The Journeys We All Take - Across the USA on a Bicycle (Again)

 

The Journeys We All Take.

Across the USA on a Bicycle (Again).

July 22, 2024: I am headed for Glacier National Park. I'm in a carefree mood.
That will soon change.

SADLY, one indelible memory from my third bicycle ride across the United States will forever be of the accident I witnessed on an otherwise beautiful July day. 

I was churning up a mountain on my bicycle, pedaling along Highway 89, heading for Saint Mary, at the east entrance to Glacier National Park, when I heard motorcycles approaching from ahead. I was riding on a wide shoulder, almost as big as a regular traffic lane, such lanes being common in Montana, where populations are sparse, and where traffic is usually light. I looked up just in time to see one motorcycle roar past. Then, a split second later, a second motorcycle shot past in the wrong lane, only a few feet away. 

“What the fuck,” I shouted in surprise. It happened so fast, I can’t be sure whether the motorcycle missed me by five feet or twenty.

I was wearing a small rearview mirror attached to my glasses, however, and could now see a hundred-foot-long trail of dust veering off to the left of the highway, where the motorcyclist had crashed. I pulled up and stopped for a better look, and then pedaled back, to see if I could help. 

Four or five more motorcycle riders had stopped – friends of the crash victim, I assumed. By the time I reached the spot where the rider had gone down, another man was standing in the weeds, about a twenty-five-feet from the road. A maroon-colored motorcycle lay on its side, detached and shattered headlight, and various fragments scattered across a patch of dirt near a barbed wire fence. The body of the crash victim was hidden from view. But what riveted my attention was the fact that the man standing over him was not kneeling to see how his friend was. I had a sinking feeling. 

It was as if he already knew his friend was dead. 

It would have been ghoulish to intrude. So, I simply asked another rider, stopped beside the road, if they had cell phones to call 911. (You figure almost everyone does; but I wanted to be sure.)

He said they did. 

“I hope your friend is okay,” I said, and turned again, and pedaled off in the direction of Glacier National Park. 

It was – for me – still a beautiful day. 

About a mile down the road, I decided I had better call 911, to be sure. The dispatcher took my name and number, and I gave him an approximate location. “A little north of the hairpin-turn, heading north on Highway 89,” I explained. “I think the man is going to be badly hurt, at the very least. I’m sure he’ll need an ambulance.” 

Ten minutes later, as I pedaled along, a police car flew past, lights flashing blue and red, siren wailing its woe. A few minutes later, two emergency vehicles ripped past. Then I hit a long downhill stretch – steep enough that I had to clutch both brake levers, and at least four miles long, that took me to Saint Mary. I did a little grocery shopping (apples, cheder cheese hotdogs, energy bars and Gatorade), bought sunscreen – because I had been getting burned on the arms and face, and settled on a bench outside a log cabin-style store for a rest. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Death had just brushed my elbow and still can’t.

 

That morning, I had risen from my “bed” in a tent in high weeds, behind a screen of bushes, just off Highway 89. I was “stealth camping,” something cross-country riders all talk about. I could smell mint, where I had trampled the plants, and the sky was cloudless, and it was crisp and cool. 

Somewhere to the north, the motorcyclist who would soon crash was also rising and probably heading for breakfast with friends. Back east, my wife in Cincinnati, two time zones ahead, would be enjoying her coffee. Sky, the young woman I had passed, pedaling east some days back, might already be in the saddle, I would estimate somewhere in North Dakota. Tory and Mia Bossen, the twins with type-1 diabetes I met in Stanford, Montana, might just be stirring. The captain of the ferry that had carried Zack Pedersen and Cam Cameron, two other riders I had met, and me, across Lake Michigan should already have left Ludington Harbor. If it was good weather back in New York State, Jack Lynch, the 94-year-old bicycle rider I met on a local trail, might be out for his daily ride. In Lewiston, Maine, where I had spent a night in an expensive hotel – because I had wanted to get out of pouring rain – the guests might be sitting down at the free breakfast buffet. The hotel worker who told me about the mass shooting in Lewiston that occurred the previous October would be wiping off tables once more. And in eighteen homes scattered across that city, families would still be mourning the dead. In the weeds, just west of Browning, Montana, I started to pack up my gear. I had twenty miles to go, to reach Glacier National Park, where I hoped to spend four days, and then pedal ten more, heading for Seattle, and, finally, fly home. 

Now, four hours later, my whole mood had changed. 

I was 75 years old at the time of that mountain wreck. So, I understood that Fate holds us all in an undeniable grip. 

In fact, my younger brother told me, before my first cross-country ride in 2007, that he considered riding a bicycle like “Russian roulette, only with lots of cylinders.” He’s correct, of course, and I have crashed twice and ended up in the hospital, myself. 

I know some cylinders are loaded, and the older you are, the more loaded cylinders become a feature of the game. But the cylinders are not loaded just for me. For every one of us born on this planet, past, present, and to come, we’re playing Russian roulette every day of our lives. 

*** 

A BIT OF BACKGROUND: By the summer of 2024, I had pedaled across the United States twice. My first long ride came in 1999, when I was dropped off in Yellowstone and cycled back to Ohio. I will never forget pedaling up the highway, past Mount Washburn, and thinking, “I’m really going to do this! This is great!” That trip was a thrill – even if I did just miss getting swept away in a tornado, near Valentine, Nebraska. 

An empty cylinder right there. 

In 2005, my youngest daughter developed type-1 diabetes. (A goddam loaded cylinder, for sure). So, in 2007, at age 58, I set about raising money for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation and pedaled from New Jersey to Oregon. 

Four years later, I did a similar ride, for the same excellent cause. This time, I started in Acadia National Park and end up in San Francisco. 

So, I’m getting older, or, as Shakespeare wrote, “we ripe and rot,” and in 2024, I think, “Why not do it again?” Why not pedal across the United States for a third time? 

“And thereby hangs a tale.”

***

The view from Mt. Washburn, in Yellowstone NP.
I started my ride in 1999 near here.
(That's my son-in-law during a 2020 hike.)

Dead Indian Pass, picture from my 1999 ride.

Two young riders I met in Kansas, pedaling east, during my 2007 ride.
I prefer to head west, saving the best scenery for last.

These two lovely waitresses in Idaho heard I was riding for JDRF,
and happily donated. A lesson repeated again and again:
The kindness of people. Picture from the 2007 ride.

I started my second trip across the USA, in 2011, at Acadia National Park.
Picture taken at the top of Cadillac Mountain.

The scene of my arrest - as a bank robbery suspect!
Wayne County, Indiana, during my 2011 ride.

Tioga Pass, leading into Yosemite National Park.
The white dot on the road, above my handlebars, is a large RV.
Near the end of my 2011 trip.

(I have a pretty good story about that ride you can read: “Clyde Barrow on a Bike.”

July 22, 2024.
The old guy makes it to Glacier National Park.

Going-to-the-Sun Road: What a ride!!!
I started in Saint Mary and made it to Sprague Creek campground.
July 23, 2024.

***

__________ 

“The morning was like a slate clean for any future.” 

