A Man, a Plan, I Know I Can (Ride 7,500 Miles)

A Man, a Plan, I Know I Can (Ride 7,500 Miles)

(January 30, 2022)

 

When I decided to switch this story from my old blog, and post it here, I cleaned up spelling and added a word or two, mostly for clarity, to the story. The italicized material is new.

 

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Reminded daily that the vast majority of people are good.

____________________

 

 

I lied, I suppose, when I said in 2007, I wouldn’t ride across the country solo, again, if my wife was opposed. I took a second cross-country ride in 2011. 

On my first ride, in 2007, I raised $13,500 JDRF. I told my students about my plan, and promised to ride 5,000 miles if they helped me raise $5,000. They pitched in, as did parents, others in the Loveland, Ohio community, friends, relatives, and complete strangers. One of the greatest joys of this trip was being reminded every day that the vast majority of people are good, and kind, and generous and want to help if they see a way.

 

I live in Glendale, Ohio. In the summer of 2010, while a member of the Harry Whiting Brown community group, I came up with an idea to paint their three-story building for free. It’s a complicated tale, but we got three bids. Then we took the lowest, and I said I’d do the job for $1,000 less, and after costs donate everything left to JDRF. 

That got us $11,000 more for the cause of finding a cure. By that time, I was retired from teaching. I had to scrape almost every inch of the old building, but I lost the 25 pounds I’d gained since I finished my first ride.

Painting the building was a good way to lose weight.

Not a good picture - but I always find kids who are type-1, and ride in their name.

The project turned out well, I think.

 

Okay. True. I gained it all back by 2011.

 

As the rest of this blog indicates, that year, I did my second ride across the USA, at age 62. I didn’t raise as much money for JDRF as the first time, because I didn’t want to annoy people who donated the first time, but did pass the $10,000 mark, so I’m proud to have done my small part, to hopefully find a cure for type-1 diabetes.

This is me, before my second ride, looking like a tub of lard.
Camping out at Bonnaroo Music Festival, 2011.

 

Fifteen years after my first ride across the United States, I still have four great kids, now have three grandchildren (so far), and Emily, our type-1 diabetic, went on to graduate from Ohio State. Now she’s a nurse. Care for type-1’s has advanced dramatically since the day we first found out she was sick. But. Still. No cure. Now, Emily has a pump, which reads blood-sugar levels, and gives her insulin she needs to live. I could tell you all about how the big pharmaceutical companies manage to keep raising the price of insulin. 

That’s another blog, though.

 

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No one ever said I was smart.

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Now, I’m getting the urge to take another ride. Maybe raise money again. Not sure I want to be a pest, though. We’ll see. 

I’ll be 73 this April. At 62, I knew I could do the second ride. And I’ve talked to hundreds of people since, who I know could do these same kinds of rides. I tell anyone who has ridden 100 miles in a day, that going across the country is just a matter of pedaling more days. 

I was thinking of trying to ride 7,300 miles this spring and summer; but to be honest, my wife (who is normally a very sweet woman) shot me the evil eye.

 

I was thinking it would be cool to fly out to Portland this spring, where our daughter Sarah and her husband Logan live, and ride down the Pacific coast. I’d be sure I was in shape, and make sure my heart attack (April 26, 2021) wasn’t the end of my riding days. Ironically, I was taking a short ride the day I had my attack (blocked arteries – and too many Oreos for a pre-ride snack). I knew I didn’t feel good, but I was nine miles from home. So. Heck. I decided to ride back. 

Ha, ha. No one ever said I was smart.

Yep. I still had my bicycle shoes on when the emergency squad took me to the hospital.

 

Anyway. Here’s my new plan. My wife and I are going to Europe next year. That will be our big trip. In 2024, I turn 75. And, as I’ve said, I don’t want to waste my youth. That means, in April 2024, I’d fly to Portland and ride solo down the coast. I’d carry my own gear again, of course. After that, I’d need someone to ride with, west-to-east.

No companion. NO RIDE. That’s now my wife’s ironclad rule. I figure I’d still be good 80 miles per day.

