To Completion

Mackinaw City to Luddington

Intro

What follows is a long enumeration of the where’s and when’s of our trip. Before diving into the complete bore, what was it really like? Well, the troop of three; Jon, Hart, and Joe have figured out the Goldilocks of it all. Each brings a different perspective to cause just the right amount conflict to keep things interesting. Each has different skills to be deployed at different times—both physical and mental/emotional. Fixing a tire or starting a fire, always remembering to relax with a beer or bringing the urgency to stay on schedule. And all three love meeting the people on the way. To arrive at a campsite and hear about someone’s cross-country tour to a new life. A story about bicycle racing before WWII. Touring cyclists riding four times our distance to meet family for a yearly camping trip. To be stopped and told we’re doing what they always dreamed to do. Or the more benign, the looks we get from cashiers, waitresses, and park rangers as we bring our merry misfit selves into their lives for a moment. The scenery, the riding, the stuff that people are intimidated by, that’s the nothing part. Sure, it is a reward to see the sand, the lake, to ride on winding roads or trails. But the miles click by into a blur as the road goes under our tires. Unless we bike into mud, swamps, sand, or rocks, then things definitely slow down real good. Regardless, the riding all flies by. The people, each other, that’s the journey. That’s the fun we chase and hope to never stop chasing.

How we got there

Day One, Drive Time!

It is six hours to Mackinaw City from Milwaukee by car. Which means plenty of time to quote Simpsons, and fact check said quotes, leading to more quotes ad-nauseum. Joe decided to rest up by napping the first half, which is standard. Jon drove his minivan since it was his friend who was going to drive the rig back. Same as last trip, the theory is that we can drive a car up, bike home while the Chicago-Mackinaw racers will sail up, drive the car home. Perfect plan. Upon arrival, we found out the Michigan side of the bridge is not salt-of-the earth people of the U.P. It’s the craziest resort town with the most expensive parking. Hoo-ray for unexpected costs! We were not deterred, parked in the fenced in lot. Under the watchful eye of the shuttle drivers, we prepped for the trip, confusing them as to why we weren’t taking the shuttle and hopefully not errantly exposing ourselves.

First stop, pants for Joe. Having forgotten a sweater on the Door County trip, it was only fitting he forgot pants for this trip. Hart and Jon failed to capitalize on this time to get pocket burgers and instead stared off into Lake Huron for the last time before we hit the road, by bike now. If that wasn’t clear.

We made it two blocks before finding a restaurant and stopping again to look at the menu. Chasing us off, the waitress became awfully friendly after we said we’d buy something (oh we smell nice do we?). That would be the last time for that. Then the long conversation about what we were up to, why we wanted take out, and odd looks for asking to roll the food in aluminum foil even. She delivered. We rode under the Mackinaw Bridge on the way out, thus feeling like we ‘closed the circle’ from our start in St. Ignace two years prior. Crossing that invisible line away from Lake Huron before hugging the Lake Michigan shoreline. Jon figured we’d have plenty of day and wasn’t worried about arriving at a reasonable hour. He was only saved because of the short ten miles to the Wilderness State Park Campground, arriving exactly at sunset. Just in time to set the camp up in the dark.

Having hit the park after wood sales closed, we were bummed that we were going to miss the traditional campsite fire. We started setting up, and a man on a bike came by and asked if we needed anything. We demurred and continued to set up camp. The folks across the way asked us if we wanted their car headlights to light up our work, again we demurred. We were hearty woodsmen who needed no help. Moments later, bike man came back again, same question. This time it was clear, he wanted to help and wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Left no choice, we stated our need; wood. Oh, and beer. Beer and wood. He nodded knowingly and rode off. After a short spell, sure enough, wood and beer. Turns out our man Brent is a bike tourer himself. Having accomplished many trips far exceeding our minor goals he knew a group that needed a little generosity, regardless of how far we rode that day. He stuck around and drank with us as we discussed plans big and small. He was in the middle of a great touring vacation, in a car, with his wife and two young children. They were moving from NY City to Minneapolis and thought it would be grand to take a month off and camp along the way. Brent was so open about his journey and place in his life. One we all understood, moving closer to Grandparents, a bigger house, a place to settle down. But we all knew that when he arrived, that was just the end of this ‘trip’. The journey was going to be him and his family growing together.

After chatting with Brent, we took our lofty ideas, beer, and a little bit of whisky swirling around in our heads and heeded Hart’s call to   head to the beach and gaze at the stars. The night sky was clear and moonless presenting us a crisp view ofthe Milky Way, planets, and satellites,. Hart then caught sight of the brightest shooting star you could imagine streaking across the sky. Perhaps an auspicious message, the trip could be blessed with good luck from the beginning.

Day Two, Who Validated This Route

Listen, Google and Garmin both agree, there is a trail through Wilderness State Park. Trail there was, that was for sure. Alas, it wasn’t a bike trail. Signs were there, figuratively and literally, that this was going to be a bad route. Admittedly there was a giant STOP sign crossing the road, but Jon correctly identified it appeared to have a spot to walk around, not like we were going to go back through the puddle. And if you could walk your bike around, does that not mean you are invited further?

