How To Move The Stars is the day by day retelling of a bicycle ride around the world. Start from the beginning to get the whole story.
My adventure was a modern day epic, a solo, self-supported bicycle ride spanning 38,000 miles across six continents. There were moments I barely survived, and times I cried tears of joy, but mostly, this is a story about the thousands of people I met along the way. I moved through their cultures, and dramatic landscapes. I ate their food and slept on their land. I was constantly arriving to the open arms of strangers who were excited to help me achieve a feat that few could imagine. I did this for years, immersing myself in the world and meeting the people who live here. The story I returned with is a snapshot of humanity, captured in a lived experience. Thank you for joining me on my journey.
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How to Move the Stars by Jacob Lemansky. Chapter 10. Ukraine. May 12th, 2013. Into Ukraine. I packed my things in the morning and walked around the campground to say goodbye. A jar of pickled vegetable juice was being passed around as a hangover cure. I felt okay, but I took a drink out of curiosity. The flavor was certainly strong enough to clear my head. I was given two loaves of bread, two more canned meats, a lighter for my stove, and a guitar pick. In memory of the veterans, an orange and black stripe ribbon was tied to my trailer flagpole. Hopefully, it will bring me goodwill somewhere down the road. I said goodbye to V last. I thanked him for inviting me to their celebration. He smiled and told me to come back next year. I pedal down the road away from my new friends, feeling refreshed and happy. A young boy on a bicycle coming the other direction said something to me as we passed. I couldn’t understand him, but there was a tone of warning. A minute later, two loose dogs came roaring out of the bushes to chase me. I kicked one as she snapped at my foot. In retaliation, she bit a hole in the pocket of my rear pur. With the campground less than a mile behind me, the attack was a sharp reminder that the time had come to be vigilant once again. Biking today was difficult. The rough roads dragged on my tires. A light headwind resisted my effort and trucks didn’t give me much room. My frustration was exasperated by wanting to arrive in Odessa. I missed Katie wanted to find a hotel to call her from. The city was 65 mi from the campground and I had to pedal straight through the day to get there before dark. My only stop was to get my passport stamped as I crossed a bridge into Ukraine. I was at the end of my daylight when I reached the edge of the city. The first hotel I found was full. They sent me down the road to another, which was also full. The sky had turned black by then. Under sparse street lights, I dodged speeding cars while searching the darkness for a place to sleep. I went another dozen blocks before finding a room in a cheap hostel. I was happy to get to talk to Katie. She was on a weekend climbing trip and answered her phone from the side of a mountain. The sun had set here, but was still high over her head. She said she was having fun and that the view was amazing. I told her I hadn’t seen a hill all day and so she described the mountains to me. I love her. May 13th, 2013. Odessa. On my way out of Odessa, I stopped in a park to play guitar and enjoy the city around me. As I was packing up, two elderly women dressed in colorful, ragged clothing came to me and asked for money. I had not yet been to an ATM in Ukraine, so I didn’t have anything to give them. I pulled my front pockets inside out to show them. One of the women persisted, pointing to my bags and demanding that I open them. The second woman moved closer while the first went for my back pockets, groping my butt in search of my wallet. After finding nothing, she began to unzip my handlebar bag while also scolding me for not giving her anything. I had lost control of the situation. To get away, I simply grabbed my bike and ran. They were in their 70s and while their fingers were still nimble, their feet were not. The women didn’t take anything, but I felt I had made a mistake by exposing myself to the possibility. The lesson I took away is to not stop in the cities and certainly don’t spread my things out in a way that prevents me from leaving quickly. I need to keep anything I’m not using packed away at all times. I’ll have to stick to taking breaks only when I’m alone in the farm fields where I can let my guard down. I passed a continuous stream of war memorials as I left. During World War II, the city was taken by the Axis powers in a 73-day siege. The battle resulted in 130,000 casualties between the two sides and the resulting occupation killed an additional 280,000 civilians. I can’t imagine what that was like. The scene of destruction, mass murder, fear, and grief. How terrible that must have been. I was glad to put the city behind me. While sprinting to keep up with the cars, I had to navigate the traffic ahead of me, watching my mirror so that I didn’t get run over and keep an eye on the road to avoid the many deep potholes. The drivers never shared their lane and passed so close that I was swerving to avoid their mirrors. The biking was hectic and stressful. Local residents clearly understood the danger I was in. Across the city of a million people, I seemed to be the only person on a bicycle. Tonight, I pushed my bike a