 

My dream would be to find someone young, 25 or so being perfect, to do the second leg of the trip – and possibly the third leg of this little jaunt. I think there’d be a real story in that. So, someone with writing skills would be great. I can remember back sixty years, to an era of Jim Crow, and “women are too weak to do this or that” and when climate change was never a worry. We had to worry about polio, but not the coronavirus. The question then would be, what would the world look like in sixty more years – in 2084 – when a young-ish rider in 2024 would likely be alive. I could do almost any route again, but I’d like to start from San Clemente, California – and ride across Camp Pendleton, for old time’s sake. (I did two years in the Marines – as a supply clerk. I used to tell my students I protected our country with my trusty staple gun.) 

So: California to somewhere on the Atlantic coast – That would take care of May and June.

 

Places I’d like to see heading east: Joshua Tree National Park, because I’ve heard the stars amaze. Flagstaff, Arizona? Or bend up into Utah, and head for Zion or Bryce Canyon national parks? Possibly a stop to see Canyon de Chelly National Monument, instead. The Anasazi ruins, I’ve heard, are spectacular. Not sure, after that. I could go any way across Texas and be happy, and if I could, I’d hit Atlanta, since my daughter Abby and her husband Alex live there. I’d hit the Atlantic Ocean somewhere, depending on what my so-far-imaginary companion would like (assuming I hadn’t been ditched already, back in Arizona, for talking too much about the “good old days,” and grumbling about “kids today”). 

I kind of think that might be enough for one rider. So I assume I’d need to pick up a second young-ish rider and go back, east-to-west. Or maybe I can find a young rider with a high tolerance for old coots. 

This leg would fill up July and August.

 

Start at the Atlantic, bend north, maybe up the Blue Ridge Parkway. That’s a nice place to ride. Not sure, again. I’d like to pass through Granville, Ohio, where Emily, her boyfriend Ryan, his two kids, and their twins now live. Then, on to Cincinnati, to show my wife I’m still going strong, see my son Seth and his daughter Ellora, age 8 now, age 10, then. I’d make my route fit pretty much what a companion rider would like. I’ve pedaled up the Going to the Sun Highway in Glacier National Park, and that’s an absolute rush. I’ve crossed Yellowstone Park on both cross-country rides, and pedaled through Yosemite in 2011. All those places (and many others along the way) have been spectacular. 

I also pedaled east in 1999, leaving from Yellowstone, headed for Ohio, and came through Nebraska that time. Just missed getting caught in a tornado, which was fun.

My wife, hiking in Glacier National Park.

That's the "Going to the Sun Highway."

Oh, and, I might have to branch off at the end, if I was riding with someone, because I’d want to finish in Portland, Oregon, where my hypothetical trip would begin.

 

**** 

Here’s the story in a nutshell. I’ll be looking for a young rider, or two, if I can find any. 

I’ll be looking a rider, or riders, who like to write. I think you could get a book out of a trip like this. 

Older riders could be good, if young riders think, “Why in god’s name would I want to ride with a dinosaur like this bloke?” 

I carry my own gear. I like the challenge. And I find it allows for flexible camping, which is almost always fun.

Stealth camping, not far from Mt. Rushmore. Several deer watched me pack up in the morning.

I took this picture after reaching the top of Tioga Pass, leading into Yosemite.

One of my favorite pictures of Yosemite.

I do wimp out occasionally and spring for cheap motel rooms. Blistering heat, for example, makes air-conditioning sound good. 

I start slow in the morning, and prefer to eat a big breakfast at some cafe, and talk with the local people. 

I’m a liberal, so that might annoy some folks; but I know how to keep my mouth shut if that helps.

 

If anyone is interested, I can be reached in various ways. I may be old but I’m on Facebook, Twitter (but don’t know how to use it), have email vilejjv@yahoo.com, and a phone, (513-479-4988) which is almost always on silent, and therefore usually misplaced. 

