO, friend extraordinaire, and part-owner of a lakeside “camp” that’s been in her husband's family since 1880.

Now, before you picture summer camp bunks and kumbaya sing-alongs, let me clarify: “camp” here is a very misleading word. Back in the day, wealthy families called their rustic hunting and fishing estates “camps.” This one was originally purchased by a single woman, which was about as rare back then as an LDS woman wearing pants to church. 

The place still has its original cabins, supplemented with some modern luxuries like running water, indoor plumbing, and not one but two boathouses. It maintains its historical charm with about 100 dead animals, some mounted on the walls, others underfoot as rugs—almost all complements of great, great, great uncle William (the mounted deer butt being the exception). Oh, and the most important tradition: the vintage cookie tin, always stocked. George and I baked my signature cookies upon arrival to help ensure the tradition was maintained.

                   

Highlights included showing Laura the bounties of FamilySearch (nothing bonds friends like perusing their great-great-great grandmother's naturalization papers) and attempting something called a canoe carry. This is where you paddle across a lake, hoist the canoe on your shoulders, stumble across land to another lake, and repeat until you have to visit the chiropractor. I managed two quarter-mile carry segments and then hobbled around like a 90-year-old for the next three days proclaiming how beautiful and amazing the remote and uninhabited lakes were. 

George, unlucky man, missed the canoe carry because there weren't enough canoes. The substiute activity was a 40-mile bike ride to Lake Placid and back (the site of the 1932 and 1980 Winter Olympics). Not a bad alternative. 

We also went on a “booze cruise” in the host’s 1938 varnished wood runabout—which sounds elegant because it was. Unlike “camp,” a “booze cruise” means exactly what you think it does. Don’t worry, George and I stuck to the charcuterie board like responsible LDS adults. Besides, nothing pairs better with a 1930s boat than meat, cheese, and dates.

That weekend another “camp” across the lake was hosting a black-tie wedding. Since it was a boat-in-only property, literally everything had to arrive by boat. Guests, flowers, cake, and yes—even the port-a-potties floated in for the occasion. Since it had rained all day, I'm guessing the guests arrived looking less "vogue" and more "shipwreck chic." But no matter, the rain stopped and the sun came out at precisely the wedding's 4:00 pm start. 

In summary: historic cabins, dead animals, cookies in the cookie tin, canoe carries, olympic cyclists, booze cruises, and floating toilets. A fabulous weekend with fabulous friends! 

Every story has a soundtrack. Here's a song in tribute to our wonderful hosts!

The 3 Greats: Great Lakes, Great Hotels, and Great Quantities of Horse Poop

I realize my last post (and this one) had a “Kate Blatter early days” vibe. But bear with me—just like Kate's emails, I'll start with weekly novels, then my posts will dwindle to a few monthly paragraphs, then quarterly sentences, until one day they'll disappear all together and you'll be left wondering whether we toppled off Half Dome in Yosemite or became shark bait at the Dry Tortugas. 

Anyway, day 4 was a jackpot: Lake Superior, Lake Michigan, AND Lake Huron all in one day. They’re Great for a reason—massive, beautiful, sandy beaches, but way better than the ocean because… no sharks. Though, fun fact, they do have sturgeon, which are basically armored dinosaurs swimming under you. Comforting!

Ever since George watched Somewhere in Time with Jane Seymour and Christopher Reeve, he's had this dreamy fantasy of staying at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island. So being the romantic that he is, we hopped the ferry at St. Ignace, Michigan and landed on Mackinac island, which is basically like stepping straight into a postcard. No cars allowed! Just bikes and horse drawn-carriages. Quaint. Picturesque. Idyllic…until your nose gets involved. 

Because here's the truth nobody tells you: Mackinac is also one giant equine restroom. Poop and pee are everywhere. There's even several poor souls whose job description is scooping horse droppings all day. The "dust" that blows in your face when you stroll down Main Street? That's not dust. That's dried horse essence. Meanwhile, Hallmark would have you believe horse towns are sparkly clean (ahem, When Calls the Heart). Well, it's one big manure-scented lie. 

