Bacon and Eggs across America

 

Bacon and Eggs across America.

(Also: Donuts!)

 

July 22, 2024.
The old guy makes it to Glacier National Park.
Riding through the park was one of my main goals.

Going-to-the-Sun Road: What a ride!!!
I started in Saint Mary and made it to Sprague Creek campground.

__________ 

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

Truman Capote

__________

An Optimist Decides to Pedal across the United States.

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 and finally agrees to humor me. 

I’m going to pedal across the United States. I’ve done it twice, both times to raise money for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. 

Why not again? Age is just a number, right? 

Well, sure. Throw in a bad right knee (thanks to the Marine Corps), a bad left wrist (from a fall in basketball), and a bad left Achilles tendon (which we will see).

Once again, I am riding in honor of several individuals.
My daughter, Emily is a Type-1 diabetic.
So I'm riding for her and her twin boys: Story, left, and Prosper.

I'm riding for Adam Kavka, also Type-1,
a former student. Julianne is his fiance.
They're at the White House.

I'm riding for Audrey Lake, right, with daughter Kim.
Audrey and I taught together for many years, and she never
complained about being Type-1.
She's been meeting the challenge for 62 years.

(I don't think I ever heard her complain.)

Lilly Banks had only been diagnosed a few months before 
I interviewed her. She's a serious ballplayer
and Type-1 doesn't stop her from playing a game she loves.
Her mother, Joey, was a student of mine.

Lily Kniskern, right, and sister Becca, left.
Talk about a difficult road: 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.

Their mom was the best young teacher I ever knew.

I was also riding for Pattie Spicher, here, with two of her grandkids.
She's the wife of my high school friend, Ray.
And she's been meeting the Type-1 challenge since 1970.

*

April 30: And away we go! 

I suppose you could call me an optimist (or a fool) because I believe if I hop on my bicycle and pedal, I will end up somewhere good. Except when I wiped out on the way to work in 1999, and ended that journey in the hospital, I always have. But for this trip, my planning was a little shaky. Hubris. 

If you’ve never been to Acadia National Park, make it a point to get there before your travels take you to heaven – we hope.

Unfortunately, optimism doesn’t make up for ignorance. I rent a car and drive to Acadia, drop it off at a Hertz outlet, and start my bicycle ride on April 30, 2024. My first challenge is to pedal up Cadillac Mountain, which rises 1,550 feet, overlooking the Atlantic. I used the same starting place in 2011, on my second ride, but began that time in sunny, warm June. Thirteen years earlier, I went up the mountain with ease, and no stops. This time, after just a half mile, I had to pull over and regroup, and found myself wondering, “What ever made you think you could do this at your age?”

 

But it turned out the steepest part of the road was the first part, and it leveled off slightly, and it was a beautiful sunny day. I only had to stop once more, to rest, and at the top, I was feeling good. Did I mention it was a sunny day?

 

It would take me twenty-one days to pedal back to Cincinnati, on the first leg of my trip, and I would be rained on all but four of those days. It was wet and cold most of the time, and I pedaled through downpours several times.

 

Well, if the weather wasn’t the best, what else could go wrong, when optimism was your entire plan?

 

Did you know that almost no campgrounds are open in Maine, during the month of May. This dope on a bicycle did not. I do stop at motels and hotels about every third or fourth day; and that helps, but the rain was a real problem. 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.

 

Good Lord, 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 would have said. “How are the armadillo’s doing? Do they elephants get seasick? How are the wife and kids?”

At the top of Cadillac Mountain, Maine.

My granddaughter Ellora gave me this motivational note.
She told me not to open it until the first day of my ride.
(There were notes for Day 2 and Day 3, as well.)

Pedaling past The College of the Atlantic, I noticed this protest camp.
I stopped to talk to the students - all idealistic in some way.
(As for me, I feel equal sorrow for both the Palestinians and Israelis facing grinding war.)

Most of the students were reluctant to have their pictures taken,
but this young man was Palestinian, and told me about his
family back home.
(He did ask that I not use his name.)

I'm happy to do "stealth camping" on my trips.
That means making your own places to stop in the woods.
But I don't want to do it every day.

View from my tent on a drizzling morning in Maine.

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 it out at a motel.

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

It was drizzling again, another day in Maine, and temperatures were in the 40s.
I had to quit a couple of times early, because heavy rain made riding unsafe.

I have bicycled in New England before, and the rushing mountain streams, and gorgeous mountain scenery, can be a joy. Drivers in that region are cognizant of riders and give you room to pedal safely. In fact, my plan in 2024 was to follow a route like the one I took in 2011. I expected that part of my journey to be a true joy.

 

Did I mention rain yet? I spent several days pedaling, head down, trying to keep the water from completely covering my glasses and obscuring my vision. I remember thinking more than once, that all I was really seeing was different types of wet pavement in different states.

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

One unexpected pleasure of my ride 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.