My address (if anyone knows how to write real letters anymore): 

John J. Viall

750 Woodbine Avenue

Glendale, Ohio 45246

  

I also have a blog on teaching, which used to do very well, although I don’t post much anymore. I did love teaching, though. And I do post history materials every so often. 

Finally, I have a blog that deals with Donald J. Trump. But if you like Trump, you definitely don’t want to read that. 

And, of course, I have this excellent blog about bicycling across the U.S.A.

Emily - June 14, 2007

THIS IS THE STORY OF HOW I ENDED UP PEDALING ACROSS THE USA IN 2007, AT AGE 58. I DID IT AGAIN FOUR YEARS LATER. I THINK I’LL DO IT A THIRD TIME, WHEN I HIT 75 IN 2024. 

I DON’T WANT TO WASTE MY YOUTH. 

Dedicated to my lovely daughter.

Emily, bottom, getting a hug from sister Sarah.

Emily

(June 14, 2007)

 

In just a few days I will begin my trip across the United States to raise money for diabetes research.

 

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One of the darkest times our family has ever faced.

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Emily, 17, our youngest daughter, was diagnosed as a type-1 diabetic in March 2005 – one of the darkest times our family has ever faced.

Still, we consider ourselves lucky. Emily had been healthy all during childhood; and we could feel for those whose children were diagnosed early. Emily was old enough to give herself her own shots...old enough to understand what risks were involved...but not so old she wasn’t scared.

We have been lucky since, too. Our daughter has never once let a complaint slip her lips. She knew from the start that being diabetic would change her life and might change her future. So she set her mind on making the best of a bad situation. I will have more to say about her in future postings. For now I can only say that her mother and I are very proud of her.

Here are a few basics of my plan. I have a family reunion in New Jersey the weekend of June 15-17. The next day my brother drops me off along the coast. Bicycling tradition says you should dip your back wheel in the ocean where you start and dip your front wheel in the ocean where you finish. I expect to complete my trip to Oregon in roughly two months.

Loveland community support has been tremendous. I have raised a little more than $10,000 for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. Anyone who would like to donate may make out a check to JDRF.

Send checks to my home address:

John Viall
750 Woodbine Avenue
Glendale, Ohio 45246

 

*I am adding notes here, in 2022, because I’m thinking of doing another cross-country ride in the future. Emily is doing fine. She’s a nurse, and has identical twin boys, a year old. Anything in italics is added. 

In the summer of 2007, I had one year left in my teaching career, spent entirely at Loveland Middle School, in Loveland, Ohio. I told my students about my plan for this ride, and, as I’ll explain later, they pitched in and helped me raise funds.

Prosper and Story. Emily's identical twin boys.

Stress Test - June 14, 2007

 

I loved teaching for 33 years.
When I said I would pedal across the USA, my classes helped me raise $13,500.

Stress Test

(June 14, 2007)

 

My wife is a worrier. So I can’t just leap aboard my bicycle and ride. Today I have to take a stress test. 

I teach middle school. I know I have stress.

Part of it comes down to age: 58. My weight isn’t too good, either: 190 on a bad day and a little under six feed tall. Eating habits are abominable. Twix bars for breakfast, four cookies for lunch. Bad cholesterol an issue.

So maybe a stress test isn’t a bad idea.

I plan to ride my bicycle over to Jewish Hospital in Kenwood in a few minutes. It’s a little more than nine miles. I do find, without exception, that when I exercise my stress abates.

I recommend that middle school teachers exercise regularly.

Two legs will do the trick.

 

*I’ll note right here that on the cross-country trip to follow, I carried all my own gear. I liked that because it gave me total flexibility to stop and camp wherever I wanted. And if I was really beat, I found a motel.

Only 4,000 Miles to Go - June 20, 2007

Only 4,000 Miles to Go

(June 20, 2007)

 

I’m sitting here in a Virginia library, sweating nicely, on my third day of riding.

So far, my trip is about what I expected. That is: A relatively in-shape person of advanced age will suffer to get into shape.

 

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No chance in the world.

