Bitten by the Bug - My First Long Bicycle Ride - Yellowstone to Cincinnati

 

Yellowstone National Park to Cincinnati, Ohio:

My First Long Bicycle Ride.

 (Age 50.)

 

Every marriage could use an interpreter. 

I believe in any marriage, no matter how well-matched the partners, periods of discord are inevitable. Or, as Stanley Kunitz once put it, “In every house of marriage there is room for an interpreter.” 

For my wife and I the spring of 1999 was such a time, as plans for my bicycle journey across the West unfolded. 

 

Anne, my very cool wife, c. 1994.

I suppose I have had a personal love affair with the West ever since my mother took my two brothers and I to California in 1962. That summer we piled into the family station wagon, told dad we'd meet him in San Francisco, when he flew out, and with our mother at the wheel set off on a great adventure. We were not always perfect sons or travelers, though, and I recall her ire when we balked at leaving the car to even look at the Grand Canyon. “It’s just a big hole in the ground,” said Tim, my older brother, which touched a raw nerve. Mom was soon herding us in the direction of an overlook like lemmings on vacation.

 

A more recent view of the "big hole in the ground."

 

Nevertheless, my fascination with these great open spaces remained strong, and the appeal of a bicycle trip across the continent took on mythic proportions as I approached my fiftieth  birthday. It seemed to be a perfect challenge and with my right knee ruined for basketball, I was in need of some activity to keep in shape. In the summer of 1998, in casual fashion, or a moment of weakness, Anne agreed that it would be alright to try. I began then to consider the task. To raise money for what seemed like selfish purposes, I agreed to do lunchroom duty at my school to earn extra pay. On bad days when the French fries were flying and teenage hormones were bubbling, this seemed like stiff penance in the name of adventure. But by spring, 1999, I had a new 21-speed Cannondale touring machine. 

By that time I was also putting in long miles training, and it was increasingly easy to knock off 50 miles in a morning or afternoon. Yet, the more I set my mind on going the more restive my wife became. She knew all along that I planned to make a solo attempt. Now she conjured up a variety of fears, and ran them out at me again and again, like unleashed dogs. What would I do if I broke a leg? How would I avoid dehydration? What about psychos and murderers? Had I considered such dangers carefully? 

How could I respond? I already had my bike. I was in good shape and ready to go. So I listened politely, as veteran husbands know they must do, and then, like any veteran husband, I ignored my wife. Secretly, of course. For I did not want to suffer crippling injuries before I could begin.

“If an ass goes traveling, he will not come home a horse.” 

Finally, late one night, Anne tried a new tack. Had I considered bandits, who might lay in wait, simply to capture my shiny new bicycle? I admit I was perplexed. I had heard of rustlers. I had heard of carjackers. This was a new category of criminality, and I could not take it seriously. Levity only served to provoke my lovely wife. Angry words were soon flying, and at that point two interpreters would have been helpful. I considered appealing in the words of Juvenal: “Travel light and you can sing in the robber’s face.” I feared, however, that Anne would counter with the wisdom of Thomas Fuller. “If an ass goes traveling,” he explained in 1732, “he will not come home a horse.” 

In the end, it was deep into June before Anne relented. Now I rushed to complete my planning. It was a precondition that I carry a cellphone. But a pistol – offered by my friendly, right-wing barber – would not be part of my baggage. A quick trip to Dick’s Sporting Goods netted several bags and a lightweight tent, advertised (optimistically) as providing room for two. I would carry five sets of extra clothes, three spare tires, three water bottles, bug repellent, and a hatchet for chopping wood (also handy for fighting off bike-napping hoodlums). I would also carry a sleeping bag, repair kit, and flashlight, and a couple of good books, about 50 pounds of gear in all. Abby, my oldest daughter, and her boyfriend Alex agreed to drop me off in Yellowstone National Park. Then they planned to continue to California. 

My dream was now within reach.

Lower Falls of the Yellowstone River (308 feet high).

 

Falls observation deck - picture taken during another trip.

View of the falls from a trail above.

Grand Prismatic hot springs.

