Biking for JDRF

The Journeys We Take

Across the USA by Pedal Power (Again)

July 22, 2024: Headed for Glacier National Park, in a carefree mood.
I knew my wife was afraid bears might get me, so I thought she'd like this joke.

(My mood would soon.)

SADLY, the most indelible memory from my third ride across the United States will always be the accident I witnessed on an otherwise beautiful July day, pedaling in the mountains of western Montana.

I was churning up a long grade on my bicycle, heading north along Highway 89, aiming for Saint Mary, at the east entrance to Glacier National Park. I heard motorcycles approaching, but didn’t give it much thought. I was riding on a wide shoulder, almost as big as a regular traffic lane, such lanes being common in Montana, where populations are sparse, and traffic is light. So, I didn’t bother to look up, because the engine roar sounded normal. Then, a split second later, a motorcycle could be heard, getting much, much closer, and I looked up just in time to see a rider shoot past in the wrong lane.

“Fuck!” I shouted, ineloquently.

It happened so fast I can’t be sure whether the poor man and his motorcycle missed me by five feet or five yards. I was wearing a small rearview mirror attached to my glasses, however, and could see a hundred-foot-long trail of dust rising off to the left of the highway, where the motorcycle had left the pavement at high speed and wiped out. I pulled up in shock, and then pedaled back, to see if I could help.

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

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

I felt it would be ghoulish to intrude. So, I kept my distance, and simply asked another rider, stopped on the side of the road, if they had cell phones to call 911. (You figure almost everyone does; but I wanted to be sure.)

He said they did.

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

It was – for me – still a beautiful day.

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

Ten minutes later, as I pedaled along, a police car flew past, lights flashing blue, siren wailing woe. Two more emergency vehicles ripped past. Then I hit a long downhill stretch – steep enough that I had to clutch both brake levers, and probably four miles long, that took me to Saint Mary. I did a little grocery shopping (apples, cheder cheese hotdogs, energy bars, and Gatorade), bought sunscreen, because I had been getting burned on arms and face, left my credit card with the clerk, and had to go back, and settled on a bench outside a log cabin-style store for a rest. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Death had just brushed past and haven’t to this day.

THAT MORNING, I had risen from bed in a tent hidden in high weeds, behind a screen of bushes, just off Highway 89, outside Browning, Montana. I was “stealth camping,” something most cross-country riders are willing to do. That is, you make your own campsites for free. I could smell mint, where I had trampled plants, and the sky was brilliant blue, cloudless, the morning crisp and cool.

Somewhere to the north, the motorcyclist who would crash must have risen, dressed, and headed for breakfast with his friends. Back east, my wife in Cincinnati, two time zones ahead, would be enjoying her coffee, and reading the newspaper, a morning ritual for people our age. Sky, the young woman I had passed, pedaling east four days back, might also be in the saddle. She was riding solo across the USA, daring like me, but one third of my age. I would estimate she was somewhere near the middle of North Dakota now. Tory and Mia Bossen, the 11-year-old twins with type-1 diabetes I had met in Stanford, Montana, might already be stirring. The captain of the ferry that had carried Zack Pedersen and Cam Cameron, two riders on recumbent bicycles I had met, and me, across Lake Michigan would have left Ludington Harbor, headed for Manitowoc, Wisconsin. The S.S. Badger was likely halfway across the lake. If weather in New York State was cooperative, Jack Lynch, 94, a gentleman I met out for a short ride one day, might be getting his usual exercise. I had told him he was my new role model, and I would endeavor to keep pedaling for years to come, just like him. In Lewiston, Maine, where I had spent a night in an expensive hotel – because I wanted to dodge pouring rain – the guests might be sitting down at the free breakfast buffet. The hotel worker who told me about the mass shooting in Lewiston that occurred the previous October would be wiping off tables once again. And in eighteen homes scattered across that city, families would still be mourning the dead.

In the weeds, I dropped my tent and packed up my gear. Since I was truly worried that I might be in bear country, I had placed my saddle bags containing food and toiletries a hundred yards away, next to a barbed wire fence.

I had twenty-seven miles to go, to reach Glacier, where I hoped to spend four days, and then pedal ten more. My plan was to dip my front tire in the Pacific, not far from Seattle, and, finally, fly home.

Now, four hours later, my mood had changed.

I was 75 years old on the day I witnessed that wreck. I understood, partly because I’m old, that Death often nudges at our elbows, and that Fate holds us all in a pitiless grip. My younger brother told me, before my first cross-country ride in 2007, that he considered riding a bicycle like “Russian roulette, with more cylinders.”