____________________

My brother Ned dropped me off around noon on June 18 on the Jersey shore and I dipped my back tire in the Atlantic as required by tradition. Two months later I hope to dip the front tire in the Pacific. A pretty young lifeguard asked where I was going. I replied, “Oregon,” with a smile. She returned my smile and wished me luck. I suspect she took one look at my physique and thought, secretly, “No chance in the world!”

Too chunky at the start!

Heading south with a good following wind I made 72 miles down the coast. As expected, there were no hills, though heat was a factor. I crossed Delaware Bay on a ferry (another 15 miles) and rode through the Eastern Shore to Salisbury, Maryland.

Everyone I talk to has been nice, especially when I tell them I’m riding to raise money for juvenile diabetes research. At a fruit stand in Delaware the owner brought me her special chair and set it down in the shade where I could rest. At 6:00 p.m. I stopped in Millsboro, Delaware at a restaurant serving breakfast all day. When I told the hostess I hoped to ride to Oregon and was raising money for diabetes she shook my hand. Then she called two waitresses over to explain what I was doing. After polishing off a pile of pancakes I logged twenty-seven more miles and found a hotel before dark in Salisbury.

The second day was uneventful – but roasting hot. I felt like I was riding in a sauna. For those interested in a beach home I can say that reports in Eastern Shore papers indicate this region is booming.

 

You heard it here first.

I also read in USA Today that 12% of all health spending in the country goes to diabetic care: $80 billion dollars out of $645 billion. I hope JDRF can help find a cure soon.

I can also reveal another travel tip to those planning to visit the Eastern Shore. Do not plan to use the ferry which crosses the Chesapeake Bay from Crisfield, Maryland to Reedville, Virginia. AAA maps indicate the connection will work; but the ferry carries passengers only and runs once a day. Unfortunately, I missed the trip on the 19th and ground to a stop after only 49 miles.

Today I finally managed to cross over to Tangier Island at 12:30. There you catch a second boat at 2:00 to finish the passage to Virginia. It was a picturesque island and I talked to several interesting locals, as well as a young man who had just finished boot camp at Parris Island. I had the pleasure of graduating from boot camp in February 1969.

I will say more about that; but I want to get riding. It’s 7:30 in the evening and I have ten miles to go to the nearest campground.

Emily gives herself a shot of insulin in 2007. 

 

*Writing about my first trip later, I said the pretty lifeguard probably thought “‘Fat chance.’ I started my trip 25 pounds overweight and 25 years past my prime.” 

I poked fun at myself in my original posts, partly because I knew my students could be reading, but once I got in shape, I thought riding was a blast. After the first few days, it became much easier. I felt twenty years younger by the time I finished in August. So, I recommend this kind of ride to anyone so inclined. 

Tangier Island may be ruined by rising seas, due to climate change, and by some estimates could be reduced to uninhabitable wetlands as soon as 2051. If I live to be 102, I’ll be able to say, “I was there once. Before we screwed up the planet.”

Slow Progress and Suffering - June 27, 2007

Slow Progress and Suffering

(June 27, 2007)

 

I suppose my wife was right. She warned me riding cross-country at my age (58) was a dumb idea. Like many husbands before me, and no doubt to come, I ignored my wife’s advice. Now I’m paying the price in sweat and suffering. The first week of my trip has been harder than expected and I have covered only 460 miles.

 

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Linens on Noah’s Ark.

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Hopefully, I’ll be in good enough shape soon to make this work. Yesterday, June 25 (my daughter Sarah’s birthday) I managed 82 miles, about what I need to average.

Most nights, so far, I have run out of light before I can find a camping spot. So I’ve stayed in motels. I can offer one good travel tip. If in Fredericksburg, Virginia never pay for a room at the Twi-Lite Motel (it may fall down before you have a chance anyway).

The first hint is the “NO REFUNDS” sign at the front desk. But it was growing dark the day I arrived, and I had been caught on busy roads for hours. I took a look at the room, swallowed hard, and forked over the cash.