Yellowstone River.

    

Once we headed West, I tried to get in a few practice rides, for no amount of training in Ohio prepares you for the mountains of Wyoming. The first time I rode with a full load I did better than expected, 28 miles in about two hours through Badlands National Park. The next day, I left our hotel early and headed up Powder River Pass through the Big Horn Mountains, to get a little practice climbing. For eleven miles it was straight up, until Abby caught me in the car, and we loaded my bike back on its rack. I now had a sense of relief. How much worse could it be? I was ready for anything. 

Or so I thought. 

(I’d be coming back the same way, but from the west, in a few days.)

 

On the night of June 22, I camped near the headwaters of the Wind River, 40 miles east of Grand Teton National Park. Abby and Alex deserted me for the comforts of a heated cabin. So I ate a dinner of raisins, nuts and Cheerios and enjoyed the wilderness tranquility. Save for the sounds of a waterfall not far away, and the birds, there was only silence. A squirrel came to dine on my scraps. A moose grazed in a nearby meadow. I spotted a beaver by the stream and tried to snap a photograph, but the creature traced a great arc in the air, splashed down in the water and disappeared with one powerful slap of its tail. 

Darkness came early amid the trees and mountains. I threw up my tent, placed my bag of toiletries high in a nearby pine, as camp bear warnings indicated, and fell asleep with my grizzly-fighting, robber-thumping hatchet close at hand. No animals nor criminals came near that night and there was only one problem. I discovered that the tent I had purchased so hurriedly was too small. And I mean much too small! It was advertised for two occupants. This could have been true if both were natives of Munchkin Land! 

The next morning I rose early, stretched out my legs, and headed up Togwotee Pass (el. 9659 feet). It was six hard miles to start the day, but the country was spectacular, and I felt rewarded for every ounce of energy expended. I met several other riders, headed East or West as the mood struck them, on the “American Trail.” One fellow, followed by a sag wagon, explained how he planned to average 130 miles per day. Another was headed for Minnesota on a recumbent bike. There was a group of four college girls, but I only waved at them as I sat at a gas station sipping a coke. By the time I rolled into Yellowstone that afternoon I had done 44 miles, worn down any feeling of exhilaration, and knew that I was woefully prepared for mountain travel. The altitude gave me a headache. My legs ached. My buns of steel pained me fearfully. In fact, I came perilously close to losing my nerve.

Ox Bow Bend - Snake River - Grand Teton National Park.
(These are the types of scenes I enjoyed on my ride; picture taken on a later trip.)

A flower in Grand Teton.

Grand Teton - Fall 2022.

A whoop of delight. 

 By morning, however, I had recovered my courage. Abby, Alex, had met up with me at a campground for the night, and we enjoyed a last breakfast together. Then they carried me up to the center of the park and at 2:00 PM on June 24, I cut loose and began my ride in earnest, heading East at last. Once again, I had to go straight up at the start, six miles through Dunraven Pass. Then I wound my way along the snow covered slopes of beautiful Mt. Washburn (el. 10,234). I could hardly believe I was finally on my way and let out a whoop of delight – only to swallow some sort of Western bug! Otherwise, it proved to be a wondrous day.

Alex, now Abby's husband, hiking Mt. Washburn in 2017.

 

Just before Tower Junction you pass Antelope Creek, prime grizzly habitat, and closed to human travel. I saw neither bears nor the recently reintroduced gray wolf. All the way – 39 miles that day – it was gorgeous scenery, the weather crisp and clear. I also enjoyed my first great downhill ride, ten miles without pedaling, and pulled into Pebbles Creek campground around dusk. There were no toilets nor showers, but a fine mountain stream ran through my campsite, and I grilled two metts over a fire before preparing for sleep once more. 

A ranger stopped by to remind me to lock my food and shaving gear in the bear proof storage box; and I did a quick inventory of the surroundings. Every other camper had a trailer – or at least a car. And I worried that any grizzlies in the area would head for me like a gourmand in pursuit of a softshell crab. But I was tired and slept well anyway, until it began to rain. Once more, I discovered that my tent lacked certain attributes a serious camper might deem essential. Not only was it too short, I found that with my head pressed against one wall and wet nylon flapping directly in front of my nose this particular piece of equipment had the qualities of a very fine sieve. I spent the night with damp nylon alternately shaking in the wind or pasted to my face. 