half mile from the road to get to a narrow strip of trees where I could hang my hammock. I needed somewhere peaceful to calm my nerves, and this place was working. For the past hour, I’ve been lying in my hammock and listening to the birds. May 14th, 2013. Wet roads. This afternoon, I watched a storm approach across the wide open land. I pulled off the road to hang my tarp in a tree, then sat beneath as the rain drifted over me. I got out my guitar while I waited for the clouds to break up. For the first time, I was able to strum and change cords while singing at the same time. Each one was done poorly, but they were done together. I feel as though I’ve achieved some low threshold of talent. I’ve been following the most direct route between cities. The farmland is so vast that I have no desire to meander. I am essentially on the highway, though the road is only two narrow lanes with a shoulder no wider than my handlebars. Typically, I feel safe, but there are puckering moments when an oncoming truck passes a slower moving vehicle. Together they fill the road ahead, creating a wall of steel that barrels past me close enough to reach out and touch. In one instance, two speeding semis came down the road towards me. The ground was still wet from the rain, and as the passing driver pulled out to overtake the slower truck, the back end of the trailer skated onto the shoulder directly at me. I dodged into the grass, wincing and turning my head as I braced for an impact that never came. The sharp steel bumper passed me within inches. I steadied myself, stayed my emotions, turned back onto the road, and kept going. In order to continue this journey, I must maintain my unquestioning faith in my skill and luck to keep myself safe. If I ever come to expect that I will be injured or worse, I believe I will surely quit. In the moment right after the truck slid past, I made the conscious decision not to let the incident bother me. I have no room for doubt. My can opener broke tonight trying to pierce one of the unidentifiable cans from the Moldovven party. I wasn’t too upset given the day I had. I was feeling genuinely grateful to be away from the road cooking dinner and looking out at the grand expanse of soybean plants. I did have one option to get into the can. At the Veterans Day party, I saw a Russian man opening canned beans by stabbing the lid with his knife, then sawing the top off. I have a knife, but I didn’t like the idea of dulling the blade on a can. The mystery meat will have to remain a mystery for another day. May 15th, 2013. Motorcycle tourists. I woke up in a sort of purgatory. My vision was cloudy and white. I couldn’t see where I was or even tell which way was up, and my face was strangely wet. In growing panic, I fought my sleeping bag to free my arms. Pulling myself upright, I looked out of my hammock to see that a thick fog had settled in the dim morning light. I could see just fine, just not farther than my feet, and everything was dripping wet. The sun appeared through the mist as a dim orb of light hanging just out of reach in the eastern sky. Visibility was not good enough for me to be safely on the road. So I biked for a few miles along a tractor path. Where the track ended, I pushed my bike into an unplanted field to wait for the fog to lift in the world to reveal itself. Once I could get back on the road, I pedled a few hours before pulling into a pleasant modern gas station that had Wi-Fi and a cafe. I was happy to get out of the heat and sit on a chair. I called Katie as her workday was starting. Now that she has all the surveys for her project, she’s working on figuring out what the data means. We talked for an hour, which was a welcome distraction from the persistent farm fields and traffic. While I was sitting in the cafe, I met three Germans who spoke English, two men and a woman. They were on a motorcycle tour to Mongolia, then eventually back to where they started. He talked about where to find good places to sleep and the dangerous Ukrainian drivers. They said that they avoid cities because the drivers are so unsafe there. When they asked how I was fairing, I told them, “As long as the cars don’t hit me, it’s not dangerous at all.” We laughed, though the Ukrainian drivers do make me nervous. The woman in the group bought me a bottle of orange juice. She said, “I know how much things like this can help. How very kind of her. People that ride motorcycles long distances have a sense of what I’m doing, and they sense it’s very hard. This evening, I left a road onto a tractor path that I followed for a mile to find this quiet spot in a grove of lilacs. Birds chirped in the trees around me, and a warm breeze rustled the leaves. I sat in my hammock and watched the glow of a fiery sunset linger on the horizon. With a new can opener from the gas station, the mystery meat given to me in Malddova was revealed to be a duck pate. Something I’ve never eaten or even seen before. I ate the tan duck flavored paste for dinner spread over a half a loaf of bread. I like the flavor enough that I’m not sure I would ever buy any. Now I’m lying in my hammock watching the stars shine brightly over dark fields. I’ve seen three meteors burn up in quick white dashes. For billions of years, they explored the cosmos before vaporizing in the course of a single exhale. I like to think they appreciate me bearing witness to the end of their long journey. out here. I might be the only one