Sometimes something bad rises to the level of an “experience” and such was the case this night. My room had three lights. Two had no on/off switches and one had no bulb. The dresser was Early American Goodwill; but some previous guest had checked out with all the drawers. The ceiling tiles in the bathroom bowed from age and the towel was part of the linens on Noah’s Ark. Ah...the cable worked…even if the remote didn’t.

Only the finest linens for you.

Another night I ran out of time to find a place and found myself deep in the countryside. So I raised my tent in a graveyard, butting up against a large, wooded area. Around 2:00 a.m. I heard a bobcat nearby. I hunkered down deeper in my sleeping bag and checked to see my pepper spray was near at hand.

I’ve been chased by dogs several times, so I reach for the spray (attached to the handlebars) when I think I might not be able to make my getaway. At this point, I’ve pedaled away from trouble every time, but I think some dog will get it in the end.

Actually, the dogs are ahead 1-0. I was on some back road when a dog came snarling across his yard, headed my way. I was coming up a hill, head down, and had time only to look to see where he was. Then I realized he was stopped by a fence, and looked up in time to see I was headed for a ditch. I managed to stand my bike on its nose and tumble gracefully into the middle of the road.

My best camping experience has been at the Small Country Campground near Troy, Virginia. The Small family has owned the place since 1971 and can accommodate hundreds of campers on any given night. I talked to the owners and it turns out they have a daughter with diabetes. She was diagnosed at 11 and is now 17 and a high school senior to be – as Emily Viall is. Miss Small, however, is interested in massage therapy and not likely to go to college.

Her mother worries what will happen when she hits 18 and can’t be covered on the family insurance policy.

Birthplace of Robert E. Lee.

I spent one morning at the birthplace of Robert E. Lee, an impressive southern mansion, built starting in 1748. Lee spent only three years there, partly because his father fell on hard times, financially. A museum attached had many interesting items, including some of Lee’s personal letters. I noticed in 1834, when he was 25, that he wrote to one of his cousins to describe women in the Fortress Monroe area, where he was stationed, as “the most beautiful creatures” the Lord ever created, enough to “make the mouth water and the fingers tingle.” I like details which reveal the human side of history.

The next day I visited the battlefield and museum at Chancellorsville. It was here in May 1863 that Lee won his greatest victory, pulverizing a Union army twice the size of his. The museum also covers the Battle of the Wilderness, which took place in the same area the next year. The National Park Service has a display of dozens of pictures of young men and women who were tied to the fighting in some way. I was struck by one: Samuel Sager, who joined the 96th Pennsylvania Infantry in March 1864. Less than two months later he was killed at the Battle of Spotsylvania (also covered in the museum), when he was only sixteen. Younger than my Emily. A Louisiana soldier was shot in the face and blinded but returned to marry his sweetheart anyway, had seven children (all daughters) and managed to live to 76.

Stonewall Jackson and his men hit Hooker's army on their right flank,
and rolled up their line.

General Hooker never knew what hit him.
It was Robert E. Lee. 

The day after that I pedaled up the mountain to Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson. If you have never been there, you should make the trip. The place is an architectural masterpiece, filled with interesting features to make life easy – for Jefferson, that is.

Much as I admire the man and the ideals laid down in Declaration of Independence, I wonder how he missed the obvious. Jefferson was a genius, our most brilliant president ever (and I include the present occupant of the White House), but on the question of slavery he was obtuse.

He loved books and had a library of thousands. He loved fine wines and imported hundreds of bottles yearly. He surrounded himself with fine paintings and busts, one of Voltaire. Yet he never put the ideas in the Declaration to action when it came to slavery. Couldn’t he have sacrificed some wine – some books – some paintings – and set some slaves free?

George Washington, a less brilliant man, but of greater character, freed (I think) 388 slaves in his will. Jefferson freed only five. And this from a man who had a long-time love affair with one of his mixed-race slaves, Sally Hemmings.

In any case, if a brilliant man like Jefferson can miss the obvious, I suppose we all must admit we can too.

Monticello and the rider. 

