Bacon and Eggs across America.
(And Donuts.)
A BIT OF BACKGROUND: I have 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 still remember 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.
In 2005, my youngest daughter developed type-1 diabetes. 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 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?”
“And thereby hangs a tale.”
***
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The view from atop Mt. Washburn, in Yellowstone NP. I started my ride in 1999 near here. (That's my son-in-law during an 2020 hike.) |
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Dead Indian Pass, picture from my 1999 ride. |
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Two young riders I met in Kansas, pedaling east, during my 2007 ride. I prefer to head west, saving the best scenery for last. |
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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. |
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The scene of my arrest - as a bank robbery suspect! Wayne County, Indiana, 2011 ride. |
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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.”
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July 22, 2024. The old guy makes it to Glacier National Park. (If you're doing the math, I'm 75 years old.) |
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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. Throw in a bad right knee (thanks to the Marine Corps), a bad left wrist (from a tumble in basketball), and a bad left Achilles tendon (developed during this ride, as we shall see).
What could go wrong?
PLEASE NOTE: 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 decades.
Here’s a link, if you’d like to
donate.
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Emily now has twin boys: Story, left, and Prosper, right. |
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Adam Kavka is a former student. He's type-1, too. Julianne is his fiancée. (They're at the White House.) |
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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.) |
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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. |
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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. |
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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 pedal, I will 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, on my second cross-country ride, 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, 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.
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At the top of Cadillac Mountain, Maine. April 30, 2024. Temperature in the 40s. |
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My granddaughter Ellora gave me this motivational note. She told me not to open it until the first day of my ride. |
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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.) |
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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. |
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 wet and cold, and I pedaled through repeated downpours.
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 any 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.
It 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?”
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I'm happy to do "stealth camping" on my trips. That means making your own spots in the woods. |
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View from my tent on a drizzling morning in Maine. |
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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. |
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Another rainy morning in Augusta, Maine. Waiting out the rain at a motel. |
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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.
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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 great 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.
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Sign at the bottom of Kancamagus Pass. The first twenty-one miles are a gradual rise. The last five or six are really steep.
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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 day, 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 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 take 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 60!
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Stealth camping near the Connecticut River, with light rain and fog. |
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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. |
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At my age you know life is short. I find these roadside memorials touching. |
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Church in Bennington, Vermont, built in 1751. The Puritans once dominated New England. Today the region is the least religious part of the USA. |
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Now many women today would want to be named "Submit." |
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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.
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 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 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 on the other side required about 45 minutes.
(I hope to interview them someday soon.)
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.
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The New York countryside was often beautiful. |
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Markos and Haley. Serious campers and cyclists. |
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Jack Lynch, age 94: My new role model. He gave me a restaurant review (see below). |
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I rarely take pictures of meals; but Lorenzo's was excellent, if you're ever biking the Erie Canal Trailway. |
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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 and drank coffee. 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.
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?
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 guess 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 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.
The oldest person to ride 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, 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 at Camp Pendleton in California, 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 pedaling 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.
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Across America, in small towns you see a lot of empty store fronts. |
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It continued to rain almost every day, as I pedaled across New York. |
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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.) |
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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. |
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No pioneer wagon train ever had a trail blocked - and a coffee cup warning. |
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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. |
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A birdwatcher near Herkimer, N.Y. told me to look for the bald eagle. |
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Fort Herkimer Church - used during the American Revolution. |
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In some spots, the Canal Trailway almost fizzles out. |
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A wedding on a canal boat - who knew! |
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Letchworth State Park in New York, considered one of the best state parks in the U.S. |
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Lower Falls on the Genesee River. |
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That is one big piece of slate, for a table. |
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Statue of Mary Jemison, captured by the Iroquois when she was young. She saw the good and bad in people on both sides. |
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A pioneer staircase. Don't try this when drunk. |
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I didn't agree with the sentiment; but you have to credit the enthusiasm. |
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Me in the Marines, 1969. Defending our nation with a toilet brush. |
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 “clop, clop” of buggies passing in the dark.
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.
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. Loss weight.
Even in Ohio, my planning occasionally proved shaky. At one point I took a road due south. On my old-fashioned roadmap, it was marked as lightly traveled. On a AAA map, roads of that kind are colored light gray. Busier routes are black. Heavily traveled highways are marked red. The road was light gray on a map, but bright red on a sunny spring afternoon, and cars trucks ripped past at high speed. I began sweating profusely. At first, I thought it was just 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 found out the
hard way that my phone could overheat and stop working – a lesson I would repeatedly
learn 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.