A rattled road sign and rattled nerves.

 The next morning I awoke early, with the sun peeking over a nearby mountain, “The Thunder.” I splashed cold water from the stream in my face, dressed warmly, and set off again. Almost as soon as I left camp, I ran into a roadcrew hard at work. The flagger warned me to be on the lookout for a grizzly sow and two cubs, which they had seen in the area, then noted that the adult could achieve bursts of speed of 40 mph. This made me wary and when a wind rattled a road sign as I passed, I reacted like Ichabod Crane. 

After breakfast of trout and eggs, in Silver Gate, Montana (year-round population: 10) I was ready for a hard ride. This was my first real test, and I would do a little more than 90 miles on the day. In the morning I rode down the valley of Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone River. Beartooth Mountain rose behind. The rushing river serenaded me on the right. Drifts of snow melted in the forest shade. At one point I watched a moose clatter across the road and lumber into the trees. He appeared concerned about keeping some wilderness appointment.

Picture from that trip in 1999. Silver Gate, Montana.

Beartooth Mountain in the distance - Clark's Fork River.

 

By early afternoon I had changed course slightly to follow Chief Joseph Scenic Highway, and head up over Dead Indian Pass (el. 8061). Here, for the first time, I truly suffered. For eight miles and two long hours of peddling, I climbed out of the valley, hairpin turn piled on top of hairpin turn. If the deceased who gave the pass its name was not on a bicycle when he passed on to the next world, he (or she) could have been! By now I was almost out of water and facing trouble. But a wonderful, retired couple stopped at a scenic overlook and gave me ice water from their cooler, and I was able to continue, now refreshed. Just over the top I stopped for a quick meal. Then I rode on, coasting fourteen miles at one point at speeds as high as 44 mph. I was now in gorgeous country, all green pine and red sandstone cliffs and blue sky, headed down to high desert, sagebrush and bunch grass, into Cody, Wyoming.

Dead Indian Pass - there's a semi with trailer, lower center hairpin turn.
(My pictures from this trip predate digitization.)

Feeling good at the top of the pass.

Even now it was easy to see why Native Americans fought to keep this land. Chief Joseph and his Nez Perce band had passed this way in 1877, after they were driven from their ancestral homes in Idaho. For seventy years they had lived with their white neighbors in peace, yet they were forced out anyway – in part because of white inability to tell one Indian from another – in part because of naked greed. Forced to fight, the Nez Perce repeatedly bloodied the military forces sent to intercept them. At the Battle of White Bird, for example, they ambushed U.S. cavalry, killing 34 soldiers, and capturing 63 valuable weapons.

 

Chief Joseph.

  

Mooning the U.S. cavalry.

 To mark the victory with an exclamation point, a warrior balanced on his pony and mooned the enemy. 

Unfortunately, Joseph and his people were finally trapped and forced to surrender. Later the survivors were shipped to Oklahoma where they died in bunches far from the lands they had loved. When Chief Joseph succumbed in 1904, a reservation doctor fixed the cause as “a broken heart.” It made me realize ethnic cleansing is only a modern term for a practice with long, ugly roots.  

The town of Cody is home to two institutions I recommend to all world travelers. One is the Buffalo Bill Historic Center, with its magnificent sculptures, paintings, and exhibits, including an entire wing dedicated to the art of teepee covers, moccasins, and native shields. The other is the Bottoms Up Lounge. After a hard day of riding, I allowed myself the luxury of a motel room, and headed for the lounge to down a beer. I watched a little TV, and reveled in the Western ambiance. On one wall was a large painting of a group of cowboys branding cows. There were pictures of horses and ranches. Then I noticed a huge canvas, showing four curvaceous cowgirls perched upon a fence. A closer look showed they had on chaps – but were otherwise completely bare-assed. I thought about purchasing a Bottoms Up Lounge t-shirt, featuring the girls, as a souvenir, but decided Anne might not appreciate my discerning sense of humor.

