The MuseWeb Foundation’s place-based storytelling project Be Here: Main Street is going strong in Minnesota. With support from our partner organization, the Smithsonian’s Museum on Main Street program, we’ve had the Be Here crew collecting stories, sharing thoughts about the value and importance of storytelling, and doing a lot, a lot of listening. In a behemoth effort to engage with people across multiple Minnesota communities, Shanai Matteson of Water Bar & Public Studio and with whom we chatted in a previous blog, has been crisscrossing the land of 10,000 lakes with her chief storytelling ambassador Ben Weaver, a songwriter, poet, bicycle advocate, and dad. Ben’s role is to listen, to inspire, and to encourage others to tell stories. His own tale is pretty interesting too.
“A while back I decided to do things differently. I stopped touring in a car and began carrying my instruments on my bicycle. Instead of performing in traditional concert settings, I began building tours around natural spaces, specifically around water. I wanted to give back, build communities, and learn more from the people and places I visited.”
Ben: When I ﬁrst attempted to make a living as a musician I was diving around the country playing in little coffee shops and sleeping at rest stops in the back of an 1985 Ford F150. Those days were fed by an ambitious romanticism for a ragged, hand-to-mouth life on the road. It wasn’t long before the romantic edge wore off, and I began growing tired of playing to tiny audiences in sad bars. Luckily after releasing my third record, Hollerin’ at a Woodpecker, I got a break. Suddenly, I had all kinds of invites to go across the Atlantic and perform.
I received an invite to come perform at a festival in Katowice, Poland. I forwarded the offer to my European booking agent who recommended we add additional shows to the festival making the trip into a mini tour. . . . I’m gonna share a story from the ﬁrst day of riding that speaks to what it was like out there, and also casts a bright light on the serendipitous experiences which keep me riding to shows.
A concern I had preparing for this trip was navigation. I needed to allow eight hours to travel the 100 or so miles between shows. Most days, soundcheck was at 4 pm, followed by dinner, and then the show. I also had to ﬁt interviews in there as well.
People were intrigued by my traveling to shows by bike and even in a country with so much bicycle infrastructure, what I was doing was not normal.
When all was said and done, I was typically not back in my hotel room until midnight making each day was a jigsaw puzzle of hours. How I put them together made all the difference in my surviving the next. To ensure not getting lost, I brought a GPS, and Garmin was kind enough to donate a Euro map chip to my cause. A very good friend of mine and incredible guitar player, Mark Ziljma, lives in Amsterdam on the 3rd ﬂoor of a very, very old building. For those that have not climbed up or down Dutch stair cases, particularly the old ones, they are nothing like the giant rectangular stair wells we have in the U.S. The Dutch built their stairs steep, narrow and winding. In order to get my bike down Mark’s stairs, I had to hold it from the rear rack dangling it almost vertically while Mark took the front wheel and together we guided it down the stairs and out the front door.
On the ﬁrst day of my tour I left Amsterdam planning to ride 103 miles to a town called Middleburg in the south of Holland. Immediately after loading my instruments on the bike and heading into the wind and rain, I began having problems with the GPS. Each time I deviated from the course, it froze. I ended up using my phone to get out of Amsterdam. Near mile 45, I took the Maasluis ferry across the Nieuwe Waterweg just west of Rotterdam. The GPS was still acting up and while taking shelter from the rain beneath a breezeway on the ferry, I decided to stop following the pre- planned course and try typing in the address for the venue in Middelburg.
My hope was that the issues I was having were in the pre-loaded course and that maybe in bypassing it, the GPS would stop freezing up. Quickly the unit built a new route, and I’d get some temporary relief. I trust my intuition and sense of direction more than any computer or GPS and after about ﬁve minutes following the new course, I had a feeling something wasn’t right. I stopped and checked the heading against my phone and sure enough, I was veering considerably more southeast than made sense. My original course had followed the coastline down to Middelburg. Now, I was being led inland. Normally this wouldn’t bother me but the area of Holland I was entering into is known as the Zuiderzee (one of the seven wonders of the modern world). This area is a former bay of the North Sea and now holds what is known as the Delta Works, a series of giant dams and dikes that have been constructed to control the in and outﬂow of water from the sea to the country’s canal system ensuring the entire place doesn’t just get washed away.
In short, it is all water. I was confused as to why the GPS was leading me inland and not down the coast (which was the shortest route). In addition, I was skeptical it had found the necessary bridges and or ferrys to get me across all the water between my current location and Middelburg. I tried to zoom out of the course to make sure it was actually leading me to Middelburg, and the map, albeit very hard to read, showed that it was. So despite my feelings of uncertainty, I decided to trust the computer. The Netherlands are the epitome of a developed and engineered landscape. The Zuiderzee and Delta Works being the most extreme example. Throughout all my riding, there was never a time where I felt anywhere even remotely close to wilderness. That isn’t to say it wasn’t beautiful much of the time, but even when riding through national parks and wildlife areas, everything felt highly managed, weighted and purposefully constructed toward the beneﬁt of civilization.
As the new course led me further inland the population density decreased. I spun further and further into the strangest kind of nowhere. The landscape so full of human sign and manipulation yet humans themselves were nowhere around. Just ﬁeld after ﬁeld, bordered by canal after canal. The way through this landscape on a bike was across narrow concrete paths about eight inches wide that ran along the spines of the dikes.