We broke camp the latest ever, but we figured we only had 35 miles to ride and a whole day. What’s the rush? We hit the paved road, which deteriorated into a dirt road, which turned into essentially double track. That’s where the trouble really began, mud. Then a puddle. We gingerly walked around, just barely escaping getting our feet wet within the first four miles of the day. Then, a larger puddle. This time Hart stepped in it. Then Jon, then Joe. Each of us with one wet foot. We were really bummed, until we saw the road was entirely flooded out ahead. Now we knew we were screwed. Assessing the situation, and before anyone suggested turning back, Hart just waded through. A bold move that Joe and Jon couldn’t have pulled off. The water hitting the bottom of his panniers and with Jon and Joe in just behind. Damp feet were no longer an issue; we were full-on soaked. At least we were back on the road and there were no further floods, proving boldness was the right move.

No one was surprised when the road did not improve, becoming narrower and narrower with less and less maintenance as we went. Until finally, it abruptly stopped being a road all together and was just a hike-a-bike trail. Still no chance of turning back, we carried on, Jon dutifully calling out the distance to the next turn, not explaining that he had no idea what came after the turn. At least there was a destination in a mile, half mile, quarter mile, 100 yards, fork in the road! It was just more trail. Helpfully, there was a map, trail markers, and arrows pointing to the next markers. By Jon’s new reckoning, we could go back the way we came, turn down an unknown road for mystery miles, or hike right up a steep rooty trail and hope it smooths out and we can bike for two miles. The two miles sounded pretty good, so up we went.

Immediately Jon fell. Joe identified this terrain as ‘not-bikeable’ and began hiking. Jon and Hart kept trying to bike, failing, trying, failing. Jon was anointed the chief faller. After about a mile of Jon and Hart’s shenanigans, Joe was still ahead with his hike-only philosophy. We all joined in just pushing along. Until Hart declared that we were not going to get out of there if we didn’t bike, and we all followed Hart’s lead (Jon fell, so he was last). Jon’s falls were just practice falls, Joe’s fall was the big time. His pannier hit the side of the trail and his tires edged out a little too much, the hillside trail broke free and sent Joe sliding belly down, bike up, down the slope until he came to a stop. He was prone, head up, feet tangled in the bike, and arms holding him from a full dirt facial. We rushed so fast to help, we forgot to take a picture for posterity. We picked his bike off him, and helped him back to the trail. He wasn’t injured but quite cut up, and one pannier bracket broke. Hart and Joe rigged things back up, and we started hiking again. Maybe a break from biking for a minute.

We were given hope when we saw another traveler coming towards us. Lightly dressed with a golden retriever behind, we asked, rather desperately, how long he had been hiking in. A mile, maybe? And he asked us where the beach was. Us, in a very confused state having just biked, waded, hiked, and dragged bikes along just said, “a while up” (it’s like four miles). He asked us to watch for his wife and sister-in-law before merrily going on his way. Sure enough, the ladies, dressed for tennis, were just behind. Churlishly, they asked why we weren’t biking. Sigh. This actually turned out to be a good sign. The trail had smoothed a great deal after this point, and we could indeed hop astride our bikes again. Beside a few plank bridge creek crossings (who knew shingles made for good bridge surface), we were making progress. When we finally escaped, more like two miles, from our ‘Dad Energy’ friend, we found the parking lot. Glorious parking lot, road attached and everything. Also, beach. Where was that guy going?

Having arrived at the sweet pavement, we did not dawdle, it was go-time. Especially since it was past noon, and we had gotten approximately nowhere. Jon had originally planned on making a quick stop at convenience store, but our good fortune of being so extraordinarily slow meant the local restaurant was open. Cross Village wasn’t even a one stop-light town, but it had a huge place to eat, Leg’s Inn. An old Polish Inn, it had a grand back garden overlooking the lake from upon a bluff. We chose to eat inside at the hearth of an enormous fireplace, not roaring or lit, within a Northwoods cabin masterpiece. The Albanian, not Polish, waitress was very kind to us and only looked dismissively at us once, when Hart followed Jon’s order of the ‘Polish Sampler’ and Joe’s order of the ‘Kielbasa’ with an order of avocado toast, she almost burst out laughing, but merely looked off to the side with a snicker. All was not lost, she brought us coffee refills in tiny little tin pots (we thought it was syrup). Jon and Joe had their fill, and Hart shared in the kielbasa after all. We strolled out, looked over the lake, decided we smelled too much for this crowd, and got back at it.

We were treated to a quiet county highway named the ‘tunnel of trees’. After hiking our bike, any road would have been nice, but this scarcely driven up north highway felt free and clear. Popping out of the trees, we hit the small town of Good Hart. Calling it a “town” was pushing it. This was a three-way corner against a field with an art shop and small convenience store. Turns out, the store was bigger than expected on the inside. Hart enjoyed the town pride and purchased some Good Hart merch, while Joe shopped for the perfect local treat and checked out the art shop. As we were enjoying our Gatorade, Diet Coke, and Red Bull, we were too much of a scene not to engage. We got a ‘where are you headed from, and where are you headed to’ from a group heading into the store. After a quick rundown, our new friend shared his cherished family lore. His grandfather had escaped the Nazis to the US, but before then, the grandfather was a renown bike racer. Many of the trophies were melted down by the Nazis, but a few cherished mementos survived including a photo that couldn’t be believed. Turns out the grandfather hit a dog just before a finish, crashed off his bike, but the bike rode across the finish in front of a photographer who captured the unusual victory sprint. Amazing.