Truman Capote

__________

April 5, 2024: I turn 75, but I don’t feel that old, and I have a plan. My wife doesn’t think it’s a good plan, but she’s a good wife. After a little prodding – and maybe my pouting – she agrees to humor me. I’m going to pedal across the United States again. 

Age is just a number, right? 

Well, sure. But now it’s a high number! Throw in a bad right knee (thanks to the Marine Corps), a bad left wrist (from crash landing playing basketball), and a bad left Achilles tendon (developed during this ride, as we shall see). 

What could go wrong?

 

As usual, I will be riding in honor of my daughter Emily, who has type-1 diabetes, and several other individuals, some recently diagnosed, some of whom have battled the disease for more than fifty years. 

Here’s a link, if you’d like to donate.

SOME OF THE PEOPLE I RODE FOR THIS TIME.

Emily now has twin boys: Story, left, and Prosper, right.

Adam Kavka is a former student. He's type-1, too.
Julianne is his fiancée.
(They're at the White House.)

Audrey Lake (right) and I taught together for years,
and she never complained about being type-1.
She's been meeting the challenge for 62 years.
(Daughter Kim, left.)

Lilly Banks had only been diagnosed 200 days before 
I interviewed her. She's a real ballplayer and the health challenge
doesn't stop her from playing a game she loves.

Lily Kniskern, right, and sister Becca, left.
Lily developed Type-1 diabetes at 14.
Becca was diagnosed with cancer at age two, and again at four.
Riding a bicycle a few thousand miles is in no way as hard
as dealing with what these young ladies have had to do.

Pattie Spicher, seen here with two of her grandkids.
She's the wife of my high school friend, Ray.
She was first diagnosed in 1970.

*

April 30-May 21: Off we go!

YOU COULD call me an optimist because I believe if I hop on my bicycle and start pedaling, I will almost always end up someplace good. 

But for this trip, in 2024, my planning was a little shaky. 

Hubris, I guess. 

If you’ve never been to Acadia National Park, make it a point to visit before your travels take you over the rainbow and off to heaven (we hope). 

Unfortunately, optimism doesn’t make up for ignorance. I rented a car, drove to Acadia, dropped it off at a Hertz outlet just outside the park, and started my ride on April 30. My first challenge was to pedal up Cadillac Mountain, rising 1,550 feet, overlooking the Atlantic coast. I chose the same starting place in 2011 but began that journey on a sunny day in June. 

When I went up the mountain at age 62, I did it without any stops. This time, at 75, after less than a half mile, I had to regroup. “What made you think you could do this at your age?” I wondered. Had I fooled myself? 

Fortunately, the steepest part of the road was the first part, and the grade flattened a little, and it was a beautiful day. I only had to stop once more, and at the top, I felt surprisingly good. 

As it turned out, it would take twenty-one days to pedal back to Cincinnati, on the first leg of my trip, and I would be rained on all but four. It was often cold and wet, and I pedaled through multiple downpours.

Here’s a link, if you’d like to donate to Breakthrough T1D.

At the top of Cadillac Mountain, Maine. April 30, 2024.
Temperature in the 40s.

My granddaughter Ellora gave me this motivational note.
She told me not to open it until the first day of my ride.

Pedaling past The College of the Atlantic, I noticed a protest camp.
I stopped to talk to the students - idealistic, as the young often are.
(I felt equal sorrow for Palestinians and Israelis locked in a grinding war.)

Most of the students were reluctant to have their pictures taken'
fearing retribution. This young man was Palestinian,
and told me about his family back home.

“Hello, Noah!” 

If the weather wasn’t the best, what else could go wrong, when optimism was the only plan? Did you know that almost no campgrounds are open in Maine, during the month of May? This dope did not. I mostly camp on my long rides but stop at motels and hotels every third or fourth day. Now the rain made it difficult to make my hoped-for mileage. On May 2, I stopped after only 32 miles, because it wasn’t safe to ride. Two days later, I did 41 miles, but again, heavy rain forced me to quit and find cover.t poured again on the fifth, and I had to seek shelter after only 25 miles. I started thinking I might see The Ark. 

“Hello, Noah,” I could imagine greeting him. “How are the armadillos? Do the elephants get seasick? How are Mrs. Noah and the kids?”

I'm happy to do "stealth camping" on my trips.
That means making your own spots in the woods.

View from my tent on a drizzling morning in Maine.

When you meet people on the road, and they learn about 
your cause, they often donate, because people are good.
Molly and Ed Hamel donated $50.

Another rainy morning in Augusta, Maine.
Waiting out the rain at a motel.

Getting a quick repair at Rainbow Bicycling in Lewiston, Maine.
Most shops treat you like royalty if they know you're riding across the USA.

One unexpected pleasure was having a chance to stay at my cousin Phil Kearnan's
cabin on a lake in New Hampshire. Phil and his wife Maureen
caught me up on family history and provided dinner and a soft bed for a night.

 

I have bicycled in New England several times, and the rushing mountain streams, and gorgeous vistas are a joy. Drivers in that region are cognizant and give you room to pedal. In fact, my plan in 2024 was to follow a route like the one I took in 2011. I expected that leg of my journey to be a joy. Instead, I spent much of the time pedaling, head down, trying to keep the water from completely covering my glasses and obscuring my vision. 

(Hint to bicyclists planning to ride across the USA: Do not start in April in Maine. Unless you are a duck.) 

I had pedaled up and over Kancamagus Pass in 2011 and now planned to do it again. For the first 21 miles, the road rises gradually, and then for five or six more, it’s steep, and a grind, at least for a rider of my abilities. At the top, however, you see a sign warning truckers of a 9% downhill grade for several miles. It was cloudy again, and chilly that day, but on a sunny day, as in 2011, I can tell you that the Swift River, running along the road, is beautiful, and in summer great for a swim.

Sign at the bottom of Kancamagus Pass. The first twenty-one miles
are a gradual rise. The last five or six are really steep.

That's right, what goes up, must come down.
At the top of Kancamagus Pass.

A nice family took my picture at a stop along the Swift River.
When they heard I was pedaling across the country, the mom said,
"Wow, we don't meet many athletes like you!"
"That's kind of stretching the definition of 'athlete,'" I said.

Chris Poliquin flew past me on the downhill side of the pass.
I didn't think I'd see her again, but she was stopped at the bottom
and we had a good talk. She told me she was 45, but still
a competitive cyclist, as was her boyfriend.
I told her I grew up at a time when women would have been told,
"Stay home and cook. Hard exercise isn't ladylike."

I took the wrong road one Sunday morning, but ended up at the #1-rated
grocery in New Hampshire. They were running a hunting contest,
for biggest bird. Tyler took the lead with this 21.5 pound turkey.
His wife Sam said she'd get hers next week.

Swiftwater Way Station Grocery features a stuffed bear
and awesome breakfast sandwiches.
They put fast food breakfasts to shame.

The proud owner and his son.
I've got his name somewhere and will add it later.

This covered bridge across the Connecticut River, from Cornish, New Hampshire
to Windsor, Vermont, is said to be the longest in the country.

