Russian Roulette with Pedals

THIS IS THE STORY OF MY 2007 RIDE, TURNED INTO ONE STORY, FOR PRESENTATION TO THE GLENDALE, OHIO LITERARY CLUB TO WHICH I BELONG.

SEE, ALSO, “CLYDE BARROW ON A BIKE,” WHICH COVERS MY SECOND RIDE ACROSS THE USA IN 2011.

AND “NO.” I DID NOT ROB THAT BANK.

 

 

“Russian Roulette with Pedals”

I ride a bicycle—something any moderately coordinated seven-year-old can do. 

Last spring [2007] I promised to pedal 5,000 miles if my students helped raise $5,000 for juvenile diabetes research. Friends, neighbors, relatives and strangers responded with overwhelming generosity and it was soon clear I would have to live up to the promise. 

Our family had a reunion in New Jersey scheduled for June 15. So I decided to start my ride in the east and head west after the reunion. It would mean facing more headwinds and go counter to what most riders do, but such was the plan.

It was a plan any moderately coordinated seven-year-old could have devised.

The relatives gathered, caught up with one another, and scattered once more. Next day, my brother Ned dropped me on the Jersey shore. A pretty lifeguard watched as I dipped my rear tire in the Atlantic, as protocol requires. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Oregon,” I replied naively. She smiled and wished me luck. But behind the smile I believe she was thinking, “Fat chance!”

And I mean “fat.” 

I started my ride twenty-five pounds overweight and twenty-five years past my prime. 

I expected to suffer and I did. Mornings weren’t bad and riding across the USA seemed like a good idea when the sun was just peeking over the horizon. By afternoon, however, my thighs often felt like they were on fire. 

It was soon clear my planning left much to be desired. I was too cheap to buy maps from reputable bicycling associations. So I charted my own course. Riding in Northern Virginia, I found myself on a busy road and spent an afternoon cycling in fear. Two men in a white pickup pulled alongside. The passenger leaned out and observed, sage-like, “You’re going to get yourself killed.” 

I decided not to mention this incident when I called my wife that evening.

An hour later, with darkness descending, I rolled into Fredericksburg, Virginia. Unable to find a campground, I settled for lodgings at the Twi-Lite Motel. 

It was not the kind of establishment one chooses for a honeymoon. The room had three lights. Two lacked on/off switches and one had no bulb. The dresser was Goodwill-quality, but some guest had checked out, taking the drawers with him.  The bathroom ceiling tiles sagged and the towel must have arrived with the settlers at Jamestown.  

Fine accommodations, including a towel!

Dogs were another hazard. I was chased six times on one Virginia back road, but learned that growling loudly usually keeps man’s best friends at bay. Another day a German shepherd came barreling across a yard, heading in my direction. I was riding head down at the time and had only a split second to see where he was. I could tell instantly he was penned in by a fence. Another instant and I noticed I was heading for a ditch. I stood my bike on its nose and somersaulted gracefully across the asphalt.

No need to mention that to my wife in our nightly conversations, either.

Like a good history teacher I took in the sites. I spent a morning at Stratford Hall, birthplace of Robert E. Lee, and an afternoon at the Chancellorsville battle-field.  Another day’s ride carried me to Jefferson’s home at Monticello, where I earned entrance by pedaling up a steep mountainside. 

The next day I struck the Appalachians head on and pain and terrain reached new heights. The first truly daunting climb came at Rockfish Gap, offering entry to the Shenandoah Valley. The effort left me drenched in sweat and wondering how I ever imagined it might be a good idea to ride across the country at the age of 58.

The next afternoon temperatures hit 96°. So I took refuge in the library at Pulaski, Virginia. I considered quitting early for that day, or quitting for the summer, but decided to push on. Pedaling out of town, I noticed an African American woman watering her garden. I asked to fill my water bottles and introduced myself to Mrs. Angie Conners. Finally, she insisted on providing water and ice and brought me a large chunk in a zip-lock bag. “May the blood of Jesus protect you through your journey,” she added, and sent me on my way.

Around 7:00 p.m. I ran into three local riders who told me I was going to have to climb over Little Walker Mountain and Big Walker Mountain soon after that. The first would be two miles up, with several switchbacks, the second climb longer and steeper. I went up Little Walker and decided that was enough, and set up camp in the woods. “Showering” consisted of jumping into a stream where deer had been drinking moments before.