The tree tunnel carried on for another fourteen miles of glorious winding, rolling, smooth pavement. Cars and motorcycles passed kindly and courteously, feeling like it was in no time at all before we rolled into Harbor Springs.

To no one’s surprise, Jon’s chosen destination was an Ice Cream shop. Instantly we were greeted by three locals with their kids with a kind ‘where you comin’ from, where you goin’ to?”. Turns out they were bike adventures themselves and had done quite a bit of touring. The kids took a shine to Hart and couldn’t stop jockeying for his attention. Jon was more focused on the ice cream suggestions, and when the kids couldn’t decide the best flavor, Jon knew he would simply have to go for two scoops. Joe and Hart ate a more reasonable amount.

Joe realized his wounds were a bit more than scratches and decided he should probably head to a local pharmacy to pick up some disinfectant. Hart decided he would hit the harbor. Trying to connect, someone startled Joe and he ate it in the middle of the street. There goes the easy day, two bad falls and only one ice cream stop. We decided to have Hart come find us, when Jon spotted (and misidentified) former Green Bay head coach Mike McCarthy. When Jon pointed out to Joe, he took a conspicuous turn causing Coach’s wife to give a, “Hi boys”. Joe looked right at Mike and said, “Hi Coach”. Getting a very small smirk as Coach cruised out onto the dock with his family. Harbor Springs is not messing around.

A short 8 miles later, we found the campsite in Petosky State Campground, 7 ½ hours after we departed. The check in was quick, and firewood was for sale, an easy camp set-up and we headed back out on our bikes for a trip to the Petosky Brewing Company. The hundred- and fifty-year-old building was always a purpose-built brewery with a four-story tower built to increase the water pressure for the original filtering system. The smash burgers absolutely hit the spot. We even picked up a six pack for the campsite. In the end, it was a great day. Even if it ended with Joe cleaning his wounds by a campfire.

Day Three, It Always Rains

Hart was motivated to get out early the next morning. A combination of 75 miles ahead of us and the rain in the forecast, he really got a bug up his butt to decamp and ride at the earliest possible moment. Jon was moving slow but still had no worries as he knew Joe would always take a few extra minutes. Hart succeeded. We rushed out and made it exactly 100 yards before needing to stop at the bathroom on the way out. A classic start to the day that was only matched by a debate about how to leave the park, with Hart suggesting going out to the road and Jon leading the trio into the woods down a wood-chipped path. Unlike the day before, this quickly led to a paved trail. Fooled y’all.

Little Traverse Wheelway was a delightful path from Petosky Park to Petosky City where we found the open, and fancy, coffee shop to start the day. Jon not realizing this was a full-on breakfast, shared in bits and pieces of Joe and Hart’s fare while we each took turns using the finer facilities. We headed out to the sight of a Lamborghini and the owner sitting having a call. Well, not the owner at all, but he had Hart going pretty good.

The Wheelway continued, unfortunately into a fenced off dead end. Hart said he found a way around the fence. Jon, a little burned from the day prior, argued strongly against going past the fence. Joe, per usual, stood witness and didn’t offer a tie breaking vote. When a dog-walker came by we asked her if we could get beyond the fence, she replied we could and that she does sneak around, but that there was no way to get past the bluff collapse. That meant, heaven forbid, backtracking a few miles up to the highway and around. After a brief detour down, then immediately back up the bluff, we were back on trail to Charlevoix.

We found the oddest café, which mostly consisted of selfie-taking Pilates mom’s ordering take-out from an iPad kiosk without a way for yokels like us to order. Outside and confused, a nice gentleman with a European accent took pity on us, directed us to a table, supplied us an iPad to order, and took care of us very kindly. It ended up a delightful, expensive, spot to hang out before hitting the road again. Good to get a broad experience rather than sticking to beer gardens and pubs, supposedly.

The forecast was for rain, but so far only a little drizzle. Looking at the radar, Jon predicted that the rain would completely miss. Which, of course, meant that ten miles later, it was clearly raining. Stopping to put on rain jackets, we also commented that there seemed to be another touring group we traded places with a few times. Our stop for rain meant they caught us and soon we hooked up with another trio of riders. Quite a different trio: a lead man a bit younger than us (with awesome beard and bike), his mom, and Uncle Bob. Uncle Bob was an experienced rider but had never toured before which made it all the more impressive the Bearded Leader had grabbed him on his way from Madison through Whitefish Bay, up to Marquette Michigan, across the U.P., then down to where we were now and on to Sleeping Bear Dunes. Mom (now known as Aunt Sallie to us) had joined them in Mackinaw City and was taking the ride down, on her shock equipped fitness bike, wearing Birkenstocks. Jon took off with the Bearded Leader, both enjoying picking up the pace slightly and swapping stories of where planning goes awry. Bearded Leader was happy to hear Wilderness was impassible, and he assured us that Aunt Sally was capable of taking on any challenge, despite the looks of things. We were sad to depart, but they wanted a water break on the road, and we wanted to hit the next pit stop and try and miss the forecast for much more rain coming our way. Check ya later fellow travelers!