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Back to Ohio - and goodbye to most roads with good shoulders. |
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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. |
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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.) |
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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.) |
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The sun was out, and I had a nice ride along a good road near Lake Erie. |
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Amish farmland near Middlefield, Ohio. |
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| In Hiram, Ohio, I had donuts at Maggie's Place. They work hard to include individuals with different abilities. |
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In memory of soldiers lost in the Civil War and in the Vietnam War (above). I could have been sent to Vietnam. I volunteered twice to go. My journey took me in a different direction. What could Lamont Hill have done with another fifty years of life? |
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Pedaling along a rails-to-trails route in Ohio. You can go from Cleveland to Cincinnati almost all the way on trails. |
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Not far from Akron, I picked up the trail through the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. It follows the old Ohio & Erie Canal. |
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| 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. |
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June 3: Ready for the second leg of my trip. I was even in good shape! (For a change.) |
North to Michigan and then West.
I’ll have to fill in 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. In my disgust, I turned to talk to the nurse, and 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.)
Anyway, my plan was to ride up along Lake Michigan, which I did, but go as far north as the Upper Peninsula, before heading west. The problem was, I wasn’t making the miles I had 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 pedaled across Wisconsin and Minnesota, and into North Dakota. I met a young couple riding east, on their honeymoon. I thought that was cool. I met Sky, 25, who grew up in Cincinnati, also riding east, and we talked over lunch about our adventures. She had already walked the Appalachian Trail. I met Emily Johnson on a broiling hot day in Montana, and the 30-ish-year-old rider and I shared stories. She, too, had completed the Appalachian Trail. I had breakfast one morning with two young ranchers in Montana and spent an enjoyable night in a small Montana town, talking to a family with two twins with type-1 diabetes. I met a pair of church leaders riding one day along a trail – and they told me about their plans to take a group of 55 teens hiking later that summer. I had a bicycle breakdown north of Bismarck, North Dakota, and ended up renting a car to drive to Portland, Oregon to see my daughter Sarah, her husband Logan, and my wife (who had flown out) – and then, after a twelve-day break, drove back to Bismarck and started pedaling west once more.
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 proved true on all four of my long rides. Whereas, if we watch the news then we would believe most Americans are ready to kill each other, due to politics.
You would think that someone like me, a Democrat, would be unsafe in the red states; but I have more faith in people than that.
I think there’s a good story to tell – if only I have the ability – and the time. At 75, you never know. My wife’s uncle once told her, at age 80, that he wasn’t sure whether to buy a gallon of milk – because he might not live long enough to finish it. I liked Uncle Fred’s sense of humor in the face of aging.
And I still think that’s a model to follow.
Anyway,
I’ll just add pictures; and I’ll work on text later.
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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. |
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My shoe fell apart. So I got duct tape with a design that reminded me of my granddaughter. |
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I do stay at motels and hotels about every third day. These two gentleman heard what I was doing, noticed my beat up shoe, and gave 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.) |
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My phone app allowed me to find excellent roads, lightly traveled. But gravel? Not a fan. |
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Patriotism writ large. |
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I took this picture because the flags in the background were standing straight out. The wind was ferocious that day. |
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My first view of Lake Michigan. |
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The blogger poses for posterity. |
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Sculpture along the way. |
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Cookies on call! I was definitely stopping! Six chocolate chip cookies later, I was ready to roll. |
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As a former history teacher, I thought this sentiment was apt. |
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I found a great state park on the Michigan shore. (I will look up names and details later.) |
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I was packing up my tent, when this nice couple asked if I'd like coffee. I would. They ended up serving me breakfast. And they also prayed for my safe journey. |
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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.
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A Catholic church in Green Bay, Wisconsin. |
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I met this couple at a park, where I was eating lunch. They prayed for me, too! |
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When you ride the back roads you often find towns that are atrophying. |
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Saturday morning at work. |
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Every abandoned store and home has a story of hopes and dreams. |
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I wondered if the cows agreed with the sentiment. |
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Someday, I want to ride across the country in a tank. |
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Rural areas tend to vote red. |
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The Lutheran influence in Wisconsin and Minnesota is pronounced. Many Scandinavian immigrants settled in the region. |
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That should be "loose," not "lose." I did a header into a pile of dirt. Cracked my helmet, not my noggin'. |
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The obligatory picture when you cross into a new state. |
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Good roads for riding in Minnesota. |
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The Paul Bunyan Bicycle Trail made for an interesting ride. "Babe," Paul's famous blue ox. |
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Vehicles for sale: May need work. |
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We all travel thorough life on borrowed time. Where will we go with the time we are granted? |
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Crossing the river in Brainerd, Minnesota. |
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Camping in Minnesota. |
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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.