The next day I needed the first hour to climb out of the valley and over Big Walker. The rest of the morning and afternoon were spent in the South Holston River Valley and pedaling over two mountains to Tazewell, Virginia. Near the top of the second an old woman in a black Ford Ranger offered a lift. I explained that I was intent on riding across the country and must politely decline. She cackled happily, revealing a few broken teeth, and continued up the mountain alone. An hour later, entering Tazewell, I happened to pass her house. From the front porch she shouted cheerily, “Glad to see you made it!”

In those first days of transcontinental riding, when I was still working myself into shape, I was surprisingly loquacious at breakfast, often devoting an hour to discussions with all who cared to listen. One day in Justice, West Virginia, I eavesdropped on four elderly women at a nearby table. Their conversation centered on modern teens and their strange “piercings.” Then they turned to a time when they had their ears pierced. One admitted she fainted when her sister did her first ear. “But when I woke up,” she continued with a laugh, “the other one was done, too!” 

The four friends enjoyed the story—as did I.

Asking advice at almost every stop, I bypassed some of the worst mountains in West Virginia. I made a mistake when I ignored warnings and decided to ride along Highway 10. The road was narrow and twisting, with coal trucks thundering past in both directions and I made good time pedaling in fear. A kind-hearted couple stopped and offered a lift; and this time I accepted. 

I called Anne that evening and told her everything was “fine.” 

By the end of June I was back in Ohio. On July 1, I pedaled hard, a hundred and five miles, to reach home before dark. As I rolled through Milford I looked in my mirror and spotted two heavily-loaded riders coming up behind. They proved to be recent college graduates, Steve Cash and Ben Kelchlin, who started in Eastport, Maine in May and planned to strike the Pacific by August. It was fun to talk with kindred spirits—even though their combined age was well short of my own. We exchanged addresses and expressed a desire to cross paths somewhere out west. 

It would have been fun to ride with them; but I had my heart set on spending a few days in Cincinnati. Seeing Emily and Anne again was great; but it only made it harder to start over again on July 6. The morning I left Emily seemed subdued. 

I knew she was worried. So I gave her the best hug I could. 

I rode for Emily and for JDRF.

By this time I had ridden myself into decent shape. I logged 80 miles on July 6, 83 on the 7^th and 82 on the 8^th. One morning I passed a field filled with cows and noticed they were watching as I pedaled past. Cows don’t get out much and I assume they were bored. I was the stimulus necessary to keep their simple minds working—like watching “Dancing with the Stars” for humans. 

The first night out I slept in an Indiana cornfield. The following evening I paid for a good motel. I noticed they had an exercise room, with an elliptical machine. I passed and headed for bed. 

A few days later I found my best camping spot yet, pitching my tent within feet of the Missouri River. I was completely in touch with nature. I could watch fish leaping and falling back with a splash. I could hear frogs croaking and see geese overhead. A couple from the next campsite offered me a beer. They seemed friendly and explained their children and children’s friends were boating and should be putting in to shore soon. Sure enough, the vessel came into view soon after and a dozen young men and women, some in bikinis and all in various states of inebriation, unloaded. They were towing a floating trampoline and I imagined later asking to try it out. 

We socialized for an hour and a young man offered me a steak off their grill. Night had fallen and I had to ride the next day. So I headed for my tent. Gradually, the sounds of nature were drowned out by the shouting of the drunks. And these drunks knew only one adjective. “F-ing beer!” screamed one. 

“F-ing steaks!” responded a second. 

“F-ing geese!” echoed the third. 

Then, at last, a storm rumbled in, bringing enough rain (I imagined) to chase them to cover. 

The “f-ing wimps” packed it in but the serious drinkers ignored thunder and lightning to keep guzzling. Finally, around 2 a.m., everyone ran out of beer.  Enthusiasm waned and the last of my neighbors stumbled off to their tents.

Camping by the Missouri River: with the drunks.

Kansas came next—and a battle with heat, humidity and headwinds. On the Great Plains the wind seemed to take on a life of its own—as if I was fighting a fire-breathing dragon. Still, I enjoyed the stark beauty and small towns and small-town people. Many of the towns are dying. I passed weed-grown elementary schools and a weed-covered church. McDonalds had shuttered its doors in Hillsboro. Twenty miles west, in Lyons, the same was true, though Lyons was at least experiencing an ethanol boom.