After a hop into the Eastport Market, we were back on our way for a spell on Highway 31. Fortunately, the shoulder was relatively wide and not too painful, before splitting off to head down the calmer road along Torch Lake. But, not before passing Aunt Sally. Poor Aunt Sally had enough and needed a break. We slowed and checked in, no injuries or breakdowns just another chance to part ways.

We quite enjoyed the road along the lake by the lake but had to head back West to make it to the next beer garden and campsite. We closely watched the radar and hoped that we’d make it to the next stop before it got bad. There was a good chance it would miss to the North, but Hart didn’t want to risk it and kept pushing the pace. Less than two miles out from our stop, just when it started to rain, POP! Joe’s tire made a tremendous din, and we all stopped. He had the most ridiculously large screw sticking out of his tire. We quickly removed the spike and went to work replacing the tube. That’s when we realized we had only removed half the screw, the remaining half had gone completely through his rim and was sticking out next to the spokes. This was not a by-hand removal situation. Hart went to flag down a pickup (prejudicial assumption) while Joe and Jon walked over to the neighbors. There were two girls playing slip-n-slide in the rain while the family hung out at card tables in the garage. Ah, a family cookout to interrupt. The request for pliers was heard, though not specific enough, and we were brought three types to choose from. Jon carefully unscrewed the offending bit of metal. We could not have been luckier than to have a family next door even if this delay meant we were now in the absolute worst part of the rain on the side of the road. Amazing how thankful for a small thing you can be while getting absolutely soaked.

Shorts Brewing was legitimately less than two miles from the blow out. The whole day’s plan was so close to success it was absolutely comical. An outdoor beer garden, with a nice little set of covered picnic tables, is where we camped out. The remaining customers, the non-idiots, were in the large garage with music and live sports on TV. Didn’t matter to us, we were covered and off by ourselves dripping wet and stinky in the corner. As the sky slowly cleared, more people showed up, causing us to consolidate to a single table, the dry one, as we discussed dinner plans of hot dogs and cheese from the Elk Rapids grocery store. Instead of the food trucks right there. A decision that meant a very hangry Jon.

Somehow, we got back on the bikes for the remaining 8 miles of our 70-mile day and arrived at the campsite at seven pm. We had wood delivered by the teenager in the golf cart, eventually, but everything was wet, and Jon was really hangry. It was decided we’d send Joe to stump for lighter fluid and help with the fire. Instead, he returned with a who instead of a what. Our new friend brought two garbage bags and started dumping them out into our firepit on to our wood. Filled with dry pine-needles and paper, we thought that was an ingenious way to start a fire. However, that was just the appetizer to pouring a can of diesel all over everything. Hart decided to hand our friend, forever now referred to as Vin Diesel, the lighter. Surprisingly, not surprisingly, no poof. A very controlled fire was lit, the rest of his clan wandered over to chat for a spell, and we watched the fire get going. Curiosity did get to the neighbors, and they had to ask how far we biked in a day, 200 miles? We felt pretty silly telling them the truth. Our salve was an evening of hot dogs, chips, block cheese and a relaxed Jon. Another perfect night.

Day Four, The Trail is Over There

Riding down a steep dirt road to the campsite should have been a clear preview, yet there’s something about the mind that can so easily put off tomorrow’s problems. Thing is, it was tomorrow, and we had to start our day climbing up a steep dirt hill. Jon, as usual, was first to the top. But, not on the next section where Hart managed to take advantage of Jon dropping his chain. Maybe he wasn’t the quintuple-A tour de France champion after all.

It was decided we needed to hit a diner. The Western Michigan shore to now was very pleasant, and very touristy, but what it hadn’t had so far was a greasy spoon. Fortunately, Traverse City was a little bigger, and a little more diverse in eateries, and gladly supplied us with a very hearty breakfast. Everyone had something spicy, and it was great. Except for the coffee, which was absolute trash. Never were fewer free refills drank by this group. Absolutely determined to get a good cup, Joe demanded we find a spot on the way out of town. His choice, a shop tucked into a larger ‘market’ with fancy shops and strangely alluring toilet paper. The line was long, and the time to make the order longer. For Jon, the espresso was grand but perhaps not the right follow up to a Chorizo Hash. Hart ordered a coffee, also bad. And Joe decided to re-live his usual morning routine after a red-eye. At this point we had gone about 10 miles in two hours.  Hart looked at the map and declared he did not want to go on the inland trail. Up the lake or nothing, he said. Jon was antsy. Joe was just settling in.