I’ll add more text as time allows. I do recommend riding east to west, if you’re crossing the United States, 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 and 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 hours, getting my wits about me.
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, fifty miles away, in Bismarck. 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.
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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. |
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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 my friend back home called it and I remained happy and dry.
While I was waiting in line for a table inside, a group of young people asked me what I was doing, and I told them I was peddling across the country. One bearded fellow responded, with impeccable comic timing, “On purpose?”
By this time, I was also having trouble with a sore leg. In my notes, I wrote:
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 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.
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From Mapleton, I cut to the north to use North Dakota 200. That took me past Page. |
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Once again, my phone put me on a rutted dirt and gravel highway. Cue the profanity! |
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New Salem, N.D. is kind of stretching if for tourist attractions. |
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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. |
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That's me on the right. Look, I was getting thin! (Now that I've been back home, I'm getting fat again!) |
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I used to be a history teacher. Of course, I'd stop at the museum. |
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The museum at Fort Mandan is excellent. This painting shows Lewis and Clark on the rainy Pacific Coast in 1806. |
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Carving out a dugout canoe. Pedaling looks a lot easier. |
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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. |
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The explorers carried tools for amputations, if necessary. None were. |
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Mastodon tooth. Even Thomas Jefferson thought there might be mastodons still alive, in the West. |
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Meriwether Lewis, dressed for exploration. He also died early - possibly by suicide in 1809. |
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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. |
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Getting close for a shot. |
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A buffalo awaits death after a hunt. |
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Fight to the death. |
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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. |
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Preparing for a game of lacrosse. |
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I gave out in Dickinson, N.D., and found a cheap hotel room. The heat was so bad, the power blew out. |
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| My view of the sky while camping out one day. |
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"Stealth camping" off to the side of Interstate 94. |
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Stopping to fix a flat tire on Interstate 94. A North Dakota state trooper stopped to see if I was alright. |
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Looking back the way I'd come. |
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When I'm pedaling I hate to pay high prices for motels. This place wasn't exactly four stars. (Name of the place withheld to protect the innocent.) |
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Someone forgot to iron the pillowcases. The sheets were no better. |
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Parked in the motel lot - a car with three flats. |
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This set of pictures is from a previous trip to Teddy Roosevelt National Park, near Medora. |
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Some fool always has to leave a name. |
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That's my wife Anne. She lets me pedal away on my adventures, even if she doesn't like the idea. She's in better shape than I am, but isn't a cyclist. |
Montana and Glacier National Park.
I know
most of my students, when I taught in Loveland, Ohio, near Cincinnati, 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 this journey was on my “bucket list.” I was having a tough day in
the heat, and replied, “Maybe my ‘kick the bucket’ list.”
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 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 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 a flat tire, but I was wrong, hopped on my bicycle again, went around
a hairpin turn, and kept right on going. 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. “F**k,” I said, as a rider careened past. It happened
so unexpectedly, and so fast, I still can’t say whether he missed me by three
feet – or six – or even twenty. But when I glanced in the mirror attached to my
glasses, I saw a trail of dust about fifty yards long, where he and gone off
the side of the road.
I stopped
pedaling, and turned around, and went back to where a motorcycle lay on its
side in the dirt. Broken plastic and glass parts were strewn about, and the
rider lay in thick grass. Another rider was standing over him – but not
kneeling down – a look of stunned disbelief on his face. I had a sinking
feeling that he knew his companion, or friend, was already dead. Other riders
had also stopped, and I made sure they had cellphones to make emergency calls.
And I pedaled on. I kept thinking, “That rider got up today, and he was just as
excited about his journey as I was.”
Now he
may have reached his end.
I’ve got
plenty more I could 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 spectacular, 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.