The weather was a little better by the time I hit Vermont; but it was still wet enough for me to alter my route. Near Dover, one morning, I got up early and had to immediately go up a steep mountain – and I just couldn’t do it. I had to walk part of the way. That had never happened on any of my other trips. I was feeling bad – and then I was feeling worse when it began to pour. 

I took shelter under an awning at the Dover Free Library. When the librarian (I think) showed up to open, I asked if I could use the bathroom. 

She delivered a curt, “No.” 

I assume she mistook me for a bedraggled, dripping-wet hobo. 

Later that morning, I had a great downhill coast into Wilmington, Vermont, and a rejuvenating breakfast at Wahoo’s Restaurant. One of the locals seated at an old-fashioned Formica lunch counter heard where I was going and said, “You’re going to have to go uphill for the next eleven miles, but then you’ll get a great ride into Bennington, all downhill.”

He offered to give me a lift to the top. I was tempted, but there’s no sense trying to pedal across the country, if you’re going to wimp out every time it’s a little hard and hitch a ride. Sure enough, up I went for several miles – and then down I flew into Bennington, feeling like a young man. Like I was 65! 

Stealth camping near the Connecticut River,
with light rain and fog.

A sight you never want to see: I snapped my chain
trying to stand on my pedals and complete a steep climb.
A $51 dollar Uber ride got me to a bicycle shop.

At my age you know life is short. I find these
roadside memorials touching.
Fate comes for many of us - all of us? - before our time.

Church in Bennington, Vermont, built in 1751.
The Puritans once dominated New England.
Today the region is the least religious part of the USA.

Now many women today would want to be named "Submit."

Vermont scene - looking in the direction of the Connecticut River Valley.

Not far from Bennington, I hit the New York State line. My plan from there was to follow the Erie Canal Trailway and pedal the next 300 miles almost entirely off roads. The weather was better, although it did sprinkle most days, and the sun still wasn’t out nearly as much as I had hoped. 

A new role model. 

As has always been true on these kinds of trips, I greatly enjoyed the people I met and talked to along the way. I ran into two delightful Canadian riders, Markos McFerrin and Haley Mowat, his girlfriend. They were heading for Washington D.C. and going the opposite direction; but we camped under a shelter house roof – and during the night it rained yet again. Markos and his family had bicycled extensively in Europe, and he and Haley had pedaled together through the Cascade Mountains. 

It was her first experience battling long climbs and she wasn’t shifting effectively and admitted she started to cry. 

I told her not to feel bad. I don’t cry. I curse. The longest climb I’ve ever done, in 2011, was up and over Powder River Pass, out of Buffalo, Wyoming, a 33-mile-climb and a mile of elevation gained. I’m not a strong rider, even at my best, and it took seven hours to reach the top. The thirty miles down on the other side required about 45 minutes. 

I told her not to feel bad. I don’t cry. I do curse. The longest climb I’ve ever done, in 2011, was up and over Powder River Pass, out of Buffalo, Wyoming, a 33-mile-climb and a mile of elevation gained. I’m not a strong rider, even at my best, and it took seven hours to reach the top. The thirty miles down the other side required about 45 minutes. 

Now, on my latest ride, I met Jack Lynch, a local rider, out one afternoon, pedaling a few miles at age 94. I told Jack he was my new role model, and he told me to stop and eat at Lorenzo’s in Amsterdam, right off the trail. I’m glad I took his advice. 

I was sorry that when I passed by Seneca Falls on a Sunday the Women’s Rights Museum was closed. It was there, in 1848, that the real battle for equal rights for half the population in this country began.

The New York countryside was often beautiful.

Markos and Haley. Serious campers and cyclists.

Jack Lynch, age 94: My new role model.
He gave me a restaurant review (see below).

I rarely take pictures of meals; but Lorenzo's was excellent, 
if you're ever biking the Erie Canal Trailway.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton, in later life.
She was one of the organizers of the Seneca Falls meeting.

 

The only problems I had in New York involved getting lost in cities like Albany, and Syracuse, where I had trouble locating trailheads. At one point, I got so frustrated, I stopped at Dunkin’s and ate a bag of donut holes, sipped coffee and mumble imprecations. When I came out, half an hour later, a helpful local rider said he could get me back to the trail and told me to follow along. He seemed pleasant enough, but the more he talked – and he talked nonstop – the more I realized he was a conspiracy theorist of the missionary style. His topic for the day was how the international banking system was rigged. We pedaled along for fifteen minutes, when he informed me (to my relief) that he would drop me off at the next light. Then he thought a moment and said he’d come along until I hit the trail, and I listened for another fifteen minutes.

Then he thought a moment and said he’d come along until I hit the trail, and I listened for another fifteen minutes. 

Still, he did get me back to the trail, and he meant well. 

Two days later, this time on a wooded section of the trail, I had a similar experience, after catching up with a local rider. This time I was regaled with conspiracy theories that started with George H.W. Bush and the assassination of John F. Kennedy in 1963, and carried forward all the way to QAnon and the F.B.I. plot to make Trump’s supporters look bad by staging a “false flag” attack on the U.S. Capitol in January 2021. I started wondering if bicyclists were just a bunch of eccentrics… 

…including me? 

“You can do more than you think.” 

Another serious problem I was having was that I wasn’t making the distances I had hoped. I averaged 62 miles by the time I was done with this ride, but I averaged 80 miles per day, on my first two cross-country trips. Now, I kept missing good places to stop and ended up camping constantly in the woods. I should note here that on my first ride across the United States, I met a young rider going east. He had a car following and told me he was doing 140 miles a day! And – if you are truly crazy – you can try to break the record for fastest ride across the country. That record was set by Christoph Strasser, an Austrian cyclist – who  finished in seven days, fifteen hours, and fifty-six minutes.

I should also point out that the oldest person to pedal across the USA is Bruce Closser, who did it when he was 78, in 2023. As his hometown television station noted, the man from Marquette County, Michigan, “started from Yorktown, Virginia on May 5, and followed the Transamerica bicycle trail then ended on August 22 in Astoria, Oregon.” In all, the septuagenarian “traveled 4,205 miles over 109 days, 91 of which were spent riding.”

 Asked about his main takeaway from his trip, he replied, “That you can do more than you think you can.” 

I would tell others, inclined to try this kind of ride, that Closser is right.

Closser, then, had averaged 46 miles per day, while riding, and so I wasn’t doing as poorly as I thought. Still, to cut a couple of days off my route, I decided to bend south, off the Trailway, pedal through Letchworth State Park, and aim for the Pennsylvania panhandle. Letchworth is well worth a visit, and some say the best state park in the nation. I taught American history for thirty-three years, so I knew that Mary Jemison had lived on the Genessee River, which runs through Letchworth, and a monument to her still stands. Talk about Fate, and journeys taken, good or bad, or both. 

In 1758, her family was nearly wiped out during a raid by French and Iroquois marauders. Two brothers managed to duck behind a barn and escape to the woods. The rest of the family was taken prisoner and marched away. Mary was twelve or thirteen at the time and never forgot the last words her mother told her. “Don’t forget, my little daughter,” she told her one evening, “the prayers that I have learned you. Say them often. Be a good child and God will bless you.” The next morning, Mary was alone with her captors, but that night saw them cleaning several fresh scalps. 