That did not last. The trail was suddenly busy with regular Sunday traffic, making our group the jack-asses who were behaving unpredictably. We blindly followed a cheery lass on a beach cruiser, just for the trail to end in a giant ‘sidewalk closed’ barrier. She crossed the street and was on her way, we were at a loss. The trail was for-real closed, nothing but gravel shoulder ahead. Hart was not deterred. He hopped straight into traffic, pulling Jon and Joe on to the road. Jon, having none of this, took off. We made it a few hundred yards to a pull of where Joe voiced some concerns about the current route. Better ask an expert, and none better than the random dude on a golf cart. He informed us the construction ended just up ahead at the crest of the hill. Road it is. We found a break in traffic, hopped on the road, and sprinted for the light. It was red, but there was a shoulder just beyond. Jon made the executive decision that running this at a T intersection was the safest bet. A man in oncoming traffic, perhaps disagreeing, shouted (kindly) “The trail is only a half mile away”. Oh, we knew, we were just too daft to make such a decision.

Hart was convinced it was the right way to go. Joe even relaxed into the wide shoulder and Grand Traverse Bay views, distracted only by the occasional discarded tire in our way. The miles pass more quickly when we can’t ride astride jabbering away and have to ride in a line. Just Jon pounding away trying not to set a sprint pace for the pack. Still, we made sure to check in at every gas station for a top-off of chocolate milk, Gatorade, or Red Bull. You’ll have to guess who drinks what, probably not that hard though.

To get to our next stop, we detoured off the highway for a half mile just to cross it rather than the standard “go and turn left,” a classic Jon route choice. The stop, the Hop Lot Brewery’s beer garden. Rated #2 in the country, learned while arriving, we could scarcely find a spot in the bike rack as it was filled to the brim with e-bikes. A truly expansive back lot covered in woodchips spread out, with areas subdivided by piles of firewood to give each section its own feel. Across the cells, there was a stage, a kid’s sandbox, and at least three bars dotting the outer border. We settled into two beers and took in the ambience. It truly felt up to its billing.

On the way through town, we passed by a bike shop, and Joe wondered if he should buy another tube. Hart said no, which made Jon advocate fully for purchasing one. The brief stop didn’t hold us for long, we were soon back on 22 to Northport, the last stop before the campsite. There was a small beer garden for Mitten Brewery. Looking around and noticing all the beers were Tiger Baseball themed, we realized we had visited another brewery location on a trip past, full circle. The troop wanted pizza, but not at the $30 a pie price at this location. We settled for peanuts and pretzels as we charged our devices in preparation for that night’s more remote campsite. Leaving town, we decided to carry out from the taco truck. Jon stood and ordered while Hart and Joe threw and audible and went to the art fair. When Jon finally rolled through, ‘Closing Time’ was playing and the other two were nowhere to be seen. Apparently after securing some ‘can’t melt’ chocolate, they headed to the grocery store and left Jon wandering the streets of Northport. He finally settled down on a bench by the beer garden and listened to the local boys talk big and talk trash until it was time to hit the road again.

Rolling into Leelanau State Park the team was met by the nicest park staffer who directed us down the dirt path to the most stunning of campsites. It was in the sand, barely surrounded by a few small shrubs, overlooking Lake Michigan from the very tip-top of the Leelanau Peninsula. We had arrived early, as these days weren’t really that much riding, and were able to enjoy the sounds of the wind and waves rolling in. If it weren’t for the threat of poison ivy, debate about pitching the tent in sand or gravel, and the slightly tight quarters with the neighbors, it would have been the top spot.

No matter, as it was decided, here we would swim. But then, a challenge. The sand ended, and the stones began. We picked a path of rocks, branches, slime to climb into the cold water. Asking sunbathers the best way in, we were duty bound to follow their instructions. Hart, bringing shoes after he told Joe not to, was the only one who could tolerate the path. But living on the lake, he was the least enamored with floating in it. Joe and Jon took full advantage of the cool water relaxing and delaying the walk back.

The evening fire started, and we settled into the normal routine of whisky and tall tales. Just then, Jon noticed sailboats on the horizon. It was the Mac racers passing by on the way to the finish. We could see about ten boats. Jon was even able to look them up on the race tracker and show Joe and Hart the various yachts. Neither were impressed with that effort, but both thought it was pretty cool. We eventually tired and bunked down, Hart in the middle as usual. A pleasant surprise, the tent wasn’t too cold from the breeze, and the noise from the wind and waves was present enough to dim any other noise. A great night of sleep was had.

Day Five, No Bikes Allowed

Right off the bat we brought our typical charm. Riding by several ‘No Biking’ signs until a man, who clearly biked there, walking out admonished us for our outrageous disinterest in the rules. What a fuddy-duddy, this rule couldn’t po

ssibly be for us. Jon had a right mind to go sit in a tree that said no sitting. After debating entirely ignoring this overzealous man, we laid our bikes all over in as disruptive arrangement as possible and walked to the lighthouse. Which was dumb anyway.

