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Into Thick Air: Biking into the Bellybutton of Six Continents

By Ron Georg

The wind was at my back as I breezed through Into Thick Air, Jim Malusa's funny and endearing bicycle travelogue, even as the writer himself was slogging through sand, wilting in the sun, or fighting gusts decidedly less favorable than the currents that carried me though his literary landscape. And when I was through reading, I felt every bit of the cathartic longing he must have experienced when he reached the bottom of his goal.

Bottom?

This is a story about bottoming out. Malusa notes that many adventurers seek high points, the seven highest peaks on the seven continents. A glorious pursuit, reaching a high point requires finances from deep pockets and support by untold ranks of humble carriers and Sherpa.

Malusa, on the other hand, is seeking the low points, the lowest spots below sea level on each of six continents. As a Tucson resident, he's a fan of deserts, so he's more than happy to leave Antarctica off the list, as that continent's greatest depression is under hundreds of feet of ice. The resulting series of expeditions, while enjoying some initial lavish funding, is an exercise in humility, not hubris.

The writer's humble mien is complemented by his vehicle choice: his bike. Despite the fortitude required to power oneself across often forsaken topography, a person perched precariously atop an overloaded, skeletal frame of steel, thinly shod with narrow rubber, appears soft and vulnerable - especially in places few venture without engines.

With his gentle demeanor and improbable vehicle, Malusa gains entr�e into social circles that range from Christian to Muslum, and from ruined communism to bloated capitalism. Along the way, he is welcomed into local cultures, meeting families and individuals who seem to want to claim him as a temporary mascot, if not one of their own. It doesn't hurt that he's willing to partake in spirited celebrations, whether throwing back shots at a Russian wedding or sitting in on the daily khat chewing rituals of equatorial Africa.

Between adventures, Malusa reverts to his alter-ego, that of mild-mannered botanist, cataloging the flora of the Arizona desert. While that vocation certainly informs his observations of desert life, or lack thereof, his prose ranges into the poetic, well beyond the scope of most scientific writing. Where most scientists can write, offering terse, accurate descriptions in a passive, third-person voice, Malusa paints with words. He uses the word "data" just once in the entire book, which must have taken a good deal of personal restraint.

In addition to opening himself to the potential in every personal encounter - with the possible exception of the stone-throwing youth in Africa - Malusa shares every aspect of his expedition with readers. He doesn't just magically appear, satellite phone in hand, in the Egyptian desert. Rather, he bogs down in arcane and arbitrary paperwork, sometimes guided by cheery amateur ambassadors, other times blocked by minor bureaucratic tyrants. The book thus becomes a primer for anyone hoping to embark on a similar venture.

Of course, the satellite phone is not part of his plan. That's a concession to his original employer, the Discovery Channel, which commissioned his initial travels to generate content for their fledgling Web site, before anyone realized there's not a whole lot of profit in web journalism. He also describes the transition from sponsored traveler to personal seeker, from being electronically encumbered to carrying a note pad in his shirt pocket.

With phone service and a laptop, he was more than connected to the website, he had access to the world beyond his self-imposed solitude. While that might be somewhat comforting, Malusa suggests that more is lost than gained by such an arrangement when he explains, "Travel is a kind of running away from home, and with a phone on my bike I never completely cut free. A lifeline is also a leash."

Even more to the point, he shares a bit of planning philosophy that might help anyone get more out of a trip. While he pores over maps and reads histories before his trips, he avoids photographs of his destinations. "Travel without surprise was merely an agenda," he writes.

Some avid touring cyclists may be put off by Malusa's seeming indifference to technical detail regarding his bike and his riding, but hopefully they will recognize that his style reflects his ability to allow the bicycle to disappear under him while it measures and defines the scope and feel of his journey. His bike is an integral part of the experience, even as he tosses it onto the occasional train, bus, pickup or taxi. He does add a short appendix about his bike and gear, which demonstrates his affirmation of the gearheads.

I admit that I nearly passed up this book, as I was judging the book by its cover. The publishers made the unfortunate decision to use a stock image of a mountain bike on the cover, showing a rider taking on a slickrock challenge on a high-tech, full-suspension bike. While the uninitiated might lump all cycling adventure into one extreme heap, this type of riding is actually the antithesis of Malusa's pursuits.

But I did pick up the book, flipped it over, fortunately, and spotted the author's self-portrait, leaning over his loaded bike, wearing a button-down shirt instead of garish cycling togs, looking entirely satisfied to be standing on an otherwordly salt plain. That was something I wanted to read about.

Ron Georg is a freelance writer living in Moab, Utah, where he's a regular contributor to the Moab Times-Independent. You can reach him at pedalmore@gmail.com.