FIRST, PICK YOUR OUTDOOR BEDROOM

Ever done that?  Ordered a personal, custom-made bedroom?  That’s exactly what you get to do when biking long-distance.  Lots of shapes and sizes to suit your taste, from tube-like tents to three-room canvas mansions.   As I approach our polar cycling expedition I have tried a variety of these mobile bedrooms. My bedroom will be an Outdoor Research "Advanced Bivy."

Here's the review in my journal after experiencing the "Advanced Bivy" . . . 

Star Date: April 30, 2014

Holy Shark Coffin, I just finished a full night under the stars.  (Bottom line:  tenting is for kids--they're nimble little things with backs as malleable as jellyfish, which, to my knowledge, never have back problems.)  

Note to self:  do not try to sleep in a bivy and invite your mini-dachshund to cuddle with you.  We were simply one dog too tight.  Baylie was so cold in the mountain air that she squinnied inside my cocoon-like sleeping bag designed to hold a pupa, not pupae.  So we seesawed and squirmed for position all night.  Just turning over to change position would result in ten minutes of readjustment from my K-9 sleeping companion.  

The bivy resembles a shark.  Big, gaping mouth and narrowing body.  Unfortunately, this shark had an upset stomach that, at precisely 4:30 am, regurgitated all its innards.  Amid the debris littering the campsite (okay, it was my porch) of pillows, plastic, flaps, pegs, and sleeping bag was a disgruntled dachshund and a sleep-deprived owner.  

Epilogue.  What was the actual single action, the precise straw that broke the bivy back?  Noises in the dark?  A mysterious movement in the bushes?  A blood-curdling scream for help?  I wish I could say yes, but no, none of the above.  Let the record indicate that I was not afraid--I had said my Wednesday night prayers from the Book of Common Prayer and wisely selected a campground that afforded some safety.  Surprisingly, what ended our tent-testing camp-out was a "lurch."  

A lurch?  So Baylie and owner are lying head to head staring at the stars, contemplating the big questions of life.  I softly pronounced a single word at 4:30 am and the word ended with a question mark.  I said, "Bed?"  In a mini-dachshund's brain, the translation far exceeds the single English word.  Rough dachshund translation:

Bed?  Arf!  Yes!  Inside cabin!  

Warm!  Under-the-covers!

Own space!  Arf!  

Leave chilly porch!

Bed!  Arf, arf!

That one word launched a spoiled dog into a wiener-like rocket launch out of the sleeping bag, out of the bivy-shark, into the cabin, up the stairs and in one final majestic movement, into an air-borne leap onto the bed and under the covers.  That dog did not emerge until sunlight  had kissed the earth for at least four hours.  

MORAL:  Always test your tent out . . . without a mini-dachshund.