Leaving the park, we had the sun behind and the air was cool. The roads this far up were nearly traffic free, and we enjoyed a glorious ride back to Northport and the New Bohemian. A coffee and breakfast spot that was spot on. Hart and Joe chose a breakfast burrito, and Hart chose, for Jon, a spicy chorizo version of the same. Much to the amusement of the proprietor when Jon mentioned the sixty miles of riding ahead of them that day. Whatever, Jon reported it was well worth it. At the time.

We escaped out of town on side roads as far as possible before returning to the 22. The landscape was still cherry trees and fine houses. The “this is Door County but bigger” feeling kept with us into the town of Leeland. Jon had scoped out a coffee shop with a light name, Madcap Coffee, that was much more upscale than we would normally choose. That and the bathroom being essentially in the kitchen made it less than welcoming. Jon still ordered some espresso and settled in on a leather couch to charge his phone. And never saw the other two. Still a mystery to him where they went, and they returned to find Jon while he was in the aforementioned uncomfortable bathroom. When it was declared it was time to go, no one was actually ready, but Jon found an outdoor outlet to charge and was satisfied with the situation.

After a long spell on M22, we were quite tired of it. There was a great run around a small lake, then a glorious, glorious, trail. Finally, a spot to relax with no threat of cars, even if there might be e-bikes, and no worries. The nice stretch quickly switched to gravel, and a little washed out at that. We were grinding it out while taking the turns tentatively and hills cautiously when we came upon a boardwalk, the perfect spot to sit and enjoy Michigan Cherries. Looking over the small lake from a bike-board-walk and enjoying the day. These were the moments.

Getting back after it, Hart was not excited to keep on the gravel and was afraid we’d eat it coming down a hill. We reached an intersection and had to decide: trail, highway, or mystery road. Of course, mystery road. As with all the other roads, this one quickly deteriorated from paved, to gravel, to washed dirt. Hey, at least it wasn’t sand. Nope, it was sand. Treacherous and slow sand. When we finally escaped the sand, it led to a rutted-out hill, so steep Hart fell on the way up, followed by Jon. Joe walked. Then at the top looking down, it was not the spot to let the wheels free. Instead, it was a white-knuckle affair in deeply rutted washed out dirt. Trying to keep from doing an endo was thought one, two, and three. Delightful. Shortly after, it intersected back with the trail, the paved trail. Great work guys, had we stuck it out ,we would have been in the clear.

We were excited to roll into the next town for a cool refreshing beer, only to find what was the touristy of tourist traps. Everything was packed, or fancy. We couldn’t find a seat for a beer. Finally, Joe and Jon found a spot, exactly opposite where Hart said it was. When Hart finally doubled back the double back, Jon had to go over the ‘rules’ with Hart. Stand here. Order here. Red tables for drinks, blue tables for food. Yikes. Give me a break. The drinks were expensive (but boozy) and the outlets had some sort of safety lock preventing Jon from charging his phone. And yes, that includes the outlet across the way. The lack of shade was enough; this was a one drink town.

A short trip down the highway, and the trail picked back up. This was, absolutely, the most perfect trail. A winding, rolling, rollicking trip through the woods along Sleeping Bear Dunes. Getting to fly downhills after long manageable climbs. Joy was high. So high, that when the team happened upon the dune climb site Hart made the call to take on the challenge. Soon we were climbing up the sand to find the highest spot, thinking about hiking to the lake (which was more than a mile of sand away). Newly christened “Egg Whites” knew better and we agreed to just head back down all enjoying a rare excursion for a break from the grind.

Rolling into Empire we found a town much more to our liking. Joe’s Friendly Tavern had an open-air dining room, thankfully as we stunk, and a friendly group of teenage waitresses. They graced our presence with benign disinterest in between making their own evening plans and watching TikTok. Still, no one complained when we parked our bikes where we wanted, the outlets worked, and we were even offered fresh ice water for our bottles on the way out. That’s all you really need. We even agreed, no more dirt riding for the day. Which, of course, meant we immediately found an enormous steep grinding dirt hill out of town. Way to execute. At least it led to a final trail to the campsite, and only one disagreement about the route. Chances were not taken, splitting from our usual trend.

Jon was exceptionally excited about the campsite in Sleeping Bear Dunes. It looked quite secluded, and he was hoping to capture the joy that was Luddington State Park. He would not. Ranger Friendly made sure of that. There was a long line to check in, in the stale office, where Ranger Friendly was helpfully guiding the people ahead how to sign up for lifetime veteran park passes on the non-existent internet while the man in the office dared not move to attend the other check in station. When it was Jon’s turn, Ranger Friendly started the check-in and, just when things felt like they were going swimmingly, wood here, campsite there, Ranger Friendly noticed we hadn’t come in by car. Turns out that against what Ranger Friendly thought was fair, a carload (up to 8) can get into a National Park for $25, but cyclists were required to pay $15 a piece. A negotiation began. Could Jon buy one yearly pass ($80) and Ranger Friendly look the other way? A few turns saying the same thing back and forth, a look back at mystery unhelpful man, and it was a deal. With a muttering under his breath that as far as he knew there weren’t other bikers and Jon snuck them in. Fine. Back to the site, Ranger Friendly offered that this was, in fact, his favorite site. Too bad we couldn’t bring our bikes back there. Suddenly a notion came back to Jon, that bikes were banned from trails in National Parks specifically. Now the secluded site became the death walk site. Ranger Friendly did happen to suggest we could carry the bikes back if we didn’t want to use the rack. Jon acknowledged and was met with surprise that he wasn’t more upset. Ranger Friendly clearly mistaking the stink of defeated resignation for acceptance. Ranger Friendly ended with a helpful note to keep food in the car, then corrected himself after the death stare. If you were to ask Jon to subjectively assess the situation, he would have told you that Ranger Friendly was doing his best, did care for us as people, and was quite generous with his time and had a great affect. However, Jon was not in the mood for a Simpson’s like scenario of “the Frogurt is also cursed”. Jon left in a determined state, blowing by Joe and Hart then threateningly explaining to them the situation with not bringing bikes back, at all. Jon’s only victory was finding the last bundle of wood, though at that point, the bundle was loose, requiring Jon to bike off with it under his arms.