He was correct, of course. I’ve crashed twice myself and ended up in a hospital bed both times.

In fact, I taught history for many years, so I understood how the vagaries of chance shaped all our lives in ways mostly unseen. Christopher Columbus’s merchant ship was sunk by pirates in 1486. He was six miles from shore and had to grab a plank and paddle to safety. If he sinks beneath the waves that day, none of us in America are here – but hundreds of millions of the descendants of indigenous people not killed by smallpox, measles, and influenza probably are. I imagine that every human being on earth eventually learns that some cylinders are loaded, and the older you are, the more loaded cylinders become the central reality of the game. Every one of us born on this planet, past, present, and to come, Israeli, Palestinian, Ukrainian, trans American kid, Haitian immigrant in Springfield, Ohio, MAGA fan in Bismarck, North Dakota, Donald Trump at a rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, is playing Russian roulette every day of his, or her, or “they” lives.

If Fate stalks us all, every day of our lives, I couldn’t stop wondering, “How should we conduct ourselves, knowing this is true?”

BY THE SUMMER OF 2024, I had been retired for sixteen years, from a career in teaching, and had taught 5,000 kids. I had tried, as best I could, to prepare them for the journeys they would take in years to come. I had spent 21 months in the Marines, and had volunteered twice for Vietnam, but had not been sent. I had been a clerk in a supply unit, just about the least heroic service a young man can perform. (I used to tell my students that I protected this country with my staple gun.) I played a lot of basketball over the years, to stay in shape, and in 1977, bought a Sears bicycle and decided to pedal from Cincinnati to Akron, where I grew up. I wasn’t in good enough bicycling shape and gave it up after one day.

My first real, long ride came in 1999, when I was dropped off in Yellowstone by my oldest daughter and her future husband and cycled back to Ohio. I will never forget pedaling up the highway, past Mount Washburn, and thinking, “I’m really going to do this! This is great!” That trip was a thrill – even if I did just miss getting swept away in a tornado, near Valentine, Nebraska.

An empty cylinder right there.

In 2005, Emily my youngest daughter caught a loaded cylinder, and developed type-1 diabetes. So, in 2007, at age 58, I set about raising money for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation and pedaled coast-to-coast, from Avalon, New Jersey to Bay City, Oregon. My students and their families helped me raise $13,500, a story I have told before.

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

So, I’m getting older, or, as Shakespeare wrote, “we ripe and rot.” As my seventy-fifth birthday approaches, I think, “Why not do it again? Why not pedal across the United States for a third time?”

“And thereby hangs a tale.”

PICTURES FROM PREVIOUS RIDES.

The view from Mt. Washburn, in Yellowstone.
I started my ride in 1999 at Canyon Village, two miles south of here.

(That's my son-in-law Alex Donaldson, during a 2020 hike.)

Dead Indian Pass, picture from my 1999 ride.

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

"Stealth camping," near Leadville, Colorado.
Elevation: 10151 feet above sea level.
A great morning to be alive.

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

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

The scene of my arrest - as a bank robbery suspect
in Wayne County, Indiana, during my 2011 ride.
You can read about that incident in my post,
"Clyde Barrow on a Bike."

I met Rick Arnett, pedaling along the Loneliest Highway in America.
That's in Nevada, if you don't know.
And it's aptly named.

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

July 22, 2024. Glacier National Park.

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

***

__________

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

Truman Capote

__________

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

Age is just a number, right? Well, sure, but now it’s a high number!

Throw in a bad right knee (thanks to the Marine Corps), a bad left wrist (from crash landing playing basketball), and a bad left Achilles tendon (developed during this ride, as we shall see). What could go wrong?

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

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

SOME OF THE PEOPLE I RODE FOR THIS TIME.

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

Adam Kavka is a former student. Julianne is his fiancée.
(They're at the White House.)

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

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

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

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

April 30-May 21: And away we go!

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

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

Hubris, I guess.

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

Unfortunately, optimism doesn’t make up for ignorance. I rented a car, drove to Acadia, dropped it off at a Hertz outlet just outside the park, and started my ride on April 30. My first challenge was to pedal up Cadillac Mountain, rising 1,550 feet, and overlooking the Atlantic coast. I chose the same starting place in 2011 but began that journey on a sunny June day. When I went up the mountain at age 62, I did it without stops. This time, at 75, after less than a half mile, I had to regroup. “What made you think you could do this at your age?” I wondered.

