BRIAN McINTYREis cycling across the US, and singing for his supper as he goes. He describes his journey so far
THIS SUMMER, I decided to create an American adventure by cycling the 7,000 kilometers of the TransAmerica Trail from Oregon to Virginia, coast-to-coast. The trail, usually on minor roads, crosses 10 states, four time zones, the Rocky Mountains, the high desert, the great plains, the Appalachians and the heart of rural America. Perhaps 1,000 cyclists attempt it every year. As I write, I am two-thirds the way through, on the border of Kansas and Missouri, planning to reach Yorktown, Virginia by mid-September. All told, it will be about 75 days in the saddle.
My first visit to America was as a J1 student in 1986, when I worked in a Jewish nursing home. My job was to sing songs and entertain the patients. I noticed that the elderly, even when their speech had departed and faculties were compromised, retained their connection to music. It was their final, and most powerful, language. I was 20, and the experience made a lasting impression.
Solo-cycling great distances can be lonely. In the spirit of American enterprise, I decided to meld music and cycling, and punctuate the trip with stop-offs to sing Irish music and talk about Ireland to any Americans who would listen.
Before departing home, I visited St Agnes’s National School in Crumlin, which runs a music programme giving children and their parents access to violins and classical music tuition. I saw the transformative effect of music in that community, so as I pedal and croon through America – supported by friends in Dublin who are coordinating the gigs – I am collecting some dollars for St Agnes’s.
So far, I’ve had about 15 mini-gigs in all kinds of venues: homes, bars, restaurants, golf courses, community centres, gardens, churches, motels and – in Prairie City, Oregon – on the street. My audiences range from crowds of 80 to eight, drawn by the call of “the old country”, a love of music, or abject curiosity.
In each singsong I explain a little of our traditional music, how it links to our history and tells our story. Overall, this singing and cycling trip has been exciting, tough, exhilarating, magical, annoying, scary and deeply rewarding. And yet, the true value of my self-styled “SingSongCycle” resides in the chats, the stories, the Irish roots re-established and the beautiful people across this country who have helped, supported and sung along with me, a total stranger. The following is a selection of entries from my blog:
July 2 A bike named Genie
I’m in Oregon, looking at my new bike, called “Surly” – as in, that’s the brand name. This is not quite the relationship I want with my new extra limb (a bike becomes an extension of oneself on a long trip; we need to get along), so I’m seeking a first name.
I spend an hour in the book store beside Arriving by Bike, where I purchased Surly. I have a great conversation with the owner, play the store’s piano and read about the town I am in, and the first settler’s name which gives this town its name, Eugene.
I hereby name this bike Genie. May all who sit on her saddle be safe.
July 4 Old ladies weep
Greg is the sixth generation of pastors in his family of Idaho stock. Perhaps in his 50s, he has semi-retired from pastordom. The economy in Idaho, built on mining, failed about 10 years back. Greg’s church fell apart, his congregation forced to depart.
He and his wife packed up and became construction signers (the people holding Stop/Go lollipops at road works) in Oregon. Greg began to do odd carpentry jobs; as well as dabbling in marriages and funerals. He continues to balance three jobs.
“So here’s Brian from Ireland and he claims he’s a singer,” announces Greg’s wife to the assembled family audience of 15. They had come together for the Fourth of July, and invited me to join them. We read the full text of the Declaration of Independence, taking turns.
I stand and sing. Oh Danny Boy. Then, Greg and I sing together. Amazing Grace. He takes the harmony, I the melody. His voice is halting, then grows stronger. An older lady, lost in her own reverie, silently leaves, holding her handkerchief. Another bows her head. For a moment, the music finds a perfection of sorts, one that would be betrayed by recording.
July 11 Singing for my supper
When I lived in Barcelona in the late 1990s, I planned to become a busker on the Ramblas. Something in me would not see it through. I have no clue what I was worried about as I only knew one person in Barcelona. Perhaps it was angst that I would be found out to be less than wonderful or, worst of all, invisible.
This evening in Baker City, I sing for my supper.
Maryellen rings and invites me down to her beautiful (and acoustically flattering) restaurant. The deal: sing-and-get-fed. Something has happened since Barcelona. I am among strangers at Maryellen’s but, without any accompaniment, I stand and sing. Brazenly.
I felt emboldened, I think, not because I’m now a better singer, a more accomplished performer or I no longer care what others think. Rather, it is because I have come to believe a truth within authentic music: it is not made for the singer to be wonderful or for the audience to be impressed. It is an act of community which, note by note, sets us all free.