As I strolled through the gardens I noticed a striking black woman, very dark, perhaps born in Africa, but figured it would be rude to ask. She was standing beside a young white man, clearly her boyfriend. As I passed, he leaned in to kiss her and I heard the sound of lips on lips. I couldn’t help but think this was a state that lost a legal battle in the U.S. Supreme Court (Loving v. Virginia) to uphold its law against interracial marriage.

 

That was 1967. The year I graduated from high school.

I have noticed several interracial couples in Maryland and Virginia, what would once have been strictly taboo. I have also noticed how many Hispanics there are and stores and businesses catering to their needs. America continues to change, as it always has. Three motels where I’ve stayed were run by families originally from India, who I think are willing to put in long hours to keep small motels alive. I think our nation can absorb them all and come out stronger in the end, as millions of Irish were absorbed after 1846, including my ancestors.

As for riding: in the mornings riding cross-country seems like a grand idea. By afternoon I am sunburned, caked in salt-sweat, with lips cracked and leg and shoulder muscles aching.

The hardest miles, so far, have been a steep three-mile ascent at Rockfish Gap, leading into the Shenandoah Valley, then a five-mile uphill push this morning just west of Salem, Virginia.

As I type, I am sitting in the library at Pulaski, Virginia. I have covered fifty miles so far today and the next twenty take me into forested country and over two big mountains. I am procrastinating...should I push it this evening, or should I take the wimp’s route and quit early and find a motel?

REMEMBER: I AM STILL TAKING DONATIONS FOR JDRF. SEND CHECKS, MADE OUT TO JDRF, TO:

JOHN J. VIALL
750 WOODBINE AVENUE
GLENDALE, OHIO 45246

Seen in the Virginia mountains: a pioneer cabin and car. 

*I’m happy to say, interracial couples are no longer noteworthy, which is good, although we’re still howling about immigration. I didn’t write about some of my hairy experiences on my blog since I didn’t want my wife to freak out. Most of the time, I found good roads to use and made my own route. Locals often helped with advice. But coming into Fredericksburg, I got on a way-to-busy road. A guy in a white pickup truck slowed down, his passenger leaned out the window, and said, “Buddy, you’re going to get killed.” 

I had a sneaking suspicion he might be right.

 

As for the suffering, it was worth it to see such beautiful countryside. I did later write, for a writers’ group to which I belong, that the climb up Rockfish Gap left my “thighs burning. Sweat was pouring down my face by the time I reached the top, and on the way up, I thought, ‘If I hadn’t told my students I was going to do this ride, I’d chuck my bike, rent a car, and fly home.’”

Home, Sweet Home - for Three Days - July 2, 2007

Home, Sweet Home – for Three Days

(July 2, 2007)

 

I have done better than expected since last updating. I decided to push myself to get past the soreness of the first week and did 537 miles (not counting ten in the back of a red pickup truck in West Virginia) in my second week on the road.

For the record that makes just over 1,000 miles traveled.

People have been universally friendly, discounting one or two morons who yell, “Get off the road,” somehow convincing themselves that they have someplace important to go and something important to say to spice up their brain-dead existence.

I finally had a chance to see Jefferson's home at Monticello.

 

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“May the blood of Jesus protect you through your journey.”
____________________

After stopping to write at the library in Pulaski, Virginia (see my post for June 27), I decided to push into the mountains, although a local man warned I was entering “twenty miles of nothing.” Pedaling out of town, I happened to see a light-skinned African American woman watering her flowers. I asked to fill my water bottles to be safe and was rewarded by the kindness of Mrs. Angie Conners, who could not have been more considerate. After talking about where I was headed and where I had come from, and plans to raise money for diabetes, she noted that she and her husband Willis, a retired army man, were type-2 diabetics themselves.

Then she insisted on providing ice, went inside her house, and came back moments later with a large chunk protected in plastic zip-lock bags. I thanked her; and she said she’d pray for me, adding, “May the blood of Jesus protect you through your journey.”

In the next two hours I was happy to have the ice, sipping the melt water when I hit hard spots and sticking the bag on my neck to cool down when necessary. Around 7:00 p.m. I ran into three local riders who cautioned me I was going to head over Little Walker Mountain soon and Big Walker Mountain right after. The first was two miles up, with numerous switchbacks, the second three miles up and even steeper.