Like us, the Sioux liked to step out in style.

  

The next several days were filled with thrills, large and small. Mornings were cold and invigorating, and I dallied over giant breakfasts, knowing calories were no longer an issue. One joy of any bike trip is that you become more a part of the world in which you ride. I could smell the prairie flowers, the fresh cut hay, and even the dead animals along the road, and my senses seemed alive. One morning, I watched three antelope at play in a field. Another time, I passed five horses in a corral. Suddenly, some horse-thought took possession of the group, and they ran through a chute, into a larger meadow, like the starting five of some farmyard basketball team. They galloped a half-circle, in single file, and halted to watch as I pedaled past. Perhaps they were jealous of my freedom. Or perhaps deep inside their horse noggins they were thinking, What an idiot! 

Birds were another constant of my day, including redwings, robins, and meadowlarks. Often my passage startled quail along the roadside, and they shot away like arrows, but no limit to the distance such shots might travel. Another day I flushed a pheasant from hiding and it went whirring away, like a poorly oiled lawn mower. I noticed that one or two intrepid flyers occasionally followed me close, clawing or warbling as the mood struck. It was some time before I realized that they were “drafting” off my bicycle, and then I felt honored to lead the way. 

Everywhere people were friendly and anxious to talk. I ate huckleberry ice cream one day at Dirty Sally’s Restaurant. Sal, herself, dished up the dessert and commented that men of Wyoming were backward and believed women should go barefoot and pregnant. She looked too formidable for me to joke, “So?” And I decided to plunk down a good tip and kept right on going. Another night, at a KOA campground, I met Cindy and Peter Wuerstein, both avid riders themselves. Cindy had been a teacher in Connecticut in 1976, and told me how her students did a Bicentennial Puppet Show, complete with scrolling background. Peter himself had ridden a bike in Europe for a year, then traveled around the world from 1980 to 1986. I explained I was new at this business, but he predicted. “You’ll be bitten by the bug.” Somehow, I did not think this was information I should relate to my wife when I made my daily phone call home. 

It may surprise those of you who don’t ride, but troubles were minimal. I suffered only one flat, after running over a thumbtack at a campground. The sun and wind were hard on my lips, and I found it necessary to use Chapstick. Then one day while riding along Interstate 90 (which is not only legal in Wyoming but almost the only option in places) I ran into a freshly tarred shoulder and began spraying myself with goo. Well, I said to myself, the Wyoming Department of Transportation can’t fool a good old Ohio boy. So I switched sides and continued on my merry way. After a few miles, I spied the tar truck coming back along the opposite shoulder, and was forced to pick one of two equally bad options, both involving thick black coverings of tar. That day I rode amid the flying globs,  and by the time I could get to a side road, I looked like a character out of Uncle Remus. 

Probably my worst experience came when I had to climb back over the Big Horn Mountains, from Ten Sleep, Wyoming – this time going all the way up and over Powder River Pass (el. 9666). No one seemed to agree just how far it was to the top, but each estimate was more daunting than the last. Indeed, the day’s ride was brutal: 30 miles up, seven long hours, and then another 40 miles, up and down, to the nearest town. By the time I hit the fifteen-mile mark coming up the pass, I was thinking it might be nice if a car winged me and I could ride to a hospital in an ambulance. At mile eighteen I began expending equal parts of energy cursing and pedaling. At Mile 26, I spotted a mule deer beside the road. He was a graceful creature. At my approach he took two prancing steps, leaped the high fence alongside the road easily, and disappeared. “You try riding a bike up this goddam hill!” I cried bitterly, and got off to walk for the first time.

 

Halfway up Powder River Pass, but going the other way, on a 2011 ride.
Beautiful country, either way.

 

“You mean we drove right past it?”