At first, the girl viewed the Iroquois as “cruel monsters.” But she was adopted by two loving Iroquois sisters, who treated her “the same as though I had been born of their mother.” She would later say that the Iroquois were “naturally kind, tender and peaceable toward their friends, and strictly honest.”

Eventually, she married a Delaware warrior, a man she found to be thoughtful, brave, and “a great lover of justice.” She had a daughter, who died, then a son. Her first husband was killed during a raid on the Cherokees, far to the south. She married again and once again found happiness with a husband who had a kind and loving heart. When the American Revolution exploded, however, the Iroquois sided with the British. In 1778 a powerful American army marched across their lands, burning town after town. 

In following years, Mary watched as the native way of life was destroyed. Waves of settlers poured onto Iroquois lands. Alcohol ravished the tribe. Her son, Thomas, named after her father, often collapsed from drink. A drunken fight one night, between Thomas and her son John, ended with John killing Thomas with a tomahawk. John then killed his brother Jesse, also following a bout of drinking. Then John was murdered by questionable friends. 

Mary spent the rest of her life in her cabin on the banks of the Genessee. She was interviewed by Dr. James Seaver, in 1823, and related the story of her life. She lived another decade, dying on September 19, 1833. 

So that was one journey. 

Mine, on a bicycle, was far less sanguine. Even my time in the Marines, during the Vietnam War, proved bloodless. I was assigned to a supply unit and spent most of my twenty-one months on active duty plunked behind a desk at Camp Pendleton in California. Twice I volunteered to go to Vietnam – and still wasn’t sent – while other Marines were shipped off to Southeast Asia to get cut down in a war now widely considered to have been a colossal mistake. 

In any case, here I was, still alive and kicking (or pedaling), and Letchworth was beautiful. I recommend bicycling through the park if you’re ever in the area. There are good shoulders on the roads, but I can also report that there are some serious hills. As for Mary’s story, it can be found online. 

 

Journeys by buggy, journeys fueled by bacon and eggs. 

After leaving the park, I cut across the New York countryside, zoomed across the Pennsylvania panhandle, and reentered Ohio. The roads along Lake Erie offered beautiful views, and the sun was out, and pedaling was a joy. Then I cut south through excellent farmland, much of it tilled by Amish and Mennonite families. I enjoyed seeing buggies, and bearded men, and bonneted women, and one night, when I made a campsite in the woods, I listened to the comforting “clop, clop” of buggies passing in the dark. 

Across America, in small towns you see a lot of empty store fronts.

It continued to rain almost every day, as I pedaled across New York.

These two friends were out for a trip along the Trailway.
The man on the left lived in Athens, Ohio,
and his kids played with Joe Burrow when he was a boy.

(If you're a Bengals fan, you know about Joe.)

The author, right, got to see the Bengals in the Super Bowl.
They were ahead for the first 58 minutes.
Seth Viall, my son, is at left.

 No pioneer wagon train ever had a trail blocked - and a coffee cup warning.

Cows will often come to the fence to watch you pedal past.
I figure they get bored, and its like when we turn on the TV
just for something to occupy our minds.

A birdwatcher near Herkimer, N.Y. told me to look for the bald eagle.

Fort Herkimer Church - used during the American Revolution.

In some spots, the Canal Trailway almost fizzles out.

A wedding on a canal boat - who knew!

Letchworth State Park in New York, 
considered one of the best state parks in the U.S.

Lower Falls on the Genesee River.

That is one big piece of slate, for a table.

Statue of Mary Jemison, captured by the Iroquois when she was young.
She saw the good and bad in people on both sides.

A pioneer staircase. Don't try this when drunk.

I didn't agree with the sentiment; but you have to credit the enthusiasm.

Me in the Marines, 1969.
Defending our nation with a toilet brush.

I should also mention one of my guiding principles for these kinds of rides. That is: Stop at every local café and restaurant you can find. 

It’s the best way to meet locals and talk and the bacon and eggs are always better than what you get at fast food joints. In Canastota, New York, I talked to the young woman who owned the place where I breakfasted. She explained how the closing of several local factories had put a serious dent in the economy of the town. 

Try to find local bakeries, too. Eat donuts. 

Pedal. 

Lose weight! 

Even in Ohio, my planning occasionally proved shaky. At one point I took a road due south. On my old-fashioned foldout roadmap, it was marked in light gray, meaning “lightly traveled.” Busier routes are black. Heavily traveled highways are marked red. The road I was pedaling might have been light gray on a map, but it was bright red on a sunny spring afternoon. Dozens of cars and trucks ripped past at high speed. 

I began sweating profusely. At first, I thought it was heat and exertion. Then I realized terror was involved.

As I have often grumbled, Ohio roads can be some of the worst in the nation for bicyclers, mostly because the idea of a “shoulder” to ride on in my home state is a white line along the edge of the pavement, with six inches of asphalt leftover. To add to the fun, many of our roads feature ditches, lined with stones, right to the side. If a car is coming too close from behind, you can try to balance on the six inches of pavement and hope the vehicle misses. Or you can crash into the ditch. 

And land on the stones. 

Finally, fear forced me to stop and consider my options. Luckily, the new phone apps allow a rider to punch in safe routes. My new directions indicated that all I had to do was pedal west for a mile, then turn south on township roads. I had ten miles of good pavement almost entirely to myself. (I don’t know about other cyclists, but on little-used roads, if a car is coming up behind, I switch to the right side of the road, if the way is clear, and let them pass, then steer back to the left.) 

My next destination was Granville, Ohio, a pretty college town, where my daughter Emily lives. By this point, I was riding on some very hot days, and learned the hard way that my phone could overheat and stop working – a lesson I would learn repeatedly once I got out West. The good news was that there are a lot of good bike trails in Ohio, and I got to Granville in fine shape on May 21. After a pleasant visit with Emily and her crew, I got a ride home to Cincinnati with my wife. 

I took time off, caught up on chores, celebrated my wife’s 72nd birthday, and on June 3, I was off once more.

Back to Ohio - and goodbye to most roads with good shoulders.

I had a nice talk with a group of veterans at Angela's Cafe in Conneaut,
and another great breakfast.
Bacon and eggs across America, we go!

They have an entire wall filled with pictures of veterans.

Oftentimes, I come to "Road Closed" places. Usually, if you are careful,
you can ride right through. In this case the worker with the beam chewed me out.

(The only time this ever backfired was when a bridge over a river in Kansas was out.)

I had a nice talk with Andrei, a rider from Israel.
He had already done 5,000 kilometers, and was hoping to
hit the Atlantic coast, and then go back west.

(I wondered if he was trying to avoid going home
and getting mixed up in the savage fighting in Gaza.) 

The sun was out, and I had a nice ride along a good road near Lake Erie.

Amish farmland near Middlefield, Ohio.

 
In Hiram, Ohio, I had donuts at Maggie's Place.
They work hard to include individuals with different abilities.