Had I fooled myself?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Noah!”

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

It poured again on the fifth, and I had to seek shelter after only 25 miles. I started thinking I might see The Ark.

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

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

View from my tent on a drizzling morning in Maine.
(I should note that I do all of my rides solo,
since no one I know is crazy enough to try such rides.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She delivered a curt, “No.”

I assume she mistook me for a bedraggled, dripping-wet hobo, and didn’t trust me not to steal some books.

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

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

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

Sign at the bottom of Kancamagus Pass.
Moose can't scare me!

What goes up, must come down.
At the top of Kancamagus Pass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A new role model.

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

She laughed and told me that it had been her first experience battling long climbs and she wasn’t shifting effectively and started to cry.

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

My plan, once I hit New York, was to ride the Erie Canal Trailway, which worked out well. One afternoon, I met Jack Lynch, a local rider, pedaling a few miles at age 94. He said he still rode four or five times a week and urged me to stop and eat at Lorenzo’s in Amsterdam, right off the trail. I’m glad I took his advice.

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

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

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

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

The New York countryside was often beautiful.

Markos and Haley. Serious campers and cyclists.

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

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

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

“You can do more than you think.”

Another serious problem I was having was that I wasn’t making the distances I hoped. I averaged 62 miles per day by the time I was done with this ride, but I averaged 80 miles on my first two cross-country trips. Now, I kept missing good places to stop and ended up camping constantly in the woods. I suppose I should mention that on my first ride across the United States, I met a young rider going east. He had a car following and told me he was doing 140 miles a day!

And – if you are truly crazy – you can try to break the record for fastest ride across the country. That record was set by Christoph Strasser, an Austrian cyclist – who finished in seven days, fifteen hours, and fifty-six minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that was one person’s journey.

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

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

Journeys by buggy, journeys fueled by bacon and eggs.

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

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

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

Try to find local bakeries, too.

Eat donuts.

Pedal.

Lose weight.

Repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fort Herkimer Church - used during the American Revolution.

In some spots, the Erie Canal Trailway almost fizzles out.

A wedding on a canal boat - who knew!

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

Lower Falls on the Genesee River.

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

Statue of Mary Jemison. She saw the good and bad in people on both sides.

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

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

Me in the Marines, 1969.
I think this would have made a great recruiting picture.

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

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

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

And land on the stones.

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

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

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

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

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

They have an entire wall filled with pictures of veterans.

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

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

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

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

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

Amish buggies and farmland near Middlefield, Ohio.

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 3: Ready for the second leg of my trip. I was even in good shape!

Lost and found phone.

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

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

Nothing. We found nothing. Two hours wasted. A phone lost. I could not have been more frustrated. We gathered beside the trail to plot our next move; and in my disgust, I turned to talk to the nurse. The police officer, also an avid cyclist, asked, “Could you have put your phone in the back of your jersey?”

God d**n! I was an idiot. My phone had been there all along. But I was reminded again how many kind people want to help us all on our journeys through life. We forget that. And we should not.

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

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

I’ve met dozens of great people on my long rides, and I’ve had hundreds make kind donations, and Cam and Zack are two of my favorites. They were both bigger than most bicycle riders, and at one point in life, Cam, who stood 6 foot 2, told me his weight reached 357, I think. He had taught at several schools, working with the visually impaired and the deaf and hard of hearing, so we had teaching in common. Zack was an ICU nurse, and I could relate because Emily, who is type-1, is a nurse, and Sarah, another daughter, is a nurse practitioner. Zack had gone to three different colleges, including Portland State, where he played football for one year. But Cam told me later that his friend had torn up his knee in just that one season. I interviewed both men after we all got home from our rides. Cam said he thought Zack had like “450 credits” in college, and when I asked Zack about his college days, he simply replied, “My junior year of college was like a real life ‘Groundhog’s Day’ scenario. … Reliving the same day over and over, and there was nothing I could do to escape.” which I took to mean he did not. Both friends had on those reflective vests you see construction workers wear, and could have been mistaken for two bulldozer drivers, but talking to them as we crossed the lake, I grew increasingly certain that I was the dumbest one at our table in the lounge. Zack had traveled widely over the years, often doing volunteer work in poor countries like Ghana, and he turned out to be a huge fan of Edward Gibbon.

And who is not!

