David's routes. He started in San Francisco, headed south to the tip of South America, flew back to the states and then did a east to west crossing of America.
We ran across the story of David Kroodsma one day while surfing the net for story ideas. We locked on his site and stayed there for hours. Then we e-mailed him and asked if he'd mind if we did a short article about his trip on the Green Man Blog.
David e-mailed back immediately and said he'd be happy to see something appear, and gave us full permission to use pictures from his site. He also gave us his phone number and said to call anytime.
One of the many secluded campsites David found on his trip. This one was by the Salinas River, California.
Now, we have to elaborate here and explain something. We send out contacts to many people, looking for story ideas or asking for permissions, and most of the time we never hear back. Granted, we know we are not exactly 60 Minutes here, but strictly in a professional sense it makes sense to respond to inquiries (especially when you have taken the time and trouble to publicize something of yours on the web).
What else can you do after getting soaked in a downpour? Take a self-portrait, of course.
So when David promptly e-mailed back and also offered his number to call, we knew we were dealing with somebody real, somebody enthusiastic, somebody passionate about what he is doing.
This is the road south of Puerticitos, Baja California. If you have ever traveled through this area you know how rough and steep these dirt roads can be.
And we like that. David is the type of person, along with the others we have featured on this site, who we want to promote.
David spent a week in Bogota, Columbia. At one point he used his skills to help repair bicycles for the charitable Ciudad Humana Foundation.
What makes David's story interesting and different from most long-distance bicycle touring stories, is that he is a scientist specializing in climate. In his view, more is needed to be done to spread knowledge and awareness about climate issues. To that end, he embarked on a multi-thousand mile bicycling tour.
While in Brazil, David traveled up the Amazon on the Manoel Monteiro II.
He did this on his own, fully self-contained, and traveled all through central and South America, finishing off with an American tour. He gave lectures and talks, wrote articles, was interviewed countless times, and used his trip not only as a grand personal adventure but also as a means to spread knowledge about our climate and related matters.
While crossing the Andes, some sections were roadless and required a guide and a pack horse to to travel through. When it was impossible to roll the bike along, it was strapped to the pack horse.
David has a book coming out soon, titled A 21,000-Mile Ride for the Climate. You can sign up to receive an email notification here.
In the meantime, he has posted the book’s introduction, which appears below:
Crossing over to Lima meant traveling roads like this, 16,000 feet in elevation.
From: A 21,000-Mile Ride for the Climate by David Kroodsma
INTRODUCTION: Tierra del Fuego
Day 503 - March 22, 2007
I hear hooves trotting across wet ground, approaching my tent.
Unzipping the mesh door, I stick my head out as the hooves come to a stop. In the fading light of a cloudy evening, two teenage boys stare down at me from the backs of large brown horses. The boys wear plastic parkas, and moisture beads on their wool hats. "Where do you come from?" the older of the two asks in Argentine Spanish, and I quickly scan their eyes for signs of belligerence or anger, but I see only curiosity and maybe confusion.
I pause and consider their question. I wonder what I look like with my head extended from the tent. I haven't shaved and my hair is tangled and greasy from another day under a bike helmet. Long days in the sun have faded my shirt to pale blue, and I've sewn numerous patches on the tent's mesh door to cover holes. Nearby, my bicycle leans against a log; its decals are peeling and its handlebar tape is frayed.
"California," I say.
"How long have you been traveling?" the older boy asks.
"Seventeen months. I finish tomorrow at the end of this road."
"You biked here ... from California?"
"Yes."
"Are you crazy?"
"Maybe," I say and smile.
"Do you miss your family?" the second boy asks more quietly.
"Sometimes." They stare at me with continued disbelief. I haven't seen my parents or friends in a year and a half. I've missed the weddings of close friends, the birthdays of my niece and nephews, and even the passing of my grandmother. Though Internet cafes offer frequent contact with home, it's not the same as being there. I ask the boys, "Am I okay to camp here?"
"Sure, but be careful of our bulls. They can be aggressive sometimes," the older says.
"What should I do if one attacks?"
"Just hit it on the head with a stick," he says flatly and casually waves his arm as if to hit a bull on the head. "Why are you traveling?" he asks.
I explain briefly, for maybe the thousandth time, that I'm biking across North and South America to raise awareness of global warming and I'm giving presentations about the issue at schools. I tell them that Univision interviewed me for an international broadcast, and they raise their eyebrows. "Do you get paid for this?" the older boy asks.
"No, but it's very cheap to travel by bike," I say, and the boys look surprised again. I then ask what they know about global warming.
"The heating of the earth is a big problem," the older boy says. He then smiles and adds, "But that's all I know." The younger boy then points at the mountains and says, "Our parents say there is less snow in the winter than there used to be."
Their curiosity satisfied, the boys wish me good night and trot away into the forest. I find a suitably sized stick for warding off bulls, lay it by the tent, and return to my sleeping bag for my last night on the road.