In memory of soldiers lost in the Civil War and in the Vietnam War.
I could have been sent to Vietnam. 
My journey took me in a different direction.

What could Lamont Hill have done with another fifty years of life?

Pedaling along a rails-to-trails route in Ohio. 
You can go from Cleveland to Cincinnati almost all the way on trails.

Not far from Akron, I picked up the trail through the Cuyahoga Valley National Park.
It follows the old Ohio & Erie Canal.

 
During my break in Cincinnati, my granddaughter Ellora Viall and I
did a ride on the Little Miami Trail. She's my favorite riding companion.

June 3: Ready for the second leg of my trip. I was even in good shape!
(For a change.)

Lost and found phone - and a new last name. 

I’ll have expand the next few sections of description later. Leaving Cincinnati, I followed the Little Miami Bicycle Trail north for a hundred miles. The second day out of Cincinnati, I suffered a flat tire when I stopped to take a picture of an abandoned factory and set my bicycle down on a board with a staple protruding. 

In the process, I managed to misplace my phone, but rode off, after I patched my tire, not noticing I had left my phone behind. I’ll keep this short for now. I wasn’t sure if I dropped the phone after setting it atop my bags, but I had gone several miles before I noticed it was gone. Several good Samaritans ended up helping in the search, including one former police officer, who backtracked up the trail for miles, and a nurse, who called on her sister and brother-in-law to come out and help. 

Nothing. We found nothing. Two hours wasted. A phone lost. We gathered beside the trail to plot our next course of action; and in my disgust, I turned to talk to the nurse. The police officer, also an avid cyclist, asked, “Could you have put your phone in the back of your jersey?” 

God d**n! I was an idiot. My phone was there all along. But I was reminded again how many people want to help in life. 

(At one point, in my confusion, the nurse later admitted, she thought I was having a stroke. Whereas I was just a dope.)

My plan now was to keep pedaling north, into Michigan, and then cycle along Lake Michigan, which I did, but go as far north as the Upper Peninsula, which I didn’t, before heading west. The problem was I still wasn’t making the mileage I hoped. At a campground on the shore of Lake Michigan one morning, a woman saw my limited tent setup and asked if I’d like coffee. I said I would, and ended up being served a full breakfast, courtesy of her and her husband. They mentioned a ferry across the lake, from Ludington to Manitowoc, Wisconsin. So, I took it the next day and cut four hundred miles off my planned route. At this point, I started meeting other riders – starting with two friends on recumbent bikes, Zack Pedersen and Cameron Crane.

I couldn’t have been more pleased than to spend most of a morning and part of an afternoon talking to the two men. Zack was heavier than most riders, and in his reflecting safety vest, I took him for a construction worker, when not out on a long ride. (I need to interview both of them in more detail soon.) But what he was in reality was an erudite gentleman, clearly smarter than me, who had read Edward Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and still considered it one of his favorite works. He had traveled widely in the world, as well, including to Uganda, where he worked with a group trying to improve rural health, and had a deep interest in Greek history. I recommended that he read Herodotus, considered the “father of history,” and promised to send him a copy when I got home. (He and Cameron plan to finish the third leg of their cross-country ride in the summer of 2025. So we have kept in touch.) 

The question of Fate, or fate, or fates perplex us all. And Cam had one of the better stories I’d ever heard, about how his own fate changed. I have to get the details straight soon. But for now, I’ll just go with what I remember from his story, as he related it almost a year ago. He and a girl he knew had long been friends – for fourteen years, I think he said. At one point, Cam suggested – hopefully- that they got along so well, he thought they should try dating and see how that worked. The girl didn’t want to jeopardize their friendship – and soon left for work in Japan. Cameron was a big fellow, probably 6 foot 6. At one point, he admitted his weight had reached 357, and he knew he had to get a grip for his health. And so, a bicycle rider was born. 

Like me, he was a teacher, only he worked at a school for the deaf; and it was obvious that he cared about his kids. 

I can’t say every teacher does – but I love teachers who do. 

Then one day, he got an email at work that completely redirected his life. The girl in Japan wanted him to know: She had come to realize she was in love. With him. Cam said he was so stunned by this news that he had to ask another teacher to cover his class, and he went outside and walked around a football field, to try to clear his head. I told him how I met Anne, my wife. I probably had one chance to cross her path – and Fate dealt me the same kind of chance, that Cam now enjoyed. Anne, I explained, had been a victim of a brutal crime, before I met her – and so came to marriage later in life, having required a decade to regain her balance, as a result. 

I teared up a little when I told Cam my wife’s story, and he listened kindly and said he understood. 

In his case, friendship finally led to romance and marriage; but his wife, who was Jewish, was a traditionalist and wanted to take his last name. Cam was reluctant and they discussed a compromise. They would take a new last name together. The day Cam knelt on a park bridge, to propose, a crane flapped down from the sky and landed on the railing. And so, the Crane family was born. 

I believe every person we meet in life has an interesting story to tell, if only we ask the right questions. I believe every person has been touched repeatedly by Fate, in good ways and bad, often completely unseen. I like to ask happily married couples and young people in serious relationships, how they met. And they are always ready to explain – to share their stories of good fortune. 

But I wonder. How many people walk past their perfect matches in life, while shopping for bananas in grocery stores?  How many others rue the day they ever crossed paths at birthday parties or while serving as groomsmen and bridesmaids, with future ex-husbands or ex-wives, or lovers that hurt them deeply in all the ways flawed humans can? Fate can deal us random happiness – as with Cam – or lives of misery and abuse – and there seems no justice in determining which we get. 

Journeys of joy. 

Journeys accursed. 

In the time I pedaled happily across the United States, tens of thousands of people in Gaza, and Ukraine were getting blown to bits. Israelis and Palestinians, Ukrainians and Russians, were dying because the Fates were cruel. 

And so can be Man.

 Herodotus explained how he gathered material for his history:
"I am obliged to record the things I am told,
but I am certainly not required to believe them –
this remark may be taken to apply to the whole of my account."

Every individual had a story to tell. 

In days to come, I would pedal across Wisconsin and Minnesota, into North Dakota, and then across Montana. At every turn, as on every long ride I have taken, I met good people, who reminded me of the goodness of most human beings. I met a young couple riding east on their honeymoon, which I thought was fantastic and fun. I met Sky, 25, who grew up in Cincinnati, also riding east, and we talked over lunch, on a bench outside a grocery store, about our adventures. She had already walked the Appalachian Trail, but said I was an inspiration to her, because of my age. I met Emily Johnson on a broiling hot day in Montana, and the 30-ish-year-old rider and I shared stories of journeys taken and plans for journeys yet to come. She, too, had completed the Appalachian Trail. I had breakfast one morning with two young ranchers in Montana and met the Bossen twins and their parents, one of my favorite experiences of the trip. I met a pair of church leaders out riding a trail one day – and they told me about plans to take a group of 55 teens hiking later that summer. At one point, I had people of three different religious denominations pray for my safety, three days in a row. I’m a doubter, but I know it couldn’t hurt. 