 The next day, with the Big Horns behind me, I angled for the corner of South Dakota and the Black Hills. At lunch I stopped at a little cafe and talked to the owner – a Mrs. Wuisenauer – related to the president, but spelling her name the old German way. She asked where I was going. “Custer,” I said, “tomorrow.” Then she related the story of the customer who insisted he was headed to the same town to see the Battlefield of the Little Bighorn. When she tried to explain that this particular fight actually occurred in Montana, he seemed miffed. When a second customer joined in and told him he was wrong, the first man’s wife smacked his arm angrily and cried, “You mean we drove right past it?”

 

Custer, left, his wife Libbie, right.

 

Again, it was easy to see why natives had struggled to hold the Black Hills. The entire region, called “Paha Sapa” by the Sioux, is a jumble of dark granite, cold mountain lakes, rushing streams, and thick pine forest. In 1868, the U.S. government and the Sioux signed the Treaty of Fort Laramie. “No persons except those designated herein shall ever be permitted to pass over, settle upon, or reside in the territory described,” it stipulated, and white settlement seemed effectively blocked “forever.” 

“Forever” lasted all of six years, till miners discovered rich gold deposits in the region. The Chicago Inter-Ocean reported on August 27, 1874, that the soil was pay dirt “from the grassroots down.” 

Lawmakers in Washington tried to find a solution. Sitting Bull and other tribal leaders were encouraged to sell the land. The chief replied: “I don’t want to sell any land to the government.” Then, picking up a pinch of dust, he let it fall, saying, “Not even so much as this.” The second option was gunfire; and the Sioux were driven from the area, an effort which took three years and cost George Armstrong Custer and his men their lives. Today this once sacred ground is buried under a layer of grotesque tourist traps and every variation of fast food franchise. Where once Native Americans communed with guardian spirits we now had outlet shopping malls. The buffalo had been replaced by the gas guzzling SUV’s. Where brave warriors battled soldiers, overweight tourists now stopped to see Rock World or the Black Hills Reptile Farm. 

Custer State Park, not far from Mt. Rushmore, turned out to be as pretty as any national park. The terrain here was covered in Ponderosa Pine, Black Hills Spruce, Quaking Aspen, Paper Birch and Bur Oak, and home to thousands of free-ranging bison. I was a bit nervous about coming around a bend and startling some buffalo bull, for I was not confident I could outpace them  or withstand a direct impact or goring. In other places the grasslands were covered with prairie dog holes, and their denizens kept up a shrill piping as I wheeled past. Several dogs had burrowed right along the shoulder of the road, even knocking away pieces of asphalt, like rodent jackhammers. I wondered, if buffalo didn’t get me, whether a wheel in a hole might not finish my excursion once and for all and validate Anne’s concerns. The ironic possibilities were impressive. 

By this time in my trip I was obviously losing weight and felt like I was in my best shape in years. My sense of the matter was confirmed when I stopped at a light in Hot Springs, South Dakota and bent over, to adjust a loose saddle bag. A white pickup truck pulled up behind me and I heard a girl chorus of, “Oh my God!” I turned to see exactly what was the idea, and a pretty young lady waved, smiled and said, “Hi.” Another ooed loudly but all too briefly. I think they took a good look at my face and realized that I was closer in age to their grandfathers than their peer group. With that they speed off with all the carefree innocence of youth. I waved and smiled wistfully. Ah, to be young again! But I admit I peddled away with a renewed sense of purpose. 

“Did you see the tornado that passed by yesterday?”

 For most of my trip the weather was excellent, but outside of Chadron, Nebraska, late one afternoon, I ran into a fearsome prairie storm. At the first signs of trouble I took cover at a gas station, and waited an hour as a line of ominous clouds passed, with brief, heavy rains, and a spectacular display of lightning. Then it seemed the sky was clearing. I took off once more. For the next few miles it appeared as if I had made a good choice. A slot below the clouds to the west revealed the setting sun and blue on the eastern horizon gave me hope of a break in the weather. 