Given how many times we biked into hike-in sites, biked on hiking trails, and that we hadn’t paid entry to a single State Park because we were on bikes, one can reflect that it being time to pay the piper could have been expected. And the spot was a delight. As secluded as advertised with old growth trees amongst the moss-covered dunes. Jon calmed down after his third trip from site to bike, aided by finding two bugs humping, and the team finally got around to the first round of cards. Joe with his brand-new deck, and Hart with his barbeque dusted chips to stain that new deck red from dirty fingers. We played until it was dark, and the bugs were too much, ending on a 60-60 tie going against Joe. Preventing him from his glorious defeat of Jon, who once again walked away unscathed. Hart, well, he followed along.

Day 6, More Biking You Say

Whoever, cough Jon cough, decided that the last day, when we absolutely had to make the ferry on time, would be the longest riding day, with the biggest climbs, would be the way to go had a lot of Gaul. Yikes dude. This morning the team really did wake up and go on time, with the race between Joe and Jon on who was going to be last ready tighter than ever. Hart was annoyed, but Jon reminded him that he said a half dozen times that they would be particularly slow packing out from the hike in site.

Ten miles to coffee and breakfast in Frankfort. First stop, closed. Second spot, the perfect location for the old men to hold court. The assembled wise men sat at a large table and discussed how to grow the town, bring in young people, and share their civic pride. Probably looking for more fishermen like themselves and less like the Pilates set in Glen Arbor. The barista/waitress/check out girl was kind enough to bring us our breakfast as we settled in charging devices and ourselves. A truly auspicious start to the day.

More M22 was ahead, and it started to get busier as we worked our way down the Michigan shore. The climbs were the largest we’d done, and in repeated succession. No one complained when we saw the scenic lookout and pulled over. A little complaining about the choice to hike up the stairs, but where there are stairs, we must climb.

We treated ourselves to a small pie, which Joe had been toting around over a day, while overlooking Lake Michigan on a pure blue day. We were approached by the usual set of busy bodies, but one man really stuck in our minds. He had been coming to Michigan to golf with friends for decades, but now he was finally retired and could do what he wanted; which was drive up and down the coast in his little convertible, enjoy the sites, and take pictures. He even remarked how he agreed the idea of biking would be the perfect way, without the hills, to enjoy the scenery. It was a great appeal to our grander spirits to take advantage of this time and truly enjoy this experience.

Jon took this enjoyment and immediately directed everyone down another dirt road. As per usual it was paved and invited us right in, before we saw the “county does not maintain” sign and turned straight to dirt. Hard packed nice dirt in Jon’s defense. The road T’d into a small public beach at the end of a paved, county highway. Hart set his bike against a rock and quietly looked out over the horizon. Now we all stood and enjoyed the coming and going of beachgoers, following Hart’s example to remember to pause and gaze out at that beautiful azure lake, despite riding along it for the last five days.

What goes down, must go up. That’s the rule on the Michigan shore. Just as soon as we touched the lake, we were grinding up and out, including paralleling a local ski hill. This time the downhill was paved, Jon let it free feeling like he’d hit 40mph. Too bad the whole day was into a headwind and he didn’t break 30. Arriving in the town of Onekama, Hart and Jon were not interested in idling and wanted a soda and go. Joe decided on espresso, finding a fine little coffee shop to order a little cup of heaven. We all waited outside, Hart wandering, Jon working on the route, all decided there would absolutely be no more dirt no matter what.

Riding M22 out of town we decided to fork off, leaving the famous highway behind and heading back towards the lake. For the first time in forever, the road did not suddenly decide to disintegrate and was paved all the way to Manistee. The perfect big little town, where we found a smash-burger and custard shop to post up and enjoy free refills of Pepsi. At this point we were forty-five miles in and not moving real fast. When we saw the red Adirondack Chairs lakeside, it was too much, and soon we were back to sitting and waiting to start the last thirty miles. Wow, sounds absurd saying it that way.

