I never thought I’d return to the Southern Tier as a route leader; I thought my days of soul searching and daydreaming under the desert sun were over. When I got offered the chance to return to Bike the US for MS and ride across the country a second time, I laughed out loud. It was like a writer’s miracle; I finally had the chance to go back to all those infamous desert roads and rediscover what I had dubbed as my glory days. In a moment the world felt small again; I had been so sure that 2014 was my once in a lifetime opportunity to prove myself that I actually believed I had absorbed everything from the experience that I could. It goes without saying that I was wrong. Since that time I have learned over and over again that I could never possibly be done growing and each experience I have had has dwarfed the previous one. Now, as I sit a day’s ride outside of Phoenix (the same place I was abandoned two years ago) I realize that I have been looking for enlightenment in all the wrong places. To be honest, I don’t feel like I want to get all introspective and philisophical this time around. In fact, ironically enough I feel like I’ve gotten all of the roving and pondering out of my system for the time being. I’m happy to announce that this blog is no longer devoted to dramatic narratives of self-discovery, thank the lord. This time around, I’m writing the truth.

 
I passed a 200 acre feed lot the other day and it was absolutely horrendous. I was right outside of Brawley, California, so I can officially confirm that happy cows do not come from CA. I’m used to feedlots; I live in the Midwest and take a lot of road trips; but this one was the worst. It included the usual herds of oversized cattle confined to pastures full of two-foot-thick sludge, but it was also no less than 110 degrees out. That is torture for any living animal, and I don’t have to go into how intelligent and social cows are because I covered that in my last post. This particular feed lot was also connected to a slaughter house, and the sounds of cattle bolts and distressed cows could be heard all the way from the road. Hundreds of solar panels stood amoung them and provided the small shelters that the poor animals huddled under, exhausted and afraid, unaware that giant manmade eco-freindly machines were providing their shade. Once again, the irony was unbearable, but not as unbearable as that hot Mojave sun. No one could deny that a sight like this is terrible, and that the treatment of those animals is plain wrong. And yet, time and time again, we somehow manage to. We all do, even if we are only doing so by simply refusing to acknowedge the problem.

 
Maybe in a case like that, humans are too far removed from the problem to take action. After all, I don’t even remember noticing this feed lot the first time I rode by, and that’s probably because I was too preoccupied with my own stresses for the day. I think that too often people like me hesitate to even accept that such things are wrong, maybe because they feel insecure about not being able to stop it or maybe because they feel insecure about contributing to the very industry. Either way, a group of hungry cyclists facing a 90+ mile day are not the ideal candidates for proactive passerby. Of all the pictures posted on social media that day none were of the obviously depressing feed lot, and I’m sure those disturbing images were not even called to mind at dinner time when we stopped at a burger joint. Of course I don’t blame any of them. I do, however, blame the dangerous way of thinking that forces us to justify something that is so obviously wrong just so we can go about our days without having to carry the extra weight of acknowledging it.

 
Unfortunately, on the Southern Tier bike route it is virtually impossible to turn away from all of the abused and neglected animals, and many of them are not nearly as far out of reach. The evening before we got to Brawley we were camping in another small country town called Live Oak Springs. I was on the phone with Jenny when I found I was being followed by two skinny, mangy calico kittens and the first thing I said to her was, “Oh shit, now I have to deal with these kittens.”

 
It isn’t easy to drop everything and devote yourself to taking an animal to a shelter or finding their rightful owner, at least most of the time. Being raised by my kind hearted mother I have always prioritized the health and safety of animals, I think it’s just something that runs in my blood. Even so, I still only take action when I’m not able to justify not taking action. Only when I am sure nobody else is going to do something, especially on a bike trip where I am tired and emotionally drained, do I go out of my way to try and do something. I’m not proud of this, but because I rarely am convinced that other people are going to step in to help a neglected animal I find myself taking that role more often than not. If I had a car I’d save twice as many animals, but with only a bike I am usually reduced to harassing as many local people as it takes to get the job done.

 
In this particular case all I had to do was knock on the doors of a few camper trailers before I found the owners, and then I returned the kittens and suggested they be taken to a vet. In other instances, I have called the local sherrif and closest humane societys, trying to convince someone else to go out of their way to save an animal. I am delighted when I come into contact with a fellow animal lover who is more than willing to help me, but more often than not I spend a lot of time trying to convince people to make a call, or take a drive, or even refer me to somebody else. Everyone is just so busy, that without prioritizing animal welfare I don’t know how local law enforcement can even make a dent in the reports of animal abuse that they must receive. Especially in states like New Mexico and Texas where animal protection laws are virtually nonexistent.

 
The sheer amount of stray animals in the United States alone is overwhelming. The least I can do, besides try my best to help the few individual animals that I come across, is be honest about what I see. It is really the least anyone can do, but even that seems to make a differnce. Americans need to stop relying on the code of politeness and start intervening when we hear our aquaintences joke about blatant cruelty, and especially when we see it in action. If we can stop desensitizing ourselves to animal cruelty, and speak our minds when we come across something that is wrong, maybe animal abuse will finally go out of fashion.

 
Veritas means truth in Latin, and while that is a pretty fancy term to describe the theme of this entry, it felt pretty fitting. One of my fellow cyclists has it tattooed on his arm, and he explained to me today that he got it when he decided to live more truthfully and authentically. I won’t try to recreate his words, but what he told me inspired me to look up the word and I discovered that it comes from the name of an elusive greek goddess who embodied humility and truth. I guess she is my inspiration for the next few weeks that I will spend in the deep South, and as I pass through each town I’m going to document the treatment of animals that I witness exactly as I see it. In my quest to live a kinder and less destructive life I have fallen in and out of denial many times; once before I stopped eating meat, again before I spent time living on a dairy farm, and most recently when I witnessed the giant feedlot in Brawley that never made it onto a postcard. I can’t promise that my clumsy ranting won’t cause me to step on any toes, but don’t let that keep you from staying tuned for my next story! There is a fire lit beneathe me and I have never been more ready to speak the truth.

 

 

This is Calico, a highly creative name I gave to the healtier of the two cats. She was a stunner. For a less adorabe picture google Brawley feedlot.