But Mackinac Island and the Grand Hotel were worth it. The hotel is decorated with a bold assortment of colors and patterns that should never be combined elsewhere. The giant veranda (one of the longest in the world) overlooks Lake Huron and is lined with white wooden rocking chairs, American flags, and geraniums. 

To have the full Grand Hotel experience, we had to have the five-course dinner served by uniformed hotel staff, with a harpist playing in the background (probably to calm the senses that were riled up from the gaudy, loud decor). But there's a catch: to enter the dining room (or parlor or veranda) after 6:30 pm, one must follow the hotel's dress code of "elevated evening attire."  Translation: a dress or suitcoat with tie. 

Dinner was followed by a jazz band and dancing late into the night—10:00 pm for us, to be exact.  All very romantic, if you ignore the faint aroma of horse poop wafting in the breeze. 

The next day, "timeless sophistication" gave way to spandex. we donned our bike shorts and pedaled all over the island—20 miles total. We started with the classic tourist’s loop around the island's perimeter that tourists are drawn to because its flat. Then we cycled the hilly interior where the views and wooded solitude in between the tourist hits made the hills worth it. Tourist hits included, rock formations, an old fort, the gazebo used in the Somewhere in Time movie, and a resort that funds humanitarian causes. 

The romance ended abrubtly that evening when we drove to Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, and transitioned from the Grand Hotel to a hotel so divey I briefly considered sleeping in the car. I haven't done any legal research, but I'm pretty sure Canada doesn't have an Americans with Disabilities Act because the place had no elevator. The Canadian equivalent must be that if you can't do stairs, you stay on the first floor. We lugged our heavy suitcases up to the second. At 10 p.m., the front desk called to inquire if we had bikes on the back of our vehicle. When we admitted we did, they instructed us to bring them into the hotel's office. That’s when we realized we booked in the wrong neighborhood.

Day 6 brought rain, so we skipped biking and drove to Sudbury, Ontario and worked in the public library for several hours. That night, we landed in Callander, Ontario, where George had booked an inexpensive, but actually clean, accommodation. Miracles do happen. We squeezed in a little bike ride to a fish-and-chips dinner a mile and a half down the road.

Day 7: more rain. So no biking again. Instead, I had a quick tele-doc appointment with a provider from India. I said “yes” to everything I didn’t understand (so basically the entire call) and somehow walked away with a prescription. Technology is amazing. Crossed back into the USA, picked up meds at Walmart, and finally arrived in the Adirondacks.

And that’s where I’ll leave you—for now. Until the next weekly novel. 

Every story has a soundtrack. Here's the theme song from Somewhere in Time to commemorate our time on Mackinac Island.

Zipper Fails and Bunnies on the Run

Day 1:  And we’re off! Well...technically we’re off, but it's not the real deal yet. It's a driving-intensive, three-week, pre-trip warm-up tour (sans trailer). A test period to work out the kinks of working from the road—mainly, making sure we can remote in to our work computers reliably and not have to shout "WHY WON'T THIS CONNECT?!" every time. 

First stop: the Buck Knife store in Post Falls, Idaho. The mission? Find a cheap blemished replacement for the cheap blemished Buck knife George lost.  The reality? Leave the store armed with not one, but two custom magnacut knives. George opted for the water buffalo handle, I went with cherry wood. Some married people do matching t-shirts, we do matching knives. 

To keep ourselves from fossilizing in the car, we broke up our day of driving with a 24-mile bike ride along the Trail of the Coeur d’Alene’s. The last time we rode this trail, we dragged along 11-year-old Lucy and 15-year-old George and somehow convinced them to ride over 50 miles in one day (70 miles for the entire trip). Remarkably, they claim to have fond memories of that trip. Though young George does regularly remind us how he had to carry everyone's stuff because his bike was "conveniently" the only one with a rack. 