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 inner tubes. I had had
seven flats during my ride, all on the back tire, and could find the cause only
on the first, 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 only 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 told simply. My daughter Sarah, a nurse practitioner, asked me
to stop. She was afraid a fire might explode in size in my path. She worried
that the smoke would affect me more than I could predict (I had had a heart attack
in 2021). So I mulled it over most of that day. Finally, I promised Sarah that
I would call her mom, and I would see what my wife had to say.
I called Anne and 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.
So I abandoned my route, and on July 26, flew home, without mishap, to Cincinnati, happy to see Anne, but a little 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.
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The Montana state line. |
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One day, I pedaled 73 miles and this was the only standing water I saw. |
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I think I lost this rider's name; will check. He got pummeled in a hailstorm, golf ball-sized hail. |
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Sky and I crossed routes in Winnett, Montana, pop. 180. She had already hiked the Appalachian Trail and was riding solo across the USA. |
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Sky told me she was getting energy from chicken bouillon. I bought some cubes later, and found the bouillon helped. |
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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. |
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Emily Johnson and I met at a rest stop, where we could fill water bottles. She was also pedaling east, solo, and she had also done the Appalachian Trail. I grew up in an era where young women would have been told these kinds of adventures were "unladylike." It wasn't a good time for women. |
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Junked vehicles near Lewiston, Montana. |
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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. |
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There's a speck of a rider in the center of the picture. |
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Abandoned home in Montana. |
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Wide open country west of Lewiston. |
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Three pictures of Moccasin, Montana, now almost a ghost town. In 2020, only 23 people remained. |
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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. |
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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 also enjoyed sharing stories. |
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You have to travel light while bicycling. Here, I use my hand as a plate, and make lunch out of four hotdogs and ketchup. |
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Real estate for sale? |
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On a beastly hot day, I jumped into an irrigation canal. Delightful. |
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Blackfeet tribal celebration, near Browning, Montana. |
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In the mountains, approaching Glacier National Park, I took this picture for my wife. She's a worrier. |
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In the Montana mountains, approaching Glacier. |
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I met this German rider as he was coming out of Glacier National Park. |
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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. |
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One of only four pictures I recovered. |
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I did spend an hour swimming here, in Glacier. What a beautiful park. |
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My wife and two youngest daughters hiking the Piegan Pass trail. |
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Swimming in an ice cold lake. |
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A mountain goat along the Grinnell Glacier Trail. |
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A view on the Grinnell Glacier Trail. |
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A second view from the trail. |
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My wife took a bad trip on another trail. |
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Hiking with my oldest daughter, Abby. |
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A shelter house at the end of another trail. |
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The High Line Trail was too scary for my wife. She doesn't like heights. |
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Overlook on the Going to the Sun Highway, heading up from the west entrance. In 2024, I was riding from the east entrance, instead. |
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Looking down from the overlook. |
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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. The good part about going east to west is that so much great scenery comes last. 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.
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When I ride for JDRF, I ride for my daughter, Emily. She's a Type-1 diabetic (seen here in high school). We love that young lady!!!!! |
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I believe two legs suffice. Pedaling across the USA depends on attitude. I was 58 when I did my first ride across the country. |
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I was a history teacher. So I had to stop at battlefields in Virginia. My students helped me raise the money. They were awesome. |
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Stopping at Thomas Jefferson's home: Monticello. |
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| Roadside memorial in Indiana. |
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I met these two young men heading east in Kansas. (I'm sorry I lost their names.) |
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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. |
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You can make your own camping places. Here I made a spot near Leadville, Colorado. |
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Pedaling a bicycle in Wyoming means almost no traffic. Near South Pass, looking back the way I came. |
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I got my first flat of the trip in Wyoming. |
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While I was changing 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. |
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If you plan to pedal across the USA, go through Grand Teton National Park. |
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Also plan on pedaling through Yellowstone. |
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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. |
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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, a suburban district north of Cincinnati. I had more
than 5,000 students and loved the job and the kids. 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.
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The building hadn't been painted in decades. I scraped every inch with a wire brush. |
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Painting for JDRF. |
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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. This time I started from 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 pedaled 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, and a steady climb of 33
miles. Then downhill, grabbing your brakes, 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, Utah was fascinating.
I kept going south and then west and even crossed the Sevier Desert. Then I
followed U.S. Highway 50, “the Loneliest Highway in America,” across Nevada. At
Reno, I turned south along 395, and at Lee Vining, I headed up Tioga Pass, into
Yosemite. A few days in the park – and 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.
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TO BE CONTINUED...