At a certain point into this strange nowhere, I ceased being mad at myself for trusting the GPS instead of my intuition. I was content to be right where I was,in the grey wind and rain.
It was at this moment that the dike I had been riding along dead-ended at the base of a steep hill. A narrow road tee’d off to either side and on top of the hill, three sheep stood looking down at me through the rain. Still in my moment of contentment, I looked up at them and smiled. The GPS told me to turn right and quickly I found myself atop the hill where less than a football ﬁeld away was a huge river ﬁve or so times as wide as the Mississippi. The sense that something was wrong, returned. To my right as far as I could see, there was endless ﬁelds and dikes. To my left, barely darker than the fog, way off in the distance loomed what appeared to be an extremely long bridge. I continued on the GPS course which was now leading me straight towards the giant river.
Quickly the road turned to gravel and ended at a locked gate. Here the GPS said, “Go to dock A and get your ferry.” Not only was the gate locked, but from what I could see, all that awaited beyond the locked gate was a handful of sail boats, a couple parked cars and a small house. I didn’t see anything resembling a ferry. I shook the gate and called out. No one answered. I called again, still no answer. I knew from having studied the map in Mark’s apartment the evening before and from my knowledge of the Delta Works that if I couldn’t get across here my day was quickly going to go from 103 miles to 100 and many many more miles. This was not an issue for my legs, but my concert schedule did not have time to accommodate a delay of that kind.
I shook the gate once more and hollered. This time louder. A woman emerged from one of the parked cars in the lot and said, ‘Yes.’ I hollered back, ‘I am looking for the ferry.’ She said, ‘There is no ferry here, you need to go 1000 meters that way.’ I thanked her and headed off, my stress about time temporarily at ease. A few minutes later, I spotted a ferry pulling away from the shore. I raced down onto the landing and waved at the captain. In seeing me, he backed up lowering the gate. As I pushed my bike onto the metal ramp he stuck his head out of the pilot house and said, ‘Are you going to the island to go camping?’ I said, ‘No, I am going Middleburg.’
It is never a good sign in these circumstances when the response someone gives you begins with a laugh.
Chuckling, the captain told me this ferry only went to an island in the middle of the river. It did not go all the way across. He then pointed off into the rainy, windy, foggy distance at the long bridge I had noticed earlier. There, my fate awaited. I thanked him as I turned my bike around and began pedaling towards the bridge. I thought of JayP and his motto of always pedaling forward. I was thankful for that mantra. A few moments later a car pulled up alongside me and stopped. The driver door opened and a woman got out. It was the same woman from the marina.
A funny thing to note here is that she didn’t just roll down the window, but stopped, shut off her car, and got out to talk to me. This was a dead giveaway that I was deep in the Dutch countryside. She asked if I was okay or needed anything. I conﬁrmed with her that this bridge off in the distance was indeed my best and only way to Middleburg. She conﬁrmed and also noted that the ferry my GPS had sent me to only ran in the summer. She wanted to give me a ride, but I refused. I asked to use her phone to call my friend Tonnie in Middleburg and let him know I would be late for the show. However, after dialing his number the call didn’t go through. There was no reception. I thanked her for stopping and headed towards the bridge.
For a long time, this bridge, known as the Zeeland Bridge was the longest bridge in Europe and today is still the longest in Holland. Two days before my crossing it, there had been 40-plus mile an hour winds from the south. A group had staged a championship bicycle race against the wind across the bridge. It turns out for my crossing of the wind had dropped to 26 mph but ended up aligning with the sun set. (One of the more spectacular I have to say.) Watching it go down into the water, I felt some redemption for following the GPS over my intuition. The sky like a bonﬁre above the river. In the end, I made it to Middelburg half an hour before dinner.
My GPS-induced detour added around 36 extra miles to my day. Despite those miles and headwind, I managed to maintain my record of never missing or being late to a show. The next morning I woke up to a 20 mph tailwind and sunshine. I rode the 93 miles along the ocean up to Haarlem in just under 7 hours, a great change from the day before. I arrived at my hotel in time to shower before heading to the venue for soundcheck and dinner. Before my set, I was standing in the back of the room watching the opening band play their set. I noticed a woman walk in and at ﬁrst glance I thought she looked a lot like the lady from the day who I had taken to at the marina and on the roadside, but that seemed impossible.
My show that night was one of the best of the tour. I played a bunch of new and old songs and the audience felt like a room full of old friends.
After the show I was standing at the merchandise table selling cds when I heard a voice say, “So, you already forgot me from the side of the road?” I’ll admit I was a little freaked out until she told me that because I had called my friend Tonnie from her phone, his number was still on the screen when she got home. She felt responsible and decided to call him and let him know she had run into me, that I was okay, but would be late. Tonnie hadn’t mentioned this when I saw him in Middleburg but it turns out they had a fairly long conversation. Her father had just passed away and in their talk, Tonnie had shared with her who I was and what I was doing out there on my bike. She was curious about my music and looked up my tour schedule online to see if I was performing anywhere close by. It turns out she was curious enough to drive an hour to see me play that night in Haarlem.
I thanked her for coming, still somewhat stunned, ﬂattered and eternally thankful for the mysterious connective energy that follows you around when embracing your sense of adventure by bike. Before leaving the club that evening she said this to me, ‘You know, it’s all the little things you do. The tiny chances you take, the detours. You never know what you might learn, what you might see, what might ﬁnd you.’