who sees May 16th, 2013. A hot dog in Ukraine. I’ve been struggling to find grocery stores along the highway. Today, I resorted to eating at the gas stations and cafes that service the motorists. Frequently, the cafes are nothing more than sheds with a single plastic table sitting outside. They are oneperson operations, and sometimes there is an attached room where the owner lives. I’ve served a boiled hot dog in a fresh bun topped with a carrot salad, ketchup, mayonnaise, and a springrig of parsley as garnish, making this hot dog the fanciest I’ve ever eaten. As a side, I was served a warm, oily bowl of potato soup with a single white chicken leg floating in the broth. The meal cost 20 and made me think I should eat out more often. Throughout the day, I passed another 50 mi of farm fields. A large city offered a change of view, but I was scared off by the traffic. I decided to follow the bypass to keep myself safe. In Ukraine, more than anywhere else, the reckless drivers have forced me to confront the risk of what I am doing. Though the road is only two lanes, whenever a vehicle catches up to another one, the driver will pass. And once the maneuver begins, I have never seen them back down. If there is oncoming traffic, the passing vehicle will straddle the center line while the vehicle being passed and the one coming at them will drive on the shoulder to make room. Even when vehicles are passing in both directions, the brake lights never come on. Four tight lanes are created as the cars squeeze by each other. Whenever I see this happening, I went in and expectation of a crash. For the 6 hours I was pedaling today, I needed to maintain an exhausting level of focus, looking both forward and back, always ready to ride off the road. Even when cars had room to move over, they rarely did. After 5 days of this, stress and anxiety had begun to weigh on me. Yet again this evening I arrived at my camping spot in perfect health. I feel the dissonance of my emotions not matching the reality of my physical well-being and to continue this journey with the expectation of being harmed simply does not serve me. As a remedy, I resolved to shift my attention away from what could be to what is. From now on, I’m accepting that a driver passing me by a hair breath leaves me as healthy as if they were 10 paces away. No longer will I subscribe to the idea of a close call. Either I’ve been struck by a truck or I haven’t. And so far, I’m perfectly fine. May 17th, 2013. following a canal. Last night, I slept in a narrow strip of trees pinched between the road and a canal. Several times, loud trucks jarred me awake. I wasn’t able to rest, so I left early just as the sun was cresting the horizon. An hour later, I was still drowsy, and when more trees appeared, I hung my hammock for a morning nap. I was wakened by two middle-aged farmers arriving in a small green chilapy towing an old wooden cart. They had sickles to cut all the grass growing thickly between the trees. The land had been covered by crops for days, and men harvesting the grass from the side of the road has become a common sight. I tried to talk to them, but they kept to their work. The canal I slept next to stretched straight to the horizon in both directions. The land was so flat that water pulled in the base without flowing either way. I followed the canal for 35 miles and never crossed a single small hill or lull in the land. Eventually, the canal led me into the town of Army where I stopped at an outdoor market to buy another day of meals. A row of 10 booths lined the streets, all selling the same assortment of cheap cookies and candy, nothing I wanted. I bought a package of noodles for dinner in hopes that there would be better options tomorrow. A man came out of the crowd to talk to me. He asked me a question in a Slavic language I couldn’t identify. I shrugged and pointed to my ear to let him know I didn’t understand. He made a call on his cell phone, then handed it to me. The voice on the other end introduced himself as Roman, the son of the man in front of me. In English, he invited me to their home for dinner and a place to stay for the night. The father walked me to a concrete apartment building, a perfect representation of Soviet era housing. Inside, bare light bulbs cast shadows down drab concrete hallways. We were going to the ninth floor, which made the stairs a bad option. There was an elevator, but it was too small to fit both myself and my gear. I set my bags in the hallway with the father, and he held the door while I squeezed inside, standing in my bike straight up on its back wheel to get it to fit. The father and I did not have a common word between us, but we did have a moment of clear understanding. As I stepped inside the elevator, about to abandon all of my gear with him, I hesitated and looked at him questioningly, the look of a parent saying, “Tell me the truth.” to a child caught in a lie. He knew exactly what I was accusing him of and reacted with understanding. Shaking his head no. He crossed his heart with his finger, a gesture so sincere that it transcended our spoken language. And I decided to trust him. I arrived at the apartment and the father followed shortly after with my bags. I entered a small living room nearly filled by two recliners and a TV. The kitchen was on my right, wallpapered with a patterned scene of cornucopia. Ahead of me, a hallway led to two bedrooms and a bathroom. The home was simple and