Just as I reached the Nebraska state line, however, what looked to be a black fog filled the prairies to the north. Then the storm closed over me as if someone had placed a lid on the sky. Rain poured – or rather was blown – in torrents. The wind picked up, easily to 50 mph, and I could plow ahead at no more than 8 mph. Then the gale increased to new levels. My pace was cut in half. My red rain poncho flapped wildly in the tempest, and a heard of cows near the roadway took a look and stampeded in fear. I now knew how Dorothy and Toto felt and suspected that if I let go of my handlebars I might sail away like a wet red kite. 

Still, in some strange way, I actually enjoyed the experience. Caught up in the awesome power of Nature, I turned down an offer of a ride from a farmer in a pickup truck. I had the sense, finally, that I could understand what travelers on the Oregon Trail must have gone through. At last, however, the weather became so extreme that I had to give up in the rain and lowering darkness. I found a grassy depression near the road and threw up my tent the best way I could, the wind catching it and inflating it like a giant balloon. I almost lost it completely – which would have been fun – but managed to keep hold with one hand. Then I waited for the pelting rain and the roaring wind to die away and about midnight fell into sound sleep till dawn. 

At breakfast, in Chadron, the next day, one of the locals asked me, “Did you see the tornado that passed by yesterday?” 

(I guess I kind of did.)

 

The days ahead were less eventful. Certainly in Nebraska the scenery was far from spectacular. I quickly discovered that the terrain came in two styles. There was sagebrush and flat. And there was farmland and flat. I was reminded at times of scenes in the old movies, where cars drove down some road, and a film landscape rolled by in the background. Of course, when you watched carefully, you could see the same spots repeat themselves. Now, in Nebraska, whenever I looked up from peddling it seemed the exact same. Occasionally, some large bug went thunk against my helmet to relieve the monotony, but there were long stretches where my only purpose seemed to be to peddle closer to home. 

Still, it was interesting to see the back roads of America, the little towns, and out of way tourist sites, to be out of sight of any McDonalds. The Museum of the Fur Trade, just outside Chadron, had many fine exhibits and artifacts. One was a log cabin bottle, used for shipping alcohol, starting in 1840. The maker was E. G. Booz, whose name lives on today. Mirrors were in great demand as a trade item among the Plains tribes, and the decorative wood and bone frames they made showed the highest level of artistic and narcissistic skill. There was even a Blackfoot Sioux cutting board made from a moose antler and decorated with rows of brass tacks. 

The cowboy and the sledgehammer.

 On July 4, I did a long ride in 98 degree heat, and stopped to rest in Merriman, Nebraska (pop. 131). At the gas station/convenience store I had an interesting talk with the owner and his friend, the latter a true Western character. This fellow was wiry and well-tanned, and wore a cowboy hat, colorful scarf and a pearl-handled revolver on his hip. This was in a Food Mart, mind you. I asked what he did for a living. He explained that he built wagons and stagecoaches using old-time methods. He was proud to say he learned the art from his father, and added that he used no power tools, and bent the wood by hand. 

When I mentioned that I taught school we got to talking about kids. The owner showed me a poem about Columbine, which he copied on the Internet. The cowboy launched into a soliloquy on gun control. Then he explained bitterly how kids in town used to vandalize his house. One night he hid under a young man’s car, grabbed him by the ankle, dragged him underneath, and administered a beating in confined quarters. This ended his tale of crime and retribution. 

Then the subject of marriage came up. I was not surprised when he revealed his wife had met another man over the Net and left him after 28 years. He said when he filed for divorce over at the county offices, the clerk told him, “It’s the fourth case this year.” The cowboy took a sledgehammer and smashed the computer to bits. He was a character alright. 

He was nuts. 

My progress was faster now. Some days I did a hundred miles without difficulty. Once I met a father and son from Holland who were making their eighth summer trip across North America, including one which carried them to Alaska. Another day, I spent a leisurely evening watching a Little League baseball game, for I had no pressing tasks and felt truly relaxed. At one point, Heath, the left fielder, made a diving, stumbling grab of a long fly ball, a play made more difficult by the fact he was wearing a pair of giant pants, held up by his father’s belt. I felt like too much of an outsider to inquire as to the nature of this mix up; but otherwise the game reminded me of ones we played in Bath, Ohio, in the early 1960s. There were still players at the bottom of both lineups, for example, who came to bat looking like they were going out to public execution. 