I climbed over Little Walker, then decided to camp on a stream in the valley between the mountains. The camping was free, but “showering” consisted of jumping in the creek, where two deer had been drinking moments before.

The next day (6/27) I had to go over Big Walker first thing in the morning, and it took an hour to climb to the top. (I’m not Lance Armstrong, that’s for sure.) Much of the day was spent heading down the South Holston River Valley, a beautiful stretch, and then climbing two tough mountains in succession to reach Tazewell, Virginia. Near the top of the second mountain an elderly woman driving a black Ford Ranger offered a lift. I explained I was determined to pedal my way cross-country. So she cackled a little, revealing a few remaining teeth, and went on up the mountain. An hour later, entering Tazewell at last, I happened to pass her house. From the front porch she shouted cheerfully, “Glad to see you made it!”

Earlier, near Bland, Virginia, I crossed paths with a young man hiking the Appalachian Trail. I asked how he got interested, and he said a college buddy convinced him to do the trip and asked him to keep him company. I smiled, looked in both directions, and threw my arms wide, palms up, as if to ask, “Where is he?”

The bearded hiker laughed, “That’s a story in itself.” He said they flew to Atlanta from their home in Maine and headed out for the trail. After one week his friend couldn’t do it anymore and quit. So he had been hiking on his own for the last forty days. He hoped to finish the trail from start to finish this year. If not, he will go home for the winter and complete the journey next season. I told him I thought it sounded like a great adventure. He said the same about my plan to ride to Oregon.

As I have admitted, however, if I hadn’t told students I was going to make this trip I might not have lasted through the first week.

The morning of 6/28 was spent in a laundromat, talking to an old fellow, whose history reflects the changing fortunes of America workers. As a boy he helped around the family farm, but noted it “was too damn hard.” So he left home, joined the army, and did a tour as a military policeman in Korea during the war.

He returned home thinking he could catch on with the state police. One bad decision led to another, and he started hanging with friends from high school and “got to actin’ wild” and was soon arrested. That put the end to his plans in the line of police work. He hired on next with Chrysler till the slowdown of the early 70s. After that he went to work in the coal mines as a foreman for twenty-three years. By 1999 he was earning $5,000 per month and doing well enough for his wife to stay home and raise their three children. But it was soon clear he had black lung disease and he had to retire.

Riding that afternoon, I stopped for a drink and a rest. A fellow with a thick mustache pulled his car into the parking lot, noticed my bags, and asked how far I was riding. “To Oregon. At least that’s the plan,” I explained. Then I mentioned I was riding for diabetes. He wished me luck and drove off and I continued to work on my 32-oz. “Glacier Freeze” Gatorade. A few minutes later he pulled back into the lot, got out, and handed me $10 for diabetes. He explained, “The wife and I got to talking and decided we ought to donate for a good cause.”

Entering West Virginia, I dreaded the tough mountains I expected ahead, and stopped the first night in Justice. Failing to find a camping spot, I slept in a motel. Then I ate breakfast at the “Justonian” across the street. Eating alone, you tend to listen in on conversations. Four women nearby were talking about modern teens and their strange piercings. Then they turned to the time when they first had their ears pierced. One admitted she fainted when her sister pierced her ear. “When I woke up, though,” she continued, “the other one was done too.” The ladies (and I, behind my newspaper) all shared a laugh.

Julie Hatfield, who waited on my table (and I think owned the restaurant) talked to me about my plans. As usual, I mentioned diabetes. When I tried to pay the bill, she shook her head, explaining, “It’s been taken care of.” I offered again; but she said she wanted to help a good cause. So I set a total of eighteen dollars aside for my JDRF fund.

Many of the areas I passed through have seen better days. In Logan County a local told me they have lost 25,000 people since the 1970s; and that loss has “devastated the economy.” The region is coming back a little lately as coal rebounds; but there were a lot of empty homes.