plainly decorated, but the mood was inviting and warm. I met Roman, a thin man in his early 20s, and his mother, who was always smiling. Roman offered me the shower to use and a washing machine. I declined. I was soaked by mist two days ago and felt clean enough. He furrowed his brown confusion and said, “No, take a shower.” His basic English didn’t allow for a nuanced suggestion, but I wasn’t offended. I so rarely bathe that I’ve lost the contrast between feeling dirty and clean. At this point, I’m not sure what would be required for me to crave a shower. The five sweaty days since my last one were not enough. I cleaned myself and joined the family and a neighbor around the small kitchen table for dinner. Roman’s mother had cooked a wonderful feast of soup, sausage, salad, bread, mashed potatoes, fish, wine, and vodka. I felt happy to be around them, and there was a lot of laughter as we ate. Tonight I’m sleeping in the parents’ bedroom while they sleep on the recliners in the living room. They told me they usually sleep out there. The bedroom has pink walls and curtains, and an old television is sitting on a dresser. An altar in the corner has images of Jesus. I feel grateful for their kindness. May 18th, 2013. Treasure hunting. Roman’s parents left early. They were both engineers at a local chemical plant, which affords them a nicer lifestyle than many of their neighbors. His mother left us a breakfast pie made from a big pancake, which she decorated to look like a face that had ketchup lips and lunch meat eyes. Roman wanted to show me the local battlefield, which he said was the most interesting thing around. The site was 5 miles northwest of town. I rode my bike carrying a shovel in my pur while Roman jogged alongside. He announced our arrival when we got to a dry field along the Caranisa Gulf. The place was unremarkable except for a ditch with 20ft mounds of earth running on each side. Roman explained the construction was 1,800 years old and stretched 6 miles straight across the narrowest point of land between the Crimean Peninsula and mainland Europe. He said that many battles have occurred right there because the raised mounds are the only cover around. I look north and south across the salty flood plane. Truly, the only thing worth dying for in that place was the strategic importance. As a natural choke point, the line of that ditch has always been the logical position to hold off an invading army. For that reason, the soil has been soaked with blood across millennia. I was struck by the realization that we were standing on a killing ground with a long history. The place was somewhat miserable in the present, too. The temperature was 90°. There was nothing around to offer shade, and a dense cloud of small black flies buzzed in my ears and darted into my nostrils. While the sun beared down on us, Roman took the shovel and started to dig into the side of the bank. Over the next hour, he broke away the dry soil until there was a hole up to his thighs. In the process, he found seven rifle casings, two anti-tank casings as long as my hand, and a 1949 German penny embossed by swastika. He told me that the penny had no value to a German soldier on the front line and would have been carried only as a keepsake from home. I imagined the penny falling from a soldier’s pocket, perhaps in a moment of chaos. Roman gave me the coin to keep, saying that he had others. About the rifle casings, he noted that there were three different calibers, meaning that different men from different armies or even different wars had been in that spot fighting for their lives. Back in town, I ate lunch with Roman, then gathered my things to leave. When we were partying, he asked about the necklace I was wearing, which had a round medallion given to me by a friend at my going away party. He bought the engraved metal circle off a late night TV infomercial because of claims that the wearer’s balance would be improved through the use of holograms or some other unqualified means. With a mix of bewilderment and sadness, Roman said, “Americans will spend money on anything.” He asked if the medallion worked and I told him I hadn’t fallen over so far. I thanked him for his friendship and waved goodbye as I pedled away. I was a mile out of town when I fell over. The road had no shoulder and where the pavement stopped, there was an 8-in drop onto loose gravel. The traffic was heavy and the trucks were not giving me any space. I rode on the white line, staying as far right as I could, but in a distracted moment, I drifted too far. My front wheel slipped off the road and the height of the drop made it impossible to steer my bike back under me. In an instant, I was sprawled face down in the middle of the lane. I had imagined this happening and I knew what was coming next. From my stomach, I turned my head to face the oncoming traffic that would surely crush me, but nothing was there. No cars, no trucks. I was safe. I picked myself up and quickly gathered my things onto the side of the road. The fall was so sudden that my trailer broke away from my bicycle, snapping one of the bolts. I had a spare for this exact purpose, but I only brought one. Now the bolt must last to the end. With the trailer taken care of, I stood my bike upright and turned towards the busy road. The fall had shaken me, but I knew there on the side of the road was not the time to dwell on it. In order to continue, I had to suppress my emotions