At breakfast in Hillsboro an old truck driver offered a rundown of the local sights. It used to be you could see the embalmed remains of Civil War veteran Sam Dingle, he explained. “When I first saw him he had a full beard and all,” he continued. “Then I went back a few years later and the hair had all fallen out.” 

“The parasites or somethin’ got him.”

I could feel my enthusiasm draining away and decided to keep on going, leaving Dingle to his sad fate.

Two young riders heading east; most of Kansas is this flat.

East, and again west, of Eads, Colorado, I negotiated stretches of fifty miles or more with no place to find food or drink. I made it through and confidence soared. I also started seeing riders heading east on the Trans-America Bicycle Trail. Most were young and fresh out of college, riding for adventure before settling into the working grind for forty long years.

On July 23 I picked up a tail wind and sailed along like a clipper ship. One hundred and fourteen miles later, I took lodging at a motel in Pueblo, Colorado, across the street from a Payday Loan office. I believe I was the only guest who could have proved legal immigration status. But my “neighbors” appeared to be hard-working men and so deserved my respect. 

I was sleeping quietly next morning when the desk delivered a 5:00 a.m. wake-up call.

“Juan?” inquired the voice on the other end.

“Wrong room,” I mumbled.

Moments later—the phone again: “Juan?” the voice asked once more. 

“Wrong room,” I replied emphatically! 

The line went dead. And I only hope Juan made it to work in time to pick onions.

On July 24th I climbed into the Rockies and camped near Royal Gorge Bridge. The next morning was devoted to examining the structure. Royal Gorge, the highest suspension bridge in the world, stands 1,053 feet above the Arkansas River. A sign notes the place where the longest free rappelling climb ever was completed. Another marks the record bungee jump. In a moment of weakness I wondered if this might not be the time to try for a record “bicycle drop.” 

The feeling passed and I was soon sailing down the mountain and into the beautiful Arkansas River Valley. 

On July 26th I took Route 24 north up to Leadville, Colorado, two miles above sea level. I worried about the climb and the altitude but had no trouble—and the scenery and the challenge left me feeling euphoric. The next day I continued north, over the highest pass of the trip, 11,000 feet plus above sea level.

Free camping spot near Leadville.

By then I was seeing eastbound riders daily and they warned that conditions in southern Wyoming might be dangerous. One stretch, between Rawlins and Lander, consisted of 130 miles of sagebrush and sand and must be negotiated with care.

If you were hungry or thirsty you had three choices: Grandma’s Kitchen (32 miles from Rawlins), a store at Muddy Gap (46 miles) and a café at Jeff City (88 miles). That was it. When I took a break for lunch, eating food I was carrying, I had to prop my bike against a reflector to create a spot of shade.

That afternoon, in the middle of the middle of nowhere, I suffered my first flat. I unloaded my bike, flipped it over, and set to work. Just as I was finishing, I spotted a rider in the distance. Something was wrong. I looked again. The silhouette was clearly female. Still, something was wrong. 

Moments later a young woman pedaled to a stop. This was Sarah B------, a free-spirited 22-year-old from Columbus, Ohio. She was wearing regular bicycling gear, but topped off with a red and black tutu, which she had made herself. She had sold her “handyman” business back in Columbus and headed west for adventure. Now she was pedaling south to Durango to meet a friends. 

We parted soon after and I continued up Route 287, pointing for Yellowstone Park. At a Pizza Hut in Lander (where I piled three plates high and cleaned them all again) I met Judy and Ron Hartwigsen and their grandchildren Ryan and Beth. Beth, 12, has been diabetic for three years, but Judy called her a “little warrior” who worked hard to control her disease. Ron promised a lift into Dubois later that evening. After they finished shopping they picked me up along the road, carried me to town, bought my dinner, and added a present for good measure.

The next day I rode over Togwotee Pass, elevation 9,649 feet. Then it was down to Grand Teton National Park. A sign warned truckers they faced a 6% grade for the next seventeen miles. To me that meant a sweet, swift descent.

Free camping spot: hill near Jeff City, Wyoming.

Camping in Grand Teton Park, I had the good fortune to share a bear box with the Garcia family next door. Bob Garcia invited me for dinner and the meal turned into an evening of conversation and laughter. Bob and his wife Teresa have three children, Katie, 12, Jessica, 9, and Phillip, 6, and the party included Teresa’s sister, Dr. Lydia Rose, and her daughter Sabrina, 10.

The children were well-mannered and funny. Sabrina explained that she hated being shorter than Jessica. Then she continued: “I’m the second shortest fifth grader in my entire school. And the shortest kid has a genetic defect!”  