People in this area work hard and often look tired and a little beat down. You see fellows with dirt on their t-shirts and up and down the front of their work pants. Even their ballcaps are smudged and tattered. But these are friendly men, quick to laugh, and all seem to know each other. These are coal miners, lumber workers, mechanics and truck drivers, the nuts and bolts of the American economy. My father would have said they were people “who don’t mind getting their hands dirty.”

He would have meant it as a form of praise.

That afternoon I stopped for another Gatorade. (I could do a commercial for the brand.) Three fellows in soiled clothing, just off work, questioned me about my ride. One commented, “You picked a hot day to travel.” I agreed, but replied, “You look like you have been working harder than me.” They laughed and I added, “Go home and have a cold one!”

My ride on 6/29 took me along Highway 10 and for the most part I made good time, putting in 87 miles from the seat of my bike. But one stretch was too dangerous to ride – and a kind-hearted couple, Ray and Frieda Napier, stopped to give me a lift in the back of their red Ford F150.

“We weren’t sure you knew what you were getting into,” Ray said. He explained they had passed me down the road and turned around to offer a lift. It turns out that Highway 10 between War and Logan, West Virginia is narrow and twisting, with heavily loaded coal trucks thundering past in both directions and no place for bicycle riders of any kind.

Frieda has been involved with citizens groups and has traveled to Washington D.C. more than once to lobby for funds to widen the road. Her grassroots approach to democracy is refreshing. So I promised I would add to my blog: HIGHWAY 10 MUST BE WIDENED!

POLITICIANS, GET BUSY!

I spent the night at a Ramada Inn in Huntington, West Virginia. In the morning I dawdled over breakfast, and got to talking with Cindi Acree-Hamann, who lives in Cincinnati. She works at Children’s Hospital and I told her how thrilled we were with the care provided for Emily when she turned up diabetic. Cindi explained that her husband, Captain Gene Hamann, was sleeping in late – and on medical leave from the Cincinnati Police. He was injured by a drunk driver in January and may retire as a result.

She explained that he was an ex-marine (like me) and interested in teaching (like me). He spent time in combat during Vietnam, however. Me? I sat at a desk at Camp Pendleton in California for two years fiddling over paperwork.

I think it’s safe to say Mr. Hamann is the hero in this tale.

By 6/30 I was back in Ohio and feeling confident. I had a short day (riding 67 miles) then found a camping spot in Shawnee National Forest, where I met a group of Boy Scouts led by Frank Duran. It was an impressive group. Duran has them active with scuba diving near Pelee Island in Lake Erie, rock climbing across the state, and practicing for a 70-mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail in July.

July 1 was spent riding hell-bent for leather. I wanted to be sure I got home and so logged 105 miles, blisters, sore buns, and all. I assure you, too, that southern Ohio has a LOT of hills. I had to be pedaling uphill a mile or more at least ten times during this one day’s ride.

Coming through Milford, Ohio, I looked in my mirror (which attaches to my glasses) and spotted two heavily-loaded riders coming up behind me. It turns out they were recent college grads, Steve Cash and Ben Kelchlin, who started from Eastport, Maine a month ago and are aiming for California later this summer. It was fun to share stories and give and receive advice with two kindred spirits (though their combined ages would be two kindergartners short of my own). So we exchanged addresses and hope to cross paths somewhere ahead. They were staying at a friend’s house overnight and headed to St. Louis in the morning.

I headed cross town to Glendale to spend the next three days at home.

Clockwise from lower right: Our four kids in 1992,
Emily, Sarah, Seth and Abby. 

My wife, Anne. She wasn't thrilled when I said I would pedal across the USA.
Picture from 1992. 

 

*I have added a few pictures from recent rides and travels in the United States, and a couple of family pictures, as well. I’ll indicate which ones are added. Unless otherwise noted, the rest are from the 2007 trip. 

In the last fifteen years, coal mining jobs have continued to disappear, not matter what any of our presidents have done. 

As for hiking the Appalachian Trail, I recommend the hilarious book, A Walk in the Woods. Not the movie, though, the movie is no good.

Emily now has two twin boys.
Picture from 2021.