West. Day 3.

June 11, 2016

Manistique to Escanaba, Michigan

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During my walk at Indian Lake State Park, I saw a sign advertising free coffee and donuts at the camp host site. A perfect supplement to oatmeal the next morning.

The host was a tall, lanky man with a scraggly, gray goatee and a DNR Camp Host cap shading his twinkling eyes. A retired farmer and his wife sat next to him on plastic chairs.

"We're from the Saginaw/Midland area," the woman said. "We've been coming to this park for thirty years."

Another woman with a young boy sat on the camp hosts's other side. "We had a graduation party here last night for my daughter." Her talented boy somehow managed to keep powdered sugar off his orange tank top.

"I love this park too," I said. Before they could ask, I added, "I'm starting my third day on the road to Montana."

The host smiled. "I retired at age fifty-eight and I've been the camp host here every summer since. My mother said I've always been a rebel and I guess I am."

I laughed. "My mom thinks I'm crazy, but she's the one who told me I'd better do what I want with my life."

The man's goatee bobbed in a nod. "Best to do what you love."

Me with the camp host's morning crew.

Original Facebook post:

WIND. Gotta love it--a beastly headwind so strong the only way to tell you might be going downhill is your speedometer turns a double digit; so strong you never realize the temperature has risen to 85 until you stop for a break; so strong that a gust lifts your loaded touring bike and moves you over a foot or so. That's the kind of wind that caressed me 56 miles to Escanaba today. Good thing I decided to start my trip with a few short mileage days!

That evening in the Pioneer Campground in Escanaba, a toddler in tow by his mother mistook me for a boy. She assured him I wasn't. "No, it's a lady. She just has short hair, like Grandma." This wasn't the last time I was mistaken so, and not the first.

I’ve always been a tomboy. Perhaps being my brother’s third sister (when he wanted a brother) influenced my preferences for outdoor activities, sports, bike riding, short hair, and boy’s clothes. Never interested in makeup or dresses, I felt more comfortable in jeans and t-shirts. Hair is just a bother. And most of my jobs were in male-dominated fields.

If not mistaken for a boy, people often assumed me a lesbian. I’ve had my share of boyfriends, but getting married was never a goal (I guess Andy and I were meant to be). I feel at ease alone. I like sex with men, and the closeness I shared with women friends fulfilled a sense of intimacy I think is important for everyone.

Training with my tandem partner, Lou, brought us close. We were a great team on the bike; sometimes we never even had to say anything out loud to each other, we knew what each other was thinking. I often joked with her: “If you had different plumbing, you’d be perfect for me.” 

At a dinner after an ultra-marathon event we rode together in Illinois, Lon Haldeman, the organizer of the event, sat with us. We had become friends with him and his wife, Susan Notorangelo. The subject of Lou and my friendship came up. Lou (married) and I (not married at the time) were always together. “People think we are gay,” I said to Lon. “But we’re not.”

Lon, who had a wry sense of humor, quipped back, "You mean you're not?"

Another time, my brother Rick and I planned to meet for lunch, something we did off and on since I worked afternoons. “I’m bringing a co-worker to meet you,” he said. “She’s a neat lady. I’ll think you’ll like her.” I didn’t think too much about it, but realized later it was a set-up. Rick and his wife figured I was gay. Thanks, but no thanks. Even if I were, I could find my own friends.

Although I’m happy to see gender identity issues in the open these days, I look forward to the time when how one identifies oneself is a non-issue. I believe gender exists on a continuum. Feelings and attitude have more to do with where a person falls on the continuum than on what genitals one sports. I reject societal norms that dictate how I must present myself--in dress or hair style, hobbies or jobs, or who I love.

Resting in camp after a long day fighting headwinds, Andy’s son, Chris, FaceTimed me. He and his family were visiting his sister, Jen, for the weekend, to catch a John Williams concert with the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. Chris is a band teacher, and his oldest boy, Keegan, a talented tuba player, is a Williams fan. Andy met them to celebrate the Christmas we missed together last December.

Our dog Gus heard my voice and ran around to find me. 

The Green Bay bunch gifted us a new garden statue—an owl made out of a shovel head—and bookstore gift cards. I looked forward to buying Diana Nyad’s new book, Find a Way, about her age-sixty-five-record-setting swim from Cuba to Florida. Not that I compare myself to her. 

A later FB post: FaceTime with family? Priceless

My bike at rest. A train is almost visible in the woods behind.