   

Back on the road, we hit traffic: an accident up ahead with everyone funneled down to one lane. The perfect scenario for the zipper merge. Most people must not have paid attention in drivers' education because the majority of drivers see the zipper merge as a personal attack, rather than a method that is fifty percent more efficient and proven to reduce crashes. Self-appointed traffic police straddled the dotted line to keep anyone from using the right lane (we used it anyway), horns honked, and middle fingers were everywhere, including long after the accident scene. I just smiled and waved at the angry people, partly because I’m nice, mostly because I wanted their middle fingers to cramp up. 

I’m now considering making travel signs for those driving situations where I'd like to communicate with another driver without impromtu sign language or rolling down my window and yelling hopelessly into the wind. First up: “Zipper Merge—it's a thing, look it up.” Next in the series: “Your lights are off." I'm open to further suggestions in the comments. 

Oh, and in case you don't know what a zipper merge is, instead of everyone lining up early in the open lane, creating a mile-long back-up, and surprising drivers coming around a curve at 80 miles an hour, both lanes are used all the way to the merge point. Then, at the merge point, cars in the lane that is ending merge into the open lane—left, right, left, right—like the teeth of a zipper coming together. If you don't believe in the zipper merge, feel free to give me the finger in the comments. I'll just smile and wave at you the next time we see each other.

We ended our day in Butte at our favorite restaurant, the CasaGrande Steakhouse. Then we made the critical error of staying at the Rocker Inn. Again, do people ever pay attention to the lessons learned in childhood? Because apparently Olivia the housekeeper wasn't paying attention when her mom taught her how to clean! But they did have well-kept grounds with proud Montana patriotism. 

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Day 2:  We drove to Bozeman, MT and spent the morning with Lucy at MSU: breakfast, a grocery run, tears and hugs. I already miss that girl! Then back on the road to Jamestown, ND. Highlights of the drive included jaw-dropping scenery, a rainbow, and a cow statute so big it could probably have its own ZIP code.

Meanwhile, the boys living in our house back home cleaned out our pantry. They proudly reported tossing baker’s chocolate from 2013. Which raises the question: why did we own baker’s chocolate from the Obama administration? For some reason, the tossing of my baker's chocolate hit me with a wave of homesickness. Like Lucy, I will work through it. 

After a long, long day of driving, we rolled up to our reserved motel at 10:15 pm, which, as it turns out, is basically the middle of the night in motel time. Pro tip: if you’re dabbling in the motel scene (as opposed to the 24/7 hotel scene), call ahead if you plan to arrive after 7 p.m. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself knocking on the live-in manager's door, calling her phone repeatedly, and finally admitting defeat. We stayed at another Rocker Inn type hotel that evening where we kept our socks on, if you know what I mean.  

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Day 3:  We crossed into Wisconsin, chasing Lake Superior. We spent our driving time doing our regular Sunday check-in with our kids and attending church on Zoom. Somewhere along the way I got hungry and resorted to our family's standard road trip diet: bread and apples. I called my daughter to joke that road trips haven't changed much--we're still surviving on bread and apples, just like when she was a kid. She immedialty corrected me: "Mom, we only got the cheap bread. You're eating sourdough." I guess character-building is over, we're officially luxary road-trippers! 

Of course, we also broke up the driving with a short, exploratory, 14-mile bike ride on the Osaugie Trail that skirts the banks of Lake Superior in Superior, WI. We dodged bunnies and chatted with some old cyclists. Their first question was, "No e-bikes?" Nah, we're trying to hold off on e-bikes until we are 70 years old. Their parting comment to George was that he was lucky his wife rides with him. I'm not sure what that means. I was just tired of George leaving me with the kids and housework all the time while he rode his bike. Instead of turning it into a girls' time vs. boys' time scoreboard, I joined him. Best decision ever! 

That evening my anxiety started climbing just thinking about ending up in another sketchy, "don't-touch-the-beadspread" hotel. But miracle of miracles, the Cedar Inn motel in Ironwood, Wisconsin was spotless. Yes, it was dated like your grandma’s “good living room” from 1978, but after the lodging disasters of days 1 and 2, it felt like checking into a spa. For a germ-freak like me, it was anti-anxiety medication wrapped in floral carpet.

Tomorrow? More bread and apples, probably :-)