and trust that I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. I lifted my bike back onto the dangerous roadway and began again. Tonight, I’m lying on the ground between farm fields with the Milky Way hanging high above. I arrived here safe and healthy, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that circumstances might have been different. My fall happened during a brief gap in the steady stream of traffic. Essentially, I was saved by luck, an idea that deeply unsettles me. Feeling safe in my camp, I tried to process what happened. I thought about the moment I hit the ground. Lying there face down in the road. I expected to be killed under the wheel of a semi. In the next instant, I saw that my life would be spared. In perfect balance and contrast, I experienced both the fear of imminent death and the joy of unexpectedly living. The intensity of the emotion was more than I could bear. I sat alone in the darkness and sobbed. overwhelmed by the precariousness of life. May 19th, 2013, my parents visit. The sun was already bright when I climbed out of the bushes where I’d been sleeping. Clouds were gathering like small cotton balls, and as they came together, the sunshine could only break through the thin gaps between them. Pillars of light streak to the ground in a hundred places, creating the appearance of scaffolding holding up the sky. I was happy for such a nice start to the day. My route took me south through unending expanses of farmland, past a few small towns, and an occasional row of trees. Ukraine is known as the bread basket of Europe because of all the wheat and barley they grow. Nearly 60% of the land is used for crops or 140,000 square miles, an area that would be inconceivably large if I weren’t pedaling across it. By this point, the immensity feels quite clear to me. Today was a rare one and that I actually had somewhere to be and someone to meet. My parents had booked a trip to see me and today I had 50 more miles to go to see them. I arrived in some Pharaoh in the early afternoon and headed to the hotel where we agreed to meet. They flew 9 hours from New York City then drove 11 more from Kiev. My mom worries about me bicycling on the opposite side of the earth and her point was well taken and how far she’d come to give me a hug. They hired a tour guide for the week named Eugene. I didn’t meet him today, but he was the one who met my parents at the airport with a car. After the long ride from Kiev, my dad commented on the Ukrainian drivers and their daring passes. I told him I knew all too well about their antics. And after their long drive, we explored the city on foot for the rest of the day. I was amused to see how often sex appeal was used to advertise products in the city. One ad that stood out to me was a small billboard for a sewing machine store. Yellow text was beneath an image of a sewing machine that would be used in a home. And in the background behind the machine was a beautiful woman in a seductive pose with black hair wearing a black necklace and a tight black dress that exposed her shoulders and thighs as she reclined on her side and leaned on her elbow. I couldn’t tell if their goal was to advertise their sewing machine to men who wanted to be with the model or women who wanted to look like her. Seemingly in Ukraine, beauty is used as a means to reach a higher social class. Perhaps this is not so uncommon around the world, but as we walked around some Ferupool, I saw women trying harder at this than other places I’ve been. There were many who were dressed well, wore makeup, flaunting themselves, and beautiful young women taking pictures of each other was a common sight. We returned to the hotel this evening. I’ll be sleeping in relative luxury while my parents are with me. And tonight I’m in a bed. I don’t mind though. My spot in the bushes last night was pretty nice, too. May 20th, 2013. Serapole. Eugene, our tour guide for the week, arrived this morning to take us around some Ferupole. Eugene is an interesting man, thoughtful, energetic, and quick to laugh. He has lived in this area for much of his life. In the past, he worked as an engineer and then a professor. He looked like a professor. Square framed glasses rested low on his nose. He wore collared shirts and khakis, and his graying beard was neatly trimmed. Currently, the weak economy has led him to be an English-speaking tour guide. My first priority was to go to a bike shop, and Eugene led the way. I had my parents bring me a new top-of-the-line bottom bracket to replace the loose bearings that have been bothering me for the past month. With the right tools, the bike shop was easily able to swap the parts. A couple guys were there hanging out with the shop owner, and they enjoyed hearing about my journey. As we waited for my bike to be done, I did a short test ride and I could tell right away the bit of play that had been bothering me was gone. With that chore out of the way, I was able to relax into the break with my parents. We walked through some Ferupole, visiting a war memorial along the way. German troops occupied the city from late 1941 until 1944. Shortly after arriving, the Nazis massacred 22,000 of the citizens, including 14,000 people in a single day. The memorial was in a sunny park with an old green tank mounted on a marble stand. Given what happened, I felt the scene needed to be sadder. I wanted the memorial to push people to contend with the cruelty that