I mean – of course – the esteemed author of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire It’s the kind of light reading every rider would enjoy, at least one hefty volume of which I recommend they carry in their saddlebags, for several thousand miles across the entire country, and definitely not toss out during a daunting mountain climb. I had read Gibbon, myself, and love his wisdom, so we talked about some of the Greek historians I had read. Herodotus, the “father of history,” is a favorite, and I told Zack later, that I’d send him a copy of Herodotus’s work after I got home.

Examples:

“In a large and tumultuous assembly, the restraints of fear and shame, so forcible on the minds of individuals, are deprived of the greatest part of their influence.” Gibbon explains the workings of a mob.

“[History is] little more than the register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind.” Gibbon’s assessment of the history of humanity.

“Would you like a truthful answer, my Lord, or a comforting one?” This was Demaratus speaking to Xerxes, the Persian king, after a bitter defeat. The perfect quote to reveal the danger of leaders being surrounded by and listening only to sycophants.

“I am obliged to record the things I am told, but I am certainly not required to believe them – this remark may be taken to apply to the whole of my account.” Herodotus on how he compiled his work.

Anyway, Cam told me my favorite story from the entire trip. He met Lauren, his future wife, when he was 20, and they were both counselors at an interfaith summer camp. She was Jewish, but Cam wasn’t really all that religious. He needed to have something to qualify him as a counselor candidate, so he put down “Taoist” on his application for work. They hit it off from the start, but remained only friends for a decade. At one point, he suggested that because they got along so well, they should try dating, but Lauren was afraid to risk their friendship. Cam swallowed his disappointment, and Lauren, who by that time had graduated from Yale, and grad school at Stanford, had a degree in cross-cultural psychology and went to India to work on a book. From there, she headed for Japan – and it might have been that she and Cam would never see each other again.

Then Fate again.

One day, at work, Cam got an email that changed his life. Lauren wanted him to know she had come to realize she was in love with him. “You’re the one,” she said, “this is for real.”

Cam was so shocked, he says the blood drained from his face, and even his students asked if he was sick. They were studying for a test, but Cam lost focus and had to read the email three times. Finally, he asked another teacher to cover his class, wandered outside, and paced up and down the football field in a daze.

Once he regained his equilibrium, he asked Lauren to come home, and they eventually moved in together, and she got a job teaching at a college in Massachusetts. Cam said it was hard, at first, because he didn’t know anyone there, but they persevered. Finally, the question of marriage arose. Lauren was a traditionalist, and wanted to take Cam’s last name, but as Cam explained to me, his own father had done nothing for him growing up, and he hated his last name. They agreed to compromise – they would decide on a new surname together. And now Fate sent a bird. (I was walking to class at Ohio University one day, when a bird shit on my head; but that is a different story, and not nearly so romantic.)

On the day Cam stopped Lauren on a park bridge, and knelt to propose, a crane flapped down from the sky and landed on the railing right where they were. “I think we have our new name,” he said, and that’s how they became Mr. and Dr. Crane.

Today, they have two kids, Cade, a junior, and a top student, with aspirations to attend Columbia and study medicine, and Sarafina, an equally impressive student, a freshman who wants someday to study law. Lauren teaches at Wittenberg University, in Springfield, Ohio, a town now famous for “hungry” Haitian immigrants, allegedly said to have a habit of “eating the cats. They’re eating the dogs! They’re eating the pets!”

So Fate, via email, changed two lives, and led to creation of two more. Cam and Lauren both try to shape the Fates of the young people they teach. Zack does his part to cheat cruel Fates in his work in the ICU. The Haitians in Springfield have dodged the Fates and left a gang-infested homeland.

I believe every person we meet in life has an interesting story to tell, if only we ask the right questions. I believe every person has been touched almost daily by Fate, in good ways and bad, most often unseen. I like to ask happily married couples and young people in serious relationships, how they met. And almost without exception they are always happy to explain – to share stories of good fortune.

But I wonder. How many people walk past their perfect matches in life, while shopping for bananas in grocery stores? How many rue the day they ever crossed paths at birthday parties or while serving as groomsmen and bridesmaids, with future ex-husbands or future ex-wives, or lovers that would scar them deeply in all the ways flawed humans can? Fate can deal us happiness, via email – or end us on a mountain road – and there seems no justice in determining which we get.

Journeys of joy.

Journeys accursed.

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

And so, all too often, is Man.

The Father of History.

Every individual had a story to tell.

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

Every individual I met had a story to tell, and one I knew would be worth telling. So, I took down contact information and hope to follow up with each of them, and more, soon. I found nice people at every stop, which has proven true on all four of my long rides. Whereas if we watch the nightly news, we might assume that most Americans are ready to kill each other, due to politics, and then drink their victims’ blood. You would think that someone like me, a dedicated Democratic voter, would be unsafe in red states; but I have far more faith in people than that.