The next morning, when I pedaled out of camp, I could hear the family teasing Sabrina for getting up late. She responded from deep under her covers, “I’m not sleeping. I’m cleaning the tent.”

Yellowstone is always worth the trip—even when you enter the park on two wheels. Those who come in from the south on a bike face a serious climb, crossing the Continental Divide twice, and there is hard pedaling and hard swearing ahead. 

A cold drizzle the afternoon I arrived soon turned to a steady rain. I now discovered the campgrounds were full. Ignoring rules (and the dictates of good sense), I pitched my tent in a grove of pines to the side of one of the roads. I was in bear country. So I bagged my food and hung it in a tree before heading for bed. Round ten p.m. some small woodland creature skittered over a corner of my tent and startled me from my dreams. 

Sleep soon held me in its grip once more. About midnight a LARGE woodland creature approached and I heard snuffling outside my door. Seizing my pepper spray, I clicked the red button to “fire.” Then I waved my flashlight about to show I was on the alert and kept an eye out for the first sign of claws ripping through my nylon walls. 

I considered opening my flap to look. But I was afraid I’d be staring down a bear.

The beast soon wandered off and I drifted off into a restless sleep. Next morning I discovered fresh “scat” three feet from my tent. I have since described this poop to experts and consulted books about animals and their bowel movements. And I can say that elk and deer leave pellets when they answer nature’s call. 

And what I saw wasn’t pellets. 

Then again, the books tell me elk don’t always leave pellets in summer. 

So it might have been an elk. 

And it might have been a bear.

If it was a bear I’m glad he was a vegan bear. Remember the riddle, “Do bears shit in the woods?” If I had unzipped my tent and looked out and seen a bear I know who would have been defecating in the forest!

I spent two days in Yellowstone, following the tourist agenda, and spotted my first buffalo just as I was leaving the park. So did dozens of other tourists. Car after car braked and pulled over, like paparazzi in pursuit of Paris Hilton. 

But there was one difference: the buffalo led a more meaningful life.

I pedaled out of the park and into West Yellowstone about 6:00 p.m. the same day. Motels were filled and I was too rattled to repeat my camping experience if I could avoid it.

I began asking around and met another rider, Doug T-------, who had come down from Glacier National Park. He was talking to Bill, a local (whose last name I failed to remember) who owned a piece of land five miles north of town. Bill said we could camp there. Then he thought a moment and added, “My boys are with their mother this weekend. You can have their beds if you want.” 

“I’m not much of a housekeeper,” he cautioned. “So the place is one step above a frat house.”

Still: that was three steps above a tent!

Bill wasn’t lying about his cleaning ability, but if you could get past the laundry all over the floor and the empty pizza boxes and missing doorknobs, he proved to be philosophical and funny in conversation. 

Doug was probably thirty and would have fit nicely in the hippie era. In fact, he enjoyed mixing marijuana with riding. At one point he informed us, “There’s nothing like coming downhill when you’re baked.”

Back home Doug trimmed trees for a living. (He loved the climbing and on one bicep carried the tattoo of a chainsaw blade.) As a teen he spent two years hitching round the country. Then he got picked up by a paroled convict headed north for a stint in rehab and a meeting with an old girlfriend. Unfortunately, the ex-con had the idea of stealing a car to complete his journey. A police chase ensued. The car spun out and rolled. Doug rolled, too, suffering only minor scratches, and decided to end his career on the road. 

I left them to their laundry and marijuana and soon crossed Lolo Pass, where Lewis and Clark almost came to grief. Knowing their struggles, I was worried; but the pass is not bad today. Then it was all downhill to Powell Junction, where I ran into Gene Myers, a rider heading west like me. 

We hit it off and agreed to kill an afternoon and evening in camp and set off in the morning together. Part of the time we spent playing checkers in the camp lodge. Neither of us remembered the rules and I was sure you could jump your own men.

Using this novel strategy, I crushed him three games in a row.

For several days we rode together through spectacular country. We spent August 8 in the Lochsa River Valley, a “wild and scenic” region, and enjoyed swimming in the clear cold waters. I had been riding alone but Gene had kept company with a woman who recorded how many margaritas she downed during her journey. One night, when the count ran too high, Gene and the lady decided on a parting of the ways.