humanity is capable of, forcing us to face that part of our nature with the hope that reminding us what happened will prevent history from repeating. That’s what I was feeling. So maybe the memorial was working. Another stop was to a winery where Eugene ordered us a flight of four different wines. Then expertly explained to us the flavor profiles and wine- making methods. The wine with the most unusual flavor, he said, was originally shipped on the deck of a sailing boat. The daily heating in the sun and cooling at night created a unique flavor that I’ve never tasted in a wine. This happy accident was captured in a process that they now do entirely at the winery. No need for an old wooden ship. This evening, we went out for a nice dinner with Eugene, his wife, and his two adult daughters, all of whom were lovely people. My dad ordered perogis, and out of respect to the women at the table, Eugene pulled my dad aside to privately tell him a joke, which my dad later shared with me. Eugene started. Two men sat eating an enormous plate of perogis, eating and eating until one man finally said to the other, “I cannot eat even one more bite. The last perogi I ate is here.” Eugene indicated the top of the stack with a flat hand placed at the bridge of his nose. And the first perogi, the man said, “I’m sitting on May 21st, 2013, Cave City. Eugene arrived in his car this morning to take us to a place that he said was very special to him. We headed out of town past green fields and forested hills, making our way deep into the countryside, eventually onto a road made of dirt and slabs of concrete that was in terrible condition. Eugene said that some of the rural dirt roads get to potholes filled with concrete, but as the dirt continues to weather away, the concrete is left sticking up like a stone mushroom. Where we are going was 60 miles from Eugene’s childhood home. And he said he walked there a few times, covering the ground in three days and sleeping in the farm fields along the way. He called the place Cave City, and we arrived into a beautiful landscape of sheer white meas rising over fields of poppies and horse pastures. As we got started, Eugene gave me a handheld GPS device in a Polaroid of a bush with coordinates written on the back. He’s taking me on a treasure hunt. I punched the location into the GPS and together we followed the arrow across the field and up a wooden hillside. When we got to the spot, the bush in the photo is right there in front of us. Except the branches had grown much larger. Using my hands, I dug at the dry leaves and loose soil underneath until a few inches deep, I uncovered a bottle of wine that Eugene hid 5 years before. I felt honored that he would give me a gift so long in the making. I believe he saw some of himself in my spirit of adventure. I thanked him for the bottle and for giving me a story of buried treasure. After finding the wine, we hiked up the side of one of the white meases. Eugene explained that the people once lived on the flat tops. The cliffs offered protection in a time when battles were won by being higher on a hill. Where we reached the plateau, there was an abandoned village, the most unusual I’ve ever seen. Dozens of homes were carved directly into the stone. There were staircases and alleyways. Doorways led into large rooms with sculpted stone benches. Some rooms had windows. Others had skylights. Ancient specks of paint still clung to the ceiling and walls. A tiny churches carved into a single large boulder. Eugene showed us what he called the honeymoon suite. He confessed, or maybe bragged, of spending nights there with girlfriends when he was young. The room was carved into the lip of the mesa, creating a natural balcony that looked out 50 mi to white glistening cliffs and distant green hills. I thought of Katie. A night in that ancient room is the sort of date she would appreciate. We ended the day in Sylvestole at a hotel in the city. My parents took me out for dinner and we had a nice meal. So far in this journey, I’ve kept eating what I know and what I can cook. Having gone out to eat with my parents a few times already, I’ve enjoyed trying some of the local cuisine. Tonight, I got potato soup served in a rye bread bowl. May 22nd, 2013. The Black Sea. Eugene picked us up this morning to take us on a tour from Sylvestapool to where we would be staying in Crimea’s southern coast. Our first stop along the way was at a World War II battlefield in memorial for the defense of Sylvestapole. There were artillery pieces on display, still pointing away from the city and trenches dug into the hillsides. Trees grow there now, but at the time of the war, they would have all been blown to pieces. The battle took place from October 1941 to July 1942. Sylvesta was surrounded and placed under siege by the access powers. All of Crimea had already been overrun and the city was the last hold out. Over 200,000 Soviet Union soldiers perished trying to defend the land. The Germans pummeled the area with so much artillery and bombing that in the end there were only 11 buildings left undamaged in a place where 110,000 people lived before the war. Such a waste. I think of those citizens, the happy plans they had for their lives. How angry they must have been to have everything taken from them. We continued following the coast. Striking white stone spires pierced the forested hillsides to tower hundreds of feet over the landscape. Stopping at the