Like individuals, nations are on journeys themselves, and we don’t want to forget what happened to the Hittites, the Mayans, and the Ottomans, to name a few.

I think there’s a real story to tell about the journeys we all face, and how to be as successful – and helpful to others – along the way. But do I possess the ability to truly tell the tale, or the time? At 75, you never know. My wife’s Uncle Fred once told her, at age 80, that he was never sure whether to buy a gallon of milk – because he couldn’t know if he’d live long enough to finish it all. I liked his sense of humor in the face of aging.

And now, I’m approaching that same age.

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

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

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

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

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

Patriotism writ large.

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

My first view of Lake Michigan.

The blogger poses for posterity.

Sculpture along the way.

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

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

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

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

Cameron Crane prepares to roll his bicycle onto the ferry at Ludington.

Wisconsin and Minnesota.

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

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

I found a state campground, instead, but the mosquitoes were out of control. A young couple at the next site gave me shrimp just cooked off their grill, lent me bug repellant, and allowed me to place my food and toiletries in their truck for safekeeping that night. They were both big Trump fans, and the young woman wore a dark pink t-shirt with a silhouette of Donald Trump, with just a shock of gold hair, and a long red tie to indicate who it was. But besides their kindness, what also impressed me was the young man’s stance on his children from a previous marriage. He had his boys every other weekend and saw them whenever else he could. He brought them along camping, and had been teaching them to hunt and fish, and he was a man of faith, and so, I could see I was in the presence of a dedicated father, who was going to be there, doing the best he knew how to help his children on their journeys through life.

As for any lessons I can offer for long-distance riders, who want to enjoy their journeys across the United States?

If you’re going to be camping, don’t be a nitwit like me.

Pack bug spray!

A Catholic church in Green Bay, Wisconsin.

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

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

Saturday morning at work.

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

I wondered if the cows agreed with the sentiment.

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

Rural areas tend to vote red. I tend to vote blue.

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

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

The obligatory picture when you cross into a new state.

Good roads for riding in Minnesota.

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

Vehicles for sale: May need work.

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

Crossing the river in Brainerd, Minnesota.

Camping in Minnesota.

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

North Dakota – I begin to cook my brains.

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

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

For a retired history teacher, one highlight of my ride involved stopping at Fort Mandan, in Washburn, N.D., where Lewis and Clark built a post and settled in for the winter of 1804-1805. The museum was excellent but this point I was having trouble shifting gears, and the lever controlling the small ring was dangling by the cable. I was forced to turn south to reach the nearest bicycle ship, in Bismarck, fifty miles away. I now had serious time constraints if I hoped to see my wife when she visited our daughter in Portland, Oregon. So, I left my bicycle at a shop for repairs, rented a vehicle, and drove to the coast. After twelve enjoyable days, four spent driving, eight in Portland, I was back in Bismarck and set off west by pedal power once more.

Just before you pedal out of North Dakota, you pass Medora. If you exit there, you can see the southern section of Teddy Roosevelt’s old ranch. There are plenty of buffalo to see, if you’ve never seen these great beasts. I skipped the sights, because I’d been there before and passed by.

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

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

In my notes, I had this:

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

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

June 22: I google: “partially torn Achilles tendon.” Foot still hurts. Did 84 miles in cool weather. Ate lunch at community owned cafe in Page, North Dakota, population 190 in 2020. In pictures from 1915, hanging on the café walls, you can see the center street lined with Model-T Fords. There’s a town marching band in another old photo, and crowds gathered for horse racing, with $2,500 in prizes, in a third. The woman at the counter and the cook told me they were both community volunteers. I left a 40% tip for the teenage waitress, a volunteer, herself.

The woman at the counter told me the town was down to 189 people at that point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This painting shows Lewis and Clark on the rainy Pacific Coast in 1806.

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

The famous guide Sacagawea.
Her baby was born on February 11, 1805,
with Captain Lewis doing his best to help with the delivery.

Sacagawea's "journey" ended in 1812, soon after she gave birth to a daughter.
She was only 25.

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

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

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

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

Getting close for a shot.

A buffalo awaits death after a hunt.

Fight to the death.

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

Preparing for a game of lacrosse.

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

My view of the sky while camping out one morning.

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

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

Looking back the way I'd come.

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

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

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

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

Some fool always has to leave a name.