July 18 A day on the road
The cyclist needs diversion as he pedals, but only passive forms of entertainment work – not chat or anything that involves stoppages.
I meet one police officer from Delaware who takes photos of flowers as he passes, and emails them to his girlfriend each evening. He is an exception, though.
Another guy uses the bike as a meditation, a zone where one moves through the landscape as if through a trance. I aspire to this state of grace, but find it difficult to attain given my sore toe, my saddle sore, and a muscle spasm at the base of the neck.
I have been searching for good company on these long miles, and at last I find it in the form of a podcast. With iPod in ears, I spend hours listening to Talking Historyfrom Newstalk.ie. I have 25 hours downloaded. All that need happen is for the first bars of the show's theme music to ring out, my eyes dilate, my body eases and I am transported past any discomfort.
July 28 The wild country
When I was growing up, records were thin on the ground and those that were there made a big impact. One was a double album of Elvis hits which my elder brother, John, owned, and which was played constantly. I have a soft spot for one of the songs on that album. It was not about Vegas, or Hawaii, or Rock-a-hoola; it was a simple ballad of love for the wild country: “A rose grows wild in the country. A tree grows tall as the sky. The wind blows wild in the country. And part of the wild, wild country, am I.”
I’ve been singing this song in an automatic way quite frequently as I journey through my cycle. Elvis was, after all, a country boy.
The wild country in America can offer many dramatic and awe-inspiring things. But when I hear Elvis’s music, I look for that deep pleasure found in nature’s most humble beauty. And then, as the King predicted, it becomes part of me.
August 2 The teepee lady
There was nothing visionary about LB’s driveway. It was strewn with wire, bottles, old vehicle parts and a defunct bread-making machine.
Dogs howled, as if distressed by the state of the place. This was Lemont, Wyoming, and my task was to look out for two teepees.
On arrival, I was advised by two very cool fellow-cyclists to pitch my tent within the teepee to protect against bugs. They took one and I, the other. I liked the idea of double-glazed camping; teepee for protection, one-man tent for comfort.
The fruits of LB's labours were everywhere. A fridge full of free drinks and food; a pocket-sized Cowboy Bible(there is such a thing) inscribed in a careful, educated hand: "May you have a safe journey, warm wishes, LB"; a path of pebbles and lights to the outhouse, a throne that was as comfortable as possible in the absence of running water.
We did not see LB that night. She worked five different part-time jobs, the very best earning $15 an hour. She came to say hello at 7.30am. She spoke in a gentle contralto voice, as if she had been a smoker. She was delighted to see us, and hoped we had slept well. She spoke of her family, her love of the surrounding high desert, and of the all-embracing winters. And she spoke of her teepees.
“I just love them. I read books on them and I’ve tried to make everything about them authentic. Except those ribbons hanging from the top. They were my decoration, but they kinda shrivelled up.” With that, she was on her way.
Aug 13 The oil man cometh
They began to appear in East Colorado and I was not fully sure what they were. In Kansas, they became rampant, populating the landscape in their busy, dutiful manner.
The oil derrick’s shape is oddly alluring. It is a praying mantis, standing tall, rotating her forelegs up and down in rhythmic symmetry, around and around, and lending the rural landscape an unexpected industrial beauty.
When we think of oil and gas in America, we turn to Texas, the Gulf, Alaska. Big Oil has long since left Kansas, but there is a thriving industry of modest drilling by bespoke oil companies.
Kent works for one such company and I meet him over breakfast in a rural motel. A young, gregarious, and insightful Kansan, he spent some of his oil career in Utah and Oklahoma. “Some folks resist pulling up oil. They don’t like the smell, the dirt, the environmental impact ... Mostly, Kansans who need gas to drive long distances and to live their lives understand why we need to drill.”
During our conversation, Kent intermittently takes calls. Building deals. Narrowing gaps. Throughout, I have a feeling that the small scale of Kansas’s oil makes it different from the caricature of behemoth oil corporations wrecking our world, treating drill sites like battery hens. I’ve been thoroughly entranced by the charm of the praying mantis.
Get involved
DonateTo contribute to Brian McIntyre's collection for St Agnes's National School in Crumlin, see mycharity.ie/event/singsongcycle
ReadFor more from his blog, see singsongcycle.wordpress.com