My journey was originally motivated by a simple desire to pedal out of my driveway and follow the roads as far south as possible, a desire for the unparalleled freedom offered by a bicycle. As I planned my ride, however, I saw an opportunity. I had studied the science of climate change, first for a master's degree and then in a research laboratory, and I realized that people would take interest when they heard that I was biking to the far end of the world. I understood that I could use the attention I received to increase awareness of global warming.
Latin America was ideal for such a journey. The region stretches from 30 degrees north of the equator to nearly 60 degrees south and boasts the world's driest desert, its largest rainforest, and the longest and second-tallest mountain range. This geographic diversity not only makes for spectacular scenery but also means that nearly every consequence of global warming can be found within the region's borders. Latin America was also a good choice because I had studied Spanish, and because the trip would be inexpensive. Favorable exchange rates meant that, in many countries, I would be able to travel on only a few dollars per day.
I bicycled solo across this region, traveling somewhat like a celebrity-vagabond. News outlets were eager to interview a "bicycling-climate-expert," and I received numerous invitations to stay with people who had seen me in the media. I quickly learned that when I showed people news clippings about my journey, they were more likely to let me sleep in their yard or on their floor. Fire stations would let me stay in their dormitories free of charge, and I began collecting firefighter patches and uniforms. The firefighters, in turn, would call the local news, creating a cycle of generosity among news stations, firehouses, and people in the countryside.
As I traveled, I gave talks at schools and researched how climate change will affect the regions I visited. This research, combined with my journey, had a profound effect on me. When I now think of global warming, I see more than just numbers and data--I see faces with names. Melvin, who lives in Honduras, had his crops destroyed by past storms and his farm will likely fail in a warming world. The family farm of Evarista, a young girl in central Mexico, may struggle to adapt to the droughts of global warming. Sea level rise threatens the home of Roberto's family in Venezuela.
Yet most of the people I met, and especially the poor, had concerns other than climate change. Melvin, who lived in an adobe home without electricity, told me about how he struggled to find employment. Evarista feared not future droughts, but that her family would not be able to afford the bus she takes to middle school. Roberto asked me not about sea level rise, but about the cost of my bicycle. Roberto also wanted to know if houses in the United States were as nice as he had seen on television.
These conversations tore at me; it seems only fair that Melvin, Evarista, and Roberto should be able to achieve a better life. But if they--and the other two billion people who live on less than two dollars a day--do so using current technology, we'll quickly burn through all the world's oil and coal, and everyone will regret the consequences. Although I started my journey asking the question, "How will climate change affect the people of the Americas?" by the end, I found myself asking, "How can the world achieve our standard of living without climate change spiraling out of control?"
Although my ride did not answer this second and most difficult question, I did come to appreciate its importance. My ride did, though, provide many answers for how climate change will affect people throughout the Americas, and I also answered the basic question of whether or not I could bike to the tip of South America.
At first, biking to Tierra del Fuego just seemed impossible, the distance too far. But now I realize that if one dedicates the time and effort and travels just a few miles every day, after enough days, he or she will reach the far end of the world. And, in that answer, perhaps, is an analogy to how we will solve climate change. If we dedicate the time and effort by setting ambitious goals and working toward them every year for the next few decades, we will eventually arrive at the solutions for what once seemed an insurmountable task.
In the morning, I encounter no bulls. After a breakfast of corn flakes and powdered milk, I break camp, load my saddlebags, and start pedaling south along Route J. According to the map, Route J is the southernmost road in the Americas, and it will end at a washed out bridge over the Rio Moat. For a year and half, I've been saying that I'm biking to "the tip of South America," a statement that opened eyes as I traveled and gave me purpose on rainy days, long climbs, or lonely nights. It feels odd, now, to think that I've been biking to a washed out bridge all these months.
A car or small pickup truck passes me every half hour or so, and my wheels bounce over the rocks in the dirt road. The leaves of stunted trees show subtle highlights of red and gold, signaling the approaching autumn, and my now-tattered leg and arm warmers protect me from the cool breeze. I follow Route J until it meets the Beagle Channel, a four-mile-wide waterway separating Tierra del Fuego from the next island to the south, and then turn southeast as the road parallels the water.
The day wears on, and I ride farther from civilization; only two cars pass me all afternoon. When I reach the Rio Moat, a river a mere twenty feet across, I'm surprised to find that a new red steel bridge crosses the water. Nervous with anticipation, I continue.
The road climbs and ends after half a mile at a white, one-story building on a bluff overlooking the choppy waters of the Beagle Channel. Tall antennas protrude from the building's turquoise roof, and three wiry dogs bark over the hum of a generator. The dogs run up to me, but two stop short and wag their tails while the third approaches and sniffs at my saddlebags.
I dismount, walk to the door, lean the bike on its kickstand, and knock to see who lives at the end of the road.