Leaving Manistee seemed straightforward enough, follow the lake avoid the highway. It was going swimmingly until we were chased down by a dog. Picking Jon first, the sprint began, dog in tow snarling and barking away, with the homeowner’s delightful yell as accompaniment. Jon, and the shouting, wore the dog out just enough that it didn’t take a bite out of Hart, now in full limp mode, or Joe who wasn’t quite as ready to kick it up to 20mph plus at a moments notice. Twas a fast dog.

Feeling moderately victorious and adrenaline pumping Jon’s route took a turn to follow the lake rather than head back to the highway. This was a mistake. The route turned to soft gravel and a steep climb. Hart fell. Jon almost. Joe got off and hiked. At the top of the hill, instead of being rewarded with a coast down, there was more soft gravel. We thought no car could even get through, which of course was a notion disabused immediately when an old sedan came roaring by us. Climbing higher we came to the crest of a hill. Hart called out the view over the trees and down the dunes out to the Lake, reminding us that the challenge is to ride tight to the water for just this reason.

After the soft gravel, sand. Sand deep enough to be unbikeable for Hart and Jon. Joe made it the furthest on his bike, hopping off only after a treacherous corner of six-inch-deep soft sand. Jon, however, did not step off and immediately fell in the same location. Now all three were hiking, on the hottest day, on the longest day, on the day with the deadline, with a limping Hart. Joe was not happy.

We finally made it back to the road, but M22 and its wide shoulder and winding shoreline were gone. We were now on a shoulderless 65MPH county road that was completely exposed. Joe couldn’t take it and took off. Which would have been great, if not for Hart’s knee just about giving up on him. Jon took the lead to set the pace and we tried to keep together best we could. Better to be one obstruction than three. Finally, Hart called it and needed a break. A little further than Hart would have liked, Jon found a small spot with a wide grass shoulder and road barrier to sit on / lean bikes on to safely stop. Hart decided not to follow the lead, set his bike up on the 10-inch shoulder and dare not listen to Jon and Joe begged him to please move himself and his bike. Assuring us nothing would go wrong, Hart’s bike immediately fell into the road, water bottle rolling downhill, right when a car was coming up. That knee worked well when it needed to.

With a greater promise to stay tight, it was only two miles to the next stop. A tiny country market / gas station with a port-a-john for a bathroom. Cold drinks and a happy check out gal made it plenty good enough for us. We sat roadside watching traffic and mentally gearing up for the next section of no-shoulder fun. daring not to take any more ‘shortcuts’. Turned out to not be bad, as on the other side of the grind was the sister convenience store. This one with a shaded porch to relax before the final push. Somehow, the day had really come back together. The previous miles were gone and all we could think about now was pizza. And making the ferry on time.

We rolled into Ludington two hours before we needed to be at the ferry. Found the first bar serving pizza, posted up and settled in. We ended up pulling down three pizzas and a few beers a piece. Getting a little too comfortable, as the two hours flew by before we knew it. Suddenly it felt like a rush, for nothing.

That barge of a ferry was in no rush at all. We had plenty of time to change and get in line for boarding and to watch the departure.

We headed out to ‘sea’ with waving families on the breakwater and the sun hanging low in the sky. Watching the sunset and enjoying the fresh air before heading down below for the most important part of the trip. The Bingo. Joe was deadset on winning, and Hart just as determined. As the games went on, it became clear, we were going to play until everyone one. Hart three times, Joe twice, Jon once, before we decided to switch to Sheepshead. With Joe victoriously defeating Jon. Never sleeping, hitting shore at 12:45am eastern with Jon’s dad, Howard, waiting for our arrival. Somehow, we had all made it. Taking on just the right balance of suffering and joy. Completing a project ten years in the making, we made it. Phew.

Ruminations

We finished our goal: to bike around Lake Michigan. This was our last of five pieces to bring the loop full circle, from Milwaukee to Milwaukee. Ferry to Ferry, Just the Tip, Death’s Door and Back, Down the U.P., and finally To Completion. It was always kind of a crazy idea, one that came to us somewhere in between the first trip and last over 9 years. Finishing a journey is a special thing. To have a sense that you achieved an objective. From idea, to plan, to completion. To look back at a years-long journey and think about all it took to get there—and feel satisfied.

With age, or perhaps after becoming a parent, an inherent tension arises. Events are both singular and on a continuum. A moment that first looks singular suddenly feels so closely related to the next and the next that they bleed together. Unable to stand alone without that connection to the past that preceded it. Nor does anything feel done. Life does not afford finishes that stand by themselves, when something ends, we carry its weight with us, or it leads to the next beginning. Our decision to mark any experience as unique feels small when we think of it in the context of our greater being. We wouldn’t be on this road, at this time, together, without all the steps before. And when we examine from afar, we can see the strands weaving in.

Too far out and the narrative becomes bland, grey, untextured. When we share with others, or reflect ourselves, we can’t exist in a state so far removed to see it all at once. We choose the moments that represent the meaning we drive out of our past. The stories where we can rely on common experiences, fill in our perceptions, and bring ourselves. Setting our moments into stories, stories into tales, tales into epics, and communicating something about ourselves beyond a series of facts. Always searching for the right amount to tug at this tension of everything and nothing in our lived experiences.