That's my wife Anne. She lets me pedal away on my adventures.
She's in better shape than I am, but she's not a cyclist.
My journey through life with her has been great.

Montana and Glacier National Park.

When I taught in Loveland, Ohio, near Cincinnati (October 1975-May 2008), I learned that most of my students had never been to Montana or even crossed the Mississippi River. I told them all, and tell any readers now, if you haven’t driven across the United States in your life (or pedaled) put it on your bucket list.

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

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

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

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

It took me a moment to pull by tire free, and I naturally expected my tire to go flat. But after examining the damage, I could see no signs of any loss of air. I hopped aboard again, climbed through a long hairpin turn, and kept on going. It was a spectacular day, in spectacular countryside, and I was feeling proud of myself, at my age, being able to do what I was doing. I even stopped to take a joke picture for my wife, about being in “bear country,” since bears while camping are one of her fears. As I’ve already said, I was pedaling, head down, when I heard a motorcycle roar past. Then I heard a second, but the sound was way too close, and I looked up, and saw an out-of-control rider careen past.

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

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

In fact, somewhere recently I came across this author’ observation: “Every breathe we take has two possible outcomes.”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, please do,” she replied.

Having already achieved two of my three main goals – to visit Sarah and her husband in Portland – and to pedal through Glacier National Park – I decided to abandon my route, and on July 26, flew home, without mishap, to Cincinnati, happy to see Anne, but sad to have quit.

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

I’m serious, too.

I WILL ADD TO THIS STORY AS TIME ALLOWS.

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

The Montana state line.

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

I thought, in 2024, that this graffiti was appropriate.

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

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

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

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

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

We agreed that teaching was getting harder.

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

Junked vehicles near Lewiston, Montana.

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

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

Abandoned home in Montana.

Wide open country west of Lewiston.

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

I met the Bossen family in Stanford, Montana.
(Mike and Sandy with the girls, Mia and Tory.)
Talking to them was a highlight of my ride.

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

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

Real estate for sale?

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

Blackfeet tribal celebration, near Browning, Montana.

In the Montana mountains, approaching Glacier.

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

Soaking my feet in the cold water of Glacier.

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

One of only four pictures I recovered.

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

ALL PICTURES BELOW ARE FROM A CAMPING TRIP IN 2014.

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

Swimming in an ice cold lake.

A mountain goat along the Grinnell Glacier Trail.

A view on the Grinnell Glacier Trail.

A second view from the trail.

My wife took a bad trip on another trail.

Hiking with my oldest daughter, Abby.

A shelter house at the end of another trail.

The High Line Trail was too scary for my wife.

Photo taken near the top of Logan Pass.

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

Looking down from the overlook.

A place to swim just off the main road.

Cross-Country Trip #1 - Summer 2007.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was a history teacher. So I had to stop at battlefields in Virginia.

Stopping at Thomas Jefferson's home: Monticello.

Roadside memorial in Indiana.

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

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

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

I got my first flat of the trip in Wyoming.

While I was fixing my flat, Sarah Brigham pedaled up.
She was pedaling south, and told me she made the tutu herself.

If you plan to pedal across the USA, go through Grand Teton National Park.
You won't be sorry!

Also plan on pedaling through Yellowstone.

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

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

Painting for JDRF.

In 2008, I retired from teaching after 33 years with the Loveland City Schools. Two years later, I agreed to paint the Harry Whiting Brown building in Glendale, Ohio, where I live. It’s a complicated story – but I was able to donate $11,000 more (all the profit) from the job to JDRF. It was hot, hard work.

As on my first ride across the United States, I lost twenty-five pounds while working on this building.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t keep it off.

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

Painting for JDRF.

Mission accomplished.

Trip #2

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

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

(As always, I eventually gained it all back.)

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

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

If only I could stay so thin! Near the end of my ride.
San Francisco, California, 2011.

At the top of Kancamagus Pass, New Hampshire.

Baker River, New Hampshire.
Bed carved out of a solid slab of granite.

My favorite store, somewhere in New York.

Seneca Falls, New York, where the journey toward equality
really began in this country. Frederick Douglass,
the black abolitionist and reformer looks over my shoulder.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton holds the parasol, at left.

Waking up at a campground on the shore of Lake Erie.

I was using my phone to find a motel on a brutally hot day in Indiana.
Due to confusion, I ended up spending a night on the floor
in a doggie day care facility, the Dog Patch Motel.
The owner only charged $20, and it was air-conditioned.