base, I saw climbing roots bolted up the rock walls. Katie and I climbed a lot together. She would lead and I would follow. I still think of myself as a rock climber, though out here on my bike, I’m losing finger strength by the day. Once at the hotel, my parents and I took a walk to the beach. We found a stretch of white gravel between a few large boulders and a barrier constructed of tetropods taller than me. An abandoned oil rig sat offshore with a bit of a lean, seemingly on the way to collapsing into the sea. Two middle-aged women laid on beach towels. Separate from them, another woman, much younger and more traditionally attractive, stood in the water up to her butt, striking sexy poses in a skimpy swimsuit, while a 5-year-old boy, I assume her son, took pictures with a digital camera. A strange scene, but for Ukraine, what she was doing was completely normal. May 23rd, 2013. Ukraine Palace. I explored the Black Sea coast with my parents. Today we drove to see the Levidia Palace, which began as a summer home for an imperial family in the 1860s. Apparently, the picturesque Black Sea coast has been a vacation destination for a long time. The ambulance was magnificent, and I marveled at the skilled craftsmanship from a time before the help of modern machines. The walls and ceilings were covered in intricate handcarved flourishes. Chandeliers were made of complex flowing glass shapes. The fireplaces had figurines chiseled into the stone mantels. The grounds around the building held decorative trees, carefully shaped bushes, and flowing white fountains. During World War II, after the fall of Sylvestole, the Nazis celebrated at the Levvada Palace. 3 years later, the same rooms were used for the Yaltta conference. This was the second meeting between Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and Joseph Stalin. They came to divide Europe between them and to try to create a new world order that would prevent the tragedy of another continental war. 75 million people had been killed under their watch. I wonder what the weight of that loss felt like. They must have wanted so badly to make things right. Yet within 2 years, tensions from their agreement started the Cold War. Over the next 43 years, proxy battles between communism and capitalism led to another 20 million deaths. how terrible these world leaders are at their jobs. Not killing tens of millions of people seems like such a low bar to pass. This evening, we opened the bottle of buried wine from Eugene. And I got out my guitar. I played a song for my parents. Never having shown any interest in music as a child. This would have been the first time in my life that I performed for them. I sat on the balcony strumming my guitar. And as the sun began to set, a rainbow appeared, arching gracefully between the sea and the towering white cliffs. The scene was just perfect. May 24th, 2013. Flower garden. My parents and I visited the Nikkitsky Botanical Gardens today. Built in 1812, the botanical gardens are one of the oldest in Europe and cover an area of 11 square kilm. We walked among the many varieties of flowers, trees, shrubs, cacti, and succulents, including the work of the on-site research post. The garden has a collection of 50,000 different plants. We happen to be here in just the right season for the flowers to be in full bloom. The variety of colorful roses filled in around a labyrinth of walking paths. The ground cover was especially impressive with patches of white and pink clover planted in colorful patterns circling the trees. We made our way to the coast this evening to find a restaurant along the water. As we walked through a commercial area, I was interested to see the different types and quality of construction. The whole place was bustling with workers as they rushed to make the area look good before the height of tourist season. The buildings were fairly primitive due to the materials available. And while none of the structures looked like they were going to fall over, the rawness of them made me wonder if there was any sort of building code. The street too was being repaired, and I noticed the sweaty laborers working in thin flip-flops as they shoveled gravel. In the United States, their company would be fined if they didn’t wear steeltoed shoes. So, if shoveling gravel is a minimum wage job here, then they would only be making the equivalent of $45 per month. Perhaps they wear flip-flops because they can’t afford shoes. The restaurant we settled on had a young woman in a black dress singing from a small stage in the corner of the small room. Her songs were in Ukrainian or maybe Russian. Before we walked in, she was only singing for the bartender, and as the only customers, she gave her table a lot of attention. I wasn’t sure what I was ordering, but a cut of meat came out with a side of potatoes, and I was quite pleased with my selection. We ate as the sun set and our daylight faded. By the time we walked out of the restaurant, clouds had moved in and the sky had turned an eerie blue. Lightning struck at the sea and the light rain began to fall as we drove back to the hotel. I would be out in a wet field tonight if I were biking, but this hotel was pretty nice, too. May 25th, 2013, a barbecue with Eugene. On the final day of my parents’ visit, Eugene invited us to join him for dinner at his home with his wife and two daughters. We drank wine and ate barbecue pork kebabs in his backyard. Eugene taught me a