Every individual I met had a story to tell, and one I knew would be worth telling. So, I took down contact information and hope to follow up with each of them – and more – soon. I found nice people at every stop, which has proven true on all four of my long rides. Whereas, if we watch the nightly news, we might assume that most Americans are ready to kill each other, due to politics, if for no other reason. 

You would think that someone like me, a Democrat, would be unsafe in the red states; but I have far more faith in people than that. 

I think there’s a real story to tell – if only I have the ability – and the time. At 75, you never know. My wife’s Uncle Fred once told her, at age 80, that he wasn’t sure whether to buy a gallon of milk – because he couldn’t be sure he’d live long enough to finish it all. I liked his sense of humor in the face of aging. 

And now, I’m approaching that same age. 

I still think that’s the model to follow – to approach aging with a sense of humor, and to do our best to enjoy life. 

We can’t cheat Fate, of course. Still, I believe the best we can do is to help others who have suffered cruel fates to have better lives. 

These two church leaders were out trying to get in shape.
They were going to take 55 teens hiking later in the summer.
They said they'd pray for me on my journey.

My shoe fell apart. So I got duct tape with a design 
that reminded me of my granddaughter.

I do stay at motels and hotels every few days.
These gentlemen heard what I was doing, noticed my shoe,
and later sent me a $100 dollar gift certificate to REI.

I count all such gifts as donations to to JDRF,
and add the requisite amount to my fundraising account.
(I hope to talk to them about their family history.)

My phone app allowed me to find excellent roads, 
lightly traveled. But gravel? Not a fan.

Patriotism writ large.

I took this picture because the flags in the background
were standing straight out.
The wind was ferocious that day.

My first view of Lake Michigan.

The blogger poses for posterity.

Sculpture along the way.

Cookies on call! I was definitely stopping!
Six chocolate chip cookies later, I was ready to roll.

As a former history teacher, I thought this sentiment was apt.

Muskegon State Park, on the Lake Michigan shore.
It was great.

I was packing up my tent, when this nice couple asked if I'd like coffee.
They ended up serving me breakfast.
And they also prayed for my safe journey.

Cameron Crane prepares to roll his bicycle onto the ferry,
from Ludington, Michigan to Manitowoc, Wisconsin.
Cam had one of the best stories of how he and his wife fell in love
that I'd ever heard.

Wisconsin and Minnesota. 

Riding in Wisconsin and Minnesota was easy. Again, you could often find bicycle trails – the only problem being that trails can be a little boring. Much of the country reminded me of Ohio. I was going to camp in the woods one night in Minnesota – but saw a black bear cross the road around dinnertime. 

I did not want to be “stealth camping” in wooded areas where bears might take a nibble on my food supply, or my toes. 

I found a state campground, instead, but the mosquitoes were out of control. A young couple at the next site lent me bug repellant. 

Lesson to all riders: Pack bug spray.

A Catholic church in Green Bay, Wisconsin.

I met this couple at a park, where I was eating lunch.
They prayed for me, too!

When you ride the back roads you often find towns that are atrophying. 

Saturday morning at work.

Every abandoned store and home has a story of hopes and dreams.

I wondered if the cows agreed with the sentiment.

Someday, I want to ride across the country in a tank.

Rural areas tend to vote red.

The Lutheran influence in Wisconsin and Minnesota is pronounced.
Many Scandinavian immigrants settled in the region.

That should be "loose," not "lose." I did a header into a pile of dirt.
Cracked my helmet, not my noggin'.

The obligatory picture when you cross into a new state.

Good roads for riding in Minnesota.

The Paul Bunyan Bicycle Trail made for an interesting ride.
"Babe," Paul's famous blue ox.

Vehicles for sale: May need work.

We all travel thorough life on borrowed time.
Where will we go with the time we are granted?

Crossing the river in Brainerd, Minnesota.

Camping in Minnesota.

Skree is not far from the border with North Dakota.
I wondered how many people attended town hall meetings here.

 

North Dakota – I begin to cook my brains. 

If you are considering a bicycle ride across the USA, I do recommend riding east to west, putting much of the best scenery last. On my first two trips, I made sure to hit the Badlands in South Dakota, Mount Rushmore, Grand Teton National Park, Yellowstone (twice), and Yosemite. 

On this third ride I found wide open highways for riding all the way across North Dakota – including Interstate 94. It’s legal to ride the interstates in several western states. I also started running into excessive heat. One day, it was 98° and I could feel myself wilting. The young married couple, cycling east, on their honeymoon, told me they had measured the road temperature at 120°. Another day, I pedaled up the off ramp on I-94, at Dickinson, N.D. At the light, I suddenly realized I might black out from the heat. I dismounted and walked about 800 feet to a Dairy Queen, where I had lunch and killed two solid hours, trying to regain my wits. 

One highlight involved stopping at Fort Mandan, in Washburn, where Lewis and Clark built a post and settled in for the winter of 1804-1805. The museum was excellent. But I was having trouble shifting gears, and the lever controlling the small ring was dangling by the cable. That meant turning south to the nearest bicycle ship, in Bismarck, fifty miles away. I was now facing serious time constraints if I hoped to see my wife when she visited our daughter in Portland, Oregon. So, I left my bicycle at a shop for repairs, rented a vehicle, and drove to the coast. After twelve great days, four spent driving, eight in Portland, I was back in Bismarck and set off west by pedal power once more. 

Just before you pedal out of North Dakota, you pass Medora. If you exit there, you can see the southern section of Teddy Roosevelt’s old ranch. Plenty of buffalo to see. I skipped the sights, because I’d been there before and passed by.

I crossed into North Dakota at Fargo,
and got caught in a rainstorm at Mapleton.
Jason Hagee, who has a bar and grill in town, took pity on me.

He set up a cot in a shed out back and I spent a pleasant night.
Cross-country luxury. The food was good at Hagee's Bar and Grill, too.

In my notes, I had this: 

June 21: pleasant weather all day, sailed along for 78 miles, but then ran into rain around six. Stopped in Mapleton, North Dakota, at Hagee’s Bar and Grill. Jason, the owner, gave me a room at “Hotel Shed,” as John, my best friend back home, called it and I remained happy and dry.  

While I was first waiting in line for a table, a group of young people asked me what I was doing. I told them I was peddling across the country. One bearded fellow responded, with impeccable comic timing, “On purpose?” 

June 22: I google: “partially torn Achilles tendon.” Foot still hurts. Did 84 miles in cool weather. Ate lunch at community owned cafe in Page, North Dakota, population 190 in 2020. In 1915, pictures show the center street lined with Fords, a town marching band, and crowds gathered for horse racing, with $2,500 in prizes. The woman at the counter and the cook were both volunteers. I left a 40% tip for the teenage waitress. The woman at the counter told me the town was down to 189 people. 

From Mapleton, I cut to the north to use North Dakota 200.
That took me past Page.

Once again, my phone put me on a rutted dirt and gravel highway.
Cue the profanity!

New Salem, N.D. is kind of stretching if for tourist attractions.

Matt and Kenzie Palmer: The young couple on their honeymoon.
They were both 23, and met at age 16.
I love the spirit of adventure I find in these young riders.