On August 9 we found a camping spot at the city park in Kooskia, Idaho. The grass was soft and lush. The Clearwater River bubbled past. The tents went up easily and we were soon dreaming...what the...was it raining? 

Half awake, I could hear Gene swearing softly and fumbling with his gear.

Gene was a pleasure to ride with.

Skies were clear when we went to bed. What…the…hell.

Then a BLAST of water hit my tent. 

I unzipped the flap, peaked out, and saw park sprinklers blazing. So Gene and I did some quick singing in the rain and moved our tents and ourselves to a new location.

At forty-seven, unmarried, and locked in an unsatisfying career as a computer tech in Pittsburgh, Gene dreamed of making this trip for twenty years. Finally, he took a leave of absence and began in Washington, D. C. on June 4. Like me, he had trouble believing how close he now was to the end. At one point he asked, “Will you be sorry when the ride is over?” 

I admit I realized the answer might be “yes.”

It was only when we crossed the Snake River and saw the sign at the Washington state line, that it hit us. We SAID we were going to cross the

U.S.A. 

Now we were going to DO IT.

On August 11, after Gene’s unfortunate incident with prunes, we parted ways, he for Seattle and I for Portland. I was soon headed down the Columbia River Gorge despite warnings that winds come “howling” up the river. It was the quickest route to the coast and I wanted to get home. By that point, fifty-one days into my ride, the only beautiful scenery I wanted to see was my wife.

The first day the wind hit me like punches and I managed only nine miles per hour. Then the winds died and I had better riding. Sometimes I used Interstate 84. Other times I followed Historic Route 30. Built in 1916, 30 offered interesting tunnels, challenging climbs, sharp turns and fantastic vistas. At one point, though, I was off the road entirely and onto a bike trail, which cut through old-growth forest. Finally, the trail came to a dead end in the woods. A quarter mile away, through the trees, I could see I-84. I clawed through heavy briers, slashing red marks all over my arms and legs, stumbled up a steep hill, and continued west.

Waterfall in the Columbia River Valley.

My brother Tim drove up from California and trailed me the last two days, helping any way he could. The final night we stayed at a motel in Forest Hills, Oregon. Then I rose early and rode over the Coastal Range to Tillamook.

Suddenly, I could smell the ocean—or the cow manure. Tillamook is the heart of Oregon cheese country. So there are a lot of cows. And a lot of cow wastes. 

The town actually sits a mile inland. So I rode north to Bay City and dipped my front wheel in the Pacific—again as protocol requires.

Just like that: the ride had come to an end. I said I would cross the country and I did.

I saw a lot—mother-daughter anorexics and an elk skeleton in a ditch. I saw coal miners and cowboys and enough stars to remind me why they call it the “Milky Way.” I smelled fresh-cut alfalfa and cedar trucks and more manure than I wanted. 

I learned to relax and focus on elemental concerns. Getting from point A to point B. When to eat. When to drink. I learned not to look too far uphill and keep pedaling.

It was a metaphor for aging.

Often I wondered if God was protecting me. But I had doubts. One day I heard a bridge in Minnesota collapsed; and God did not protect the people there who surely deserved protection as much as me.

My brother Ned calls riding a bike along the highway “Russian roulette” with a lot of cylinders. I worried about drivers who might be drunk or “baked” or hate bicycle riders. Whenever I stopped to eat, or rest, or answer the call of the wild, I wondered.

Could I cheat fate in this fashion?

Could I, by stopping one moment and not the next, change destiny? Perhaps, while I was busy finding a spot to “go” a drunk driver passed by and killed someone else in his path. One victim of the bridge collapse was a nurse. She was born in Somalia and fled that war-torn land to begin anew in America. She was riding with her two-year-old when the structure collapsed.

I know at conception a thousand sperm go racing for a single egg. If one gets there before the other, none of us are “us,” and we are someone else with different bridges and different stops ahead. 

But the last exit is the same and the sign reads: DEATH. ONE MILE.

So I recommend we enjoy the trip.

I have been lucky. I have four children, one diabetic, and love them all. Had I been flattened by a coal truck or gnawed on by a bear I would have still believed my luck was good. 

One day, I took a side road and met my future wife. I could have turned the opposite way in that bar and talked to someone else. I could have spent too long in the bathroom and missed her by seconds. I could have stayed home and read a book. I could have turned a different page and missed her and we would not have passed the same way. 

That would have meant missing the best trip of all.

I felt the key to pedaling across the USA was two legs
and a willingness to use them.