few of the local drinking customs. He told me that empty bottles never go on the table. They were placed on the ground and called dead soldiers. When we drank cognac, the chaser was a slice of lemon coated in sugar. Perhaps his most sage wisdom was to never drink alone. But he said, “If you have to get a mirror so you can drink with a good man.” His advice for my journey was equally useful. He said to never eat more than half of my food in a sitting. This way I’ll never run out. As the night was winding down, Eugene borrowed my guitar for a song. He began with a sad melody, soft and lonely. With his eyes closed, he started to sing in Russian. His voice was clear and moving, the lyrics delivered with heartfelt emotion. A sorrowful song of loss and mourning. I was moved even without understanding the words. When he ended, I asked what the song was about. He said as the story of a skier, it was sad that the ski season is over. When the party was ending, I thank Eugene for taking me around and sharing his knowledge. I’m always passing through places without knowing anything about them. So, having him along was a treat for me. Eugene shook my hand and wish me luck for the rest of my journey. My parents were happy to be guided around as well. They were especially glad to get to see me. They were nervous about me heading into Russia. Their worries weren’t distinct, just unease about what I’m doing. They could imagine Europe, but now that they don’t know what’s ahead for me, that’s scary. I understand their sentiment, but I’m undeterred. The nature of this journey is to go into the unknown, and I trust myself to handle any situation I get myself into. May 26th, 2013. Back on my own. My parents left this morning and I got going, too. I was feeling refreshed and excited to start pedaling. My gear was feeling refreshed, too. My bike was running smoothly with a new bottom bracket. My parents had brought me a new headlamp to replace the one I lost, and I added another wrap of clear tape around my guitar tube. My mom also loaded me with 35 lbs of canned raviolis and cheese from the United States. I keep my food in my right pure, and I could feel my bike listing as I started down the road. Up to this point in my journey, I’ve avoided carrying extra weight by only purchasing enough food to get me to the next place to buy more, usually one or two days worth. I didn’t fully realize that what this was doing was forcing a sense of scarcity on myself. That habit broke today. The glut of meals from my mom gave me a wonderful sense of abundance. My situation felt less dire, as if I had stepped back from an edge. I won’t have to skip a meal if a windy day slows me down. I can take an unplanned day off or have extra food to share if that scenario comes up. From now on, I’m going to try to always carry a little extra food. Being off of my bike for several days also gave me some time to recover. My nerves have calmed. My legs are rested. Nagging pains in my wrist, knee, and neck all feel better. These first few months have proven to be a breaking in period. Small repetitive use injuries are healing as I strengthen to the task at hand. But the process of sculpting my body is a slow, persistent task. Tomorrow marks 100 days on the road, and I still arrive each evening on weary legs. I didn’t realize bicycling around the world would be so tiring. I’ve set up my camp between farm fields tonight. After a week of sleeping in hotels, I’m happy to be back in my hammock. A pleasant breeze is sweeping across the land. The stars are shining. I feel good to be on the move again. May 27th, 2013. Lada. I seem to have found a corner of the map few people drive through. The quiet road was a joy to ride, and I relaxed as I took in the landscape. There were fields of purple flowers blooming under the sun. I watched swirling wind ripple across long rows of green wheat. Little gray birds danced in the sky. I’ve been seeing car repair ramps alongside the road. There are twin concrete structures sloping upward, leveling off and sloping back down. With a car parked on top, a person could walk underneath to access the bottom. Eugene told me the roads across the Soviet Union were so bad that people would carry spare parts in their trunks to make repairs on the go. The ramps were the compromise between improving the road and doing nothing. I still see the ramps being used and sometimes a car called a Lada is parked on top. Many of the cars I’ve seen across Eastern Europe are the same model. They’re compact four-door cars that came out in the late ‘7s. And for three decades, they were the bestselling vehicle in Russia. Eugene told me that they were cheap and easy to work on. And so that they would always be that way. The car was barely updated. Even when the lotto was discontinued in the mid200s, a new car off the lot was actually a model from the 80s. The whole country is now full of spare parts to keep them running. And with ramps to do the work, I expect the lotto will be around for decades more. In the late afternoon, I met a Russian cyclist out on a 10-day lap around the peninsula. He looked like he was having fun. In Russian, he told me his name was Victor, but I wasn’t able to understand much more than that. We rode together for a few miles, quietly enjoying each other’s company before our paths diverged and I was alone again. I carried on for another hour before sneaking away from the road to sleep between the farm fields.