That's me on the right. Look, I was getting thin!
(Now that I've been back home, I'm getting fat again!)

I used to be a history teacher. Of course, I'd stop at the museum.
Talk about journeys! They lost only one man, to appendicitis.

The museum at Fort Mandan is excellent.
This painting shows Lewis and Clark on the rainy Pacific Coast in 1806.

Carving out a dugout canoe. Pedaling looks a lot easier.

The famous guide Sacagawea.
Her baby was born on February 11, 1805, 
with Captain Lewis doing his best to help with the delivery.
Sacagawea's "journey" ended in 1812, soon after she gave birth to a daughter.
She was only 25.

The explorers carried tools for amputations, if necessary.
None were.

Mastodon tooth. Even Thomas Jefferson thought
there might be mastodons still alive, in the West.

Meriwether Lewis, dressed for exploration.
He also died early - possibly by suicide in 1809.

Karl Bodmer, a Swiss-French artist, traveled up the Missouri River in 1832-1834.
He painted these accurate scenes of the Native Americans.
I took pictures of the pictures at the Fort Mandan museum. 

Getting close for a shot.

A buffalo awaits death after a hunt.

Fight to the death.

Lewis and Clark also had scary run-ins with grizzly bears.
A cross-county bicycler was killed by a grizzly while camping,
near Ovando, Montana, in 2021.

Preparing for a game of lacrosse.

I gave out in Dickinson, N.D., and found a cheap hotel room.
The heat was so bad, the power blew out.

 
My view of the sky while camping out one day.

"Stealth camping" off to the side of Interstate 94.

Stopping to fix a flat tire on Interstate 94.
A North Dakota state trooper stopped to see if I was alright.

Looking back the way I'd come.

When I'm pedaling I hate to pay high prices for motels.
This place wasn't exactly four stars.
(Name of the establishment withheld to protect the innocent.)

Someone forgot to iron the pillowcases.
The sheets were no better.

Parked in the motel lot - a car with three flats.

This set of pictures is from a previous trip to 
Teddy Roosevelt National Park, near Medora.

Some fool always has to leave a name.

That's my wife Anne. She lets me pedal away on my adventures.
She's in better shape than I am, but she's not a cyclist.

Montana and Glacier National Park. 

When I taught in Loveland, Ohio, near Cincinnati (October 1975-May 2008), I know most of my students had never been to Montana. If you haven’t driven across the United States in your life (or pedaled) put it on your bucket list. 

I don’t really like that term, but during my 2024 ride, a gentleman in a restaurant asked me if my journey was on my “bucket list.” I was having a tough day in the heat, and replied, “Maybe my ‘kick the bucket’ list.” 

Good day, bad day, there are huge swaths of Montana with very few people – and very few cars. So, safe riding! 

In Montana, I was pedaling a route used by many cross-country cyclists, almost every one of them heading east. Except for the intense heat, I was enjoying myself, and I was getting close to achieving one of my goals. I wanted to ride up and over Logan Pass, in Glacier National Park, on the Going-to-the-Sun Highway. 

The idea of writing about all kinds of journeys crystalized in my mind on the morning of July 22, as I pedaled up Highway 89, approaching Glacier National Park. I was churning up the long mountain climbs – but feeling good – and then racing downhill again. At one point, I stopped at a pull-off to take a picture, and at the last instant, with the glare of the last morning sun in my face, saw barbed wire barring the entrance. I hit the brakes hard, but my front tire perfectly caught a barb – and stuck. 

I expected my tire to go flat. But after hesitating for a moment, I could see no signs of air loss. I hopped aboard again, went round a hairpin turn, and kept right on going. It was a spectacular day, in spectacular countryside, and I was feeling proud of myself, at my age, being able to do what I was doing. As I’ve already said, I was pedaling, head down, when I heard a motorcycle roar past. Then I heard a second, but the sound was way too close, and I looked up, and saw an out-of-control rider careen past. 

I couldn’t shake the feeling for the rest of the day. I kept thinking, “That rider got up today, and he was just as excited about his journey as I was.” 

I knew a car could wipe me out at any point. Or a grizzly bear. Or I could be on a plane that crashed, heading home, at the end of my journey. I had already had a heart attack in 2021, besides. None of us are guaranteed another year of life, or a month, or a day, or another breathe. 

In fact, someone recently wrote, “Every breathe we take has two possible outcomes.” 

I’ve had eight more months of breathing since that day, and I’ve got plenty more to say about riding in Glacier Park; but for now, I’ll only say this. I pedaled into the park later that day, camped for the night, talked to a 78-year-old woman who told me she was going to do her last hike in Glacier, after many years, and the next day, I rode up Logan Pass and down again to Sprague Campground. The ride was fantastic, and I took dozens of pictures – almost all of which I lost, when my phone overheated for the six or seventh time on my trip. 

And the last. 

I spent July 24 riding to Kalispell, and on July 25, I stopped at the Wheaton Bicycle Shop to have my rear tire examined, and to buy two new spare tubes. I had had seven flats during my ride, all on the back tire, and could find the cause only on the first, way back in Ohio. Finally, I decided a burr in the metal rim must be the problem, and I had filed it down. But I wanted a little expertise – and I was planning to continue that day. I had 3,200 miles behind me, and 600 to go. And I was told by riders coming east that the miles ahead were beautiful, too. 

Unfortunately, the tinder-dry Pacific Northwest was going up in smoke, as countless major fires filled the air with smoke. 

It’s a long story but simply told. My daughter Sarah, a pediatric nurse practitioner, asked me to stop. She was afraid any of several dozen fires already burning in Oregon might explode in my path. She worried that the smoke would affect me more than I could predict. I mulled it over most of that day. Finally, I promised Sarah I would call her mom, and I would see what she had to say. 

I called Anne soon after, told her what Sarah thought – said I was of a divided mind, and asked, “Okay, do you want me to come home?” 

Oh, please do,” she replied. 

I decided to abandon my route, and on July 26, flew home, without mishap, to Cincinnati, happy to see Anne, but sad to have quit. 

Now I joke, “Well, I think I’ll ride across the USA again – when I turn 80 – assuming I’m still around.” 

I’m serious, too. 

I WILL ADD TO THIS STORY AS TIME ALLOWS.

(Assuming the outcome of my next breathe is good.)

The Montana state line.

One day, I pedaled 73 miles and this was the only standing water I saw.
The gap in the reeds shows where I worked my way down to the stream
for a cooling dip.

I thought in 2024, that this graffiti was appropriate.

"Stealth camping," morning cleanup, somewhere in Montana.

I think I lost this rider's name; I'll check.
He got pummeled by golf-ball-sized hail during a storm.

Sky and I crossed routes in Winnett, Montana, pop. 180.
She had already hiked the Appalachian Trail
and was riding solo across the USA.

Sky told me she was getting a boost from chicken bouillon.
I bought some cubes later, and found they helped.

Patrick Parks and I killed a hot afternoon at a store in Sand Springs
(population 9 or 10). He had been a public school teacher and administrator.