Another day I ate lunch in Bancroft, Nebraska and sat with an old farmer named Melvin Criss. He seemed genuinely happy to talk to someone new, and told me a good part of his life story. He married a 19-year-old when he was thirty. They had one daughter. Later he divorced his wife when she got hooked on Darvon. He had lived in the area all his life, save for a stint in the U.S. Navy, and added that land went for about $1,000 per acre. His friend drove a wagon and horse to Washington D.C. in 1986, to protest low farm prices and Melvin went part way, but got sick. I asked then: “How long have farm prices been low?” 

“All my life,” he replied with a laugh. 

Crossing into Iowa, I had my only real close call where cars were concerned. Just beyond the Missouri River, a teenage driver went sailing past, swerving at the last minute to avoid me. Honking loud and hard, he jerked the car back to the right and overcorrected badly. His tires squealed in protest, just missed leaving the pavement, and I could see two girls in the back seat, their heads bobbling like those souvenir dolls with spring necks you used to be able to buy. It made me think of a comment my brother once made, when he described biking as “Russian roulette with a lot of cylinders.” 

Iowa proved to be like Nebraska, with fewer cattle, but more trees. There were great stretches of unbroken farm country, as flat as a graduation mortarboard. The days went by quickly and I peddled hard, knowing my wife expected me home, sooner than later. I made a long stop one afternoon to watch the Women’ World Soccer Cup Final, and while I had a restaurant bar to myself, I cheered with the same enthusiasm as the crowd in Pasadena. The American women defeated the Chinese, 5-4, if you remember, and Brandi Chastain became famous for whipping off her jersey in celebration, revealing a black sports bra, and a well-toned young physique. 

I also enjoyed the sights in Pella, a town founded by Dutch immigrants, and visited antique stores and a riverboat casino at Fort Madison, before crossing the Mississippi River on July 12. 

A bloodthirsty mob.

 That night I camped outside Nauvoo, Illinois, a town steeped in Mormon lore. Today the area is a mecca for members of both the Church of Jesus Christ of the latter day Saints and the schismatic Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. In the 1830s followers of Joseph Smith gathered here in large numbers, prospered, and practiced polygamy, until their leader was murdered by a bloodthirsty mob. Today the town is booming again. Plans are afoot to rebuild the great LDS temple, which burned down in 1848, not long after the faithful departed for Utah. Both branches of Smith’s original church maintain visitors’ centers in town. I also noticed a building on the Main Street, with a sign that announced, “Nauvoo Christian Visitors’ Center.” Prominently displayed in the window was this caustic sign: “If God told the Mormons to go to Utah, why did they send scouts to Texas and California?” It was a theological question, and I had no desire to get involved.

 

The temple at Nauvoo was burned in 1848 by a mob.

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: My original plan was to drive out to Yellowstone, and pedal back to Cincinnati, Ohio, where I lived. But my car suffered a major mechanical failure after only a half day’s drive – and due to serious time constraints, and after much discussion, my wife agreed that it would make sense if I bought a much-needed new car at a dealer in Savoy, Indiana. So I would pedal back to the dealer, pick up my repaired vehicle, and then drive the rest of the way home.

 

The last two days, I rode hard for Savoy, intent only on picking up my car and getting home as fast as possible. Along the Mississippi, just South of Nauvoo, I fell in with another rider, Don Worcester. He kept up a fast pace and looked only slightly older than myself, but I soon discovered he was a retired teacher, 70 years of age. On July 14, I covered the last 107 miles, reaching the car dealership where my vehicle had been repaired, just before closing time. Then I zoomed home, comfortably seated on four wheels and a wide seat, covering the last 224 miles in three easy hours. 

When I pulled in our drive at 1:00 a.m. the ladies of the family, Anne, and my two younger daughters, Sarah and Emily, rushed out to greet me. 

I knew I was fortunate to be home.

 

The two girls, photo from c. 2005.