We agreed that teaching was getting harder.

Emily Johnson and I met at a rest stop, where we could fill water bottles.
She was also pedaling solo.
I grew up in an era where young women would have
been told these kinds of adventures were "unladylike."
The 1950s weren't all that great for females.

Junked vehicles near Lewiston, Montana.

I found a wallet by the side of the road, near Lewiston.
I had to make all kinds of calls to locate the owner.
He got his wallet back later, with his $47, and credit cards.
He later sent me a $50 gift certificate.

There's a speck of a rider in the center of the picture.
His wife was carrying his gear in their SUV.

Abandoned home in Montana.

Wide open country west of Lewiston.

Three pictures of Moccasin, Montana, now almost a ghost town.
In 2020, only 23 people remained.

I met the Bossen family in Stanford, Montana.
Their twin daughters both had type-1 diabetes.
(Mike and Sandy with the girls, Mia and Tory.)
Talking to them was a highlight of my ride.

The next morning, a restaurant in Stanford was having a radio promotion.
Breakfast for 56 cents. I had fun talking to two ranchers while eating.
Then Charlie Norton, another rider, came in. We enjoyed sharing stories,
and then I headed west, and he pointed east.

You have to travel light while bicycling.
Here, I use my hand as a plate, and make lunch
out of four hotdogs and ketchup.

Real estate for sale?

On one of several beastly hot days, I jumped into an irrigation canal.
Delightful.

Blackfeet tribal celebration, near Browning, Montana.

In the Montana mountains, approaching Glacier.

I met this German rider as he was coming out of Glacier National Park.
I can report, you don't meet depressed riders on bicycles.

Soaking my feet in the cold water of Glacier.

Soon after this, my phone, which had overheated several times
and shut down, died forever. I lost almost all of the pictures
I took in the park, a grave disappointment.

One of only four pictures I recovered.

I did spend an hour swimming here, in Glacier. What a beautiful park.

ALL PICTURES BELOW ARE FROM A CAMPING TRIP IN 2014.

My wife and two youngest daughters hiking the Piegan Pass trail.

Swimming in an ice cold lake.

A mountain goat along the Grinnell Glacier Trail.

A view on the Grinnell Glacier Trail.

A second view from the trail.

My wife took a bad trip on another trail.

Hiking with my oldest daughter, Abby.

A shelter house at the end of another trail.

The High Line Trail was too scary for my wife.

Photo taken near the top of Logan Pass.

Overlook on the Going to the Sun Highway, heading up from the west entrance.
 In 2024, I was riding from the east entrance, instead.

Looking down from the overlook.

A place to swim just off the main road.

Cross-Country Trip #1 - Summer 2007.

(Fifty-five days – 4,088 miles – money raised for JDRF - $13,500.)

My first ride across America took me from Avalon, New Jersey, across Chesapeake Bay by ferry, through Virginia (including the beautiful Shenandoah Valley), West Virginia, and back to Cincinnati. (I had an eight-day rest to catch up with my wife and children.) 

Then it was west across Indiana, Illinois, Missouri and Kansas. I absolutely loved pedaling in Colorado and Wyoming, part of Montana, Idaho, into Washington, and crossing the Columbia River into Oregon, then down the Columbia River Valley, to Portland – and finally, ending my ride at Bay City, Oregon. My students and their families helped me raise most of that money.

Here’s a link, if you’d like to donate to Breakthrough T1D, and help find a cure.

When I ride for JDRF, I ride for my daughter, Emily, among others.
She's a Type-1 diabetic (seen here in high school).

I believe two legs suffice. 
Pedaling across the USA depends on attitude.
I was 58 when I did my first ride across the country.

I still think two legs suffice., now that I'm going on 76.

I was a history teacher. So I had to stop at battlefields in Virginia.
My students helped me raise the money.
They were awesome.

Stopping at Thomas Jefferson's home: Monticello.

 
Roadside memorial in Indiana.

I met these two young men heading east in Kansas.
(I'm sorry I lost their names.)

Royal Gorge Bridge, near Canyon City, Colorado.
When I started my ride I could barely squeeze into that jersey.
I looked like a fat, pink sausage.

You can make your own camping places.
Here I made a spot near Leadville, Colorado.

Pedaling a bicycle in Wyoming means almost no traffic.
Near South Pass, looking back the way I came.

I got my first flat of the trip in Wyoming.

While I was fixing my flat, Sarah Brigham pedaled up.
She was going south to Durango, and told me she made the tutu herself.
I liked her free spirit.

If you plan to pedal across the USA, go through Grand Teton National Park.
That ride is a joy.

Also plan on pedaling through Yellowstone.

I met Gene Meyers after riding over the Lolo Pass.
We pedaled together for five days.
He had been waiting to make the ride across the USA
for twenty years.

My brother Tim brought champagne for the end of the trip. 

Painting for JDRF.

In 2008, I retired from teaching after 33 years with the Loveland City Schools. I had more than 5,000 students and loved the job and the kids, and I did my best to prepare them all for success on journeys of their own.

In 2010, I agreed to paint the three-story Harry Whiting Brown building in Glendale, Ohio, where I live. It’s a complicated story – but I was able to donate $10,500 more from the job to JDRF. It was hot, hard work.

 

For the second time, I lost twenty-five pounds.

 

Spoiler alert: I didn’t keep it off.

The building hadn't been painted in decades.
I scraped every inch with a wire brush.

Painting for JDRF.

Mission accomplished.

Trip #2

(58 days – 4,615 miles – money raised for JDRF - $11,000.) 

I decided to do a second ride across the United States in 2011, at age 62. Once again, I needed to lose 25 pounds, and once again, I did. 

(True: I eventually gained it all back.) 

This time I started at Acadia National Park, a place I love. I cut across New Hampshire and Vermont, which are beautiful, found good roads across central New York, across the Pennsylvania panhandle, and worked my way south, in Ohio, to Cincinnati. Then it was due west – across Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, and South Dakota. The Badlands on a bicycle, and the Black Hills, were fabulous. I recommend the Mickelson Trail, which takes you north a bit, and then I headed for Yellowstone, crossing over the Big Horn Mountains, at Powder River Pass. 

That’s a climb, a gain of almost a full mile in elevation, steadily uphill for 33 miles. Then downhill you go, clutching your hand brakes like a man possessed, and on again west. The route from Cody, Wyoming into Yellowstone is beautiful, and after a few days in the park, I aimed south, cycling through the Grand Tetons, heading for Salt Lake City. U.S. Highway 89 was a good way to go, and as a history teacher, I found Utah fascinating. I kept going south and then west and even crossed the Sevier Desert – which, heretofore, I did not realize existed. I followed U.S. Highway 50, “the Loneliest Highway in America,” across Nevada for several days. At Reno, I turned south along 395, and at Lee Vining, I headed up Tioga Pass, into Yosemite National Park. A few days spent there – as always a thrill. Then I headed for San Francisco, where my one brother lives, the other in Stockton, and ended my trip with a front tire in the Pacific.

Here’s a link, if you’d like to donate to Breakthrough T1D, and help find a cure.