Sign at the bottom of Kancamagus Pass. The first twenty-one miles
are a gradual rise. The last five or six are really steep.

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.
But sure: Call me "Tom Brady on a bike."

Chris 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 great breakfast sandwiches.
They put all fast food breakfasts 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.
Naturally, I had to ride across and then back.

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

A sight you don't want to see: I snapped my chain
trying to stand on my pedals and go up a steep climb.
A $51 dollar Uber ride got me to a bicycle shop.

The weather was a little better in Vermont but still wet enough for me to alter my planned 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 my first or second trips across the USA. I was feeling bad, and then I was feeling worse when it began to pour. I took shelter under an awning at the Dover Free Library; but when the librarian (I think) showed up to open, and I asked if I could use the bathroom, I got a curt, “No.” 

It could be that she mistook me for some bedraggled, dripping wet hobo. Later that day, I had a great downhill coast into Wilmington, Vermont, and a rejuvenating breakfast at Wahoo’s Restaurant. One of the locals seated at a nearby table heard where I was going and said, “You’re going to have to go uphill for the next eleven miles, but then you’ll get a great ride into Bennington, all downhill. 

He offered to give me a lift to the top. I was tempted, I admit. But there’s no sense trying to ride across the country, if you’re going to wimp out every time it’s a little hard. Sure enough, up I went for the next few miles – and then I flew into Bennington, feeling like a young man. Like I was 60! 

There were numerous times on this trip, where I would get up to such high speeds, that my hands would get tired of clamping down on my brake levers.

 

At my age you know life is short. I always find these
roadside memorials touching.

Well, what do you know! More rain in Vermont.
I may start growing moldy.

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

The grave of Rev. Jedediah Dewey.

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

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

Not far from Bennington, I hit the New York State line. My plan from there was to follow the Erie Canalway Trail and pedal the next 300 miles almost entirely off roads. The weather was improving some, although it did sprinkle most days, and the sun wasn’t out nearly as much as I hoped. I did enjoy the scenes, and the people I met and talked to along the way. I met two delightful Canadian riders, Markos McFerrin and Hailey, his girlfriend, whose last name I have misplaced. They were heading for Washington D.C., going the opposite way; but we camped under a shelter house roof – and during the night it rained again. Markos and his family had bicycled extensively in Europe, and he and Hailey had taken a first trip together in the Cascade Mountains. It was her first experience battling long, hard climbs – and she wasn’t shifting effectively, and admitted that at one point she started to cry. 

I told her not to feel bad. I don’t cry when I ride, but I often curse. The longest climb I’ve ever done is up and over Powder River Pass, out of Buffalo, Wyoming, a 33-mile-climb and a mile of elevation gained. I’m not a particularly strong rider, even at my best, and I think it took me seven hours to reach the top. The thirty miles down on the other side required about 45 minutes. (That was on my second ride across America, in 2011.)

 

I also met Jack Lynch, a local rider, out one afternoon, pedaling a few miles at age 94. He told me to be sure to stop and eat at Lorenzo’s in Amsterdam, right off the trail. I’m really glad I took his advice.

(I was sorry that when I passed through Seneca Falls on a Sunday the Women’s Rights Museum was closed. It was at Seneca Falls, in 1848, that the real battle for equal rights in this country began.)

The New York countryside was often beautiful.

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

I rarely take pictures of meals; but Lorenzo's was excellent, 
if you're ever biking the Erie Canalway Trail.

Across America, in small towns like Canajoharie, N.Y.,
you see a lot of empty store fronts.

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

John was color-coordinated, but a serious rider for sure.
He had first pedaled across the USA in 1976.
(I didn't ask, but he may have been older than me.)

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

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

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.

I am not joking: Cows will always come over to the fence to watch you pass.
I figure they get bored, and its like when we turn on bad 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 as a fort during the American Revolution.

In some spots, the Canalway Trail almost fizzles out.

Markos and Hailey were well supplied and cooked for themselves.
I did order us pizza for dinner, and Towpath Pizza delivered.
Jordan, New York.

A wedding on a canal boat - who knew!

The Four Freedoms - as laid out by President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Letchworth State Park in New York, 
considered one of the best state parks in the U.S.
I had cut south, off the Canal Trailway, to save a couple days on my route.

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

Lower Falls on the Genesee River.

Statue of Mary Jemison, captured by the Iroquois when she was young.
Her white family was wiped out.
She lived with the natives for the rest of her life, married a native,
and had several children.
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 have to credit the enthusiasm.

The only real problems I had in New York involved getting lost in cities like Albany, and Syracuse, where I had trouble locating the trailheads. At one point, I got so frustrated, I stopped at Dunkin’s and just ate donuts and drank coffee. When I came out, half an hour later, a helpful local rider said he could get me back on the trail and told me to follow along. He seemed pleasant enough, but the more he talked – and he talked almost nonstop – the more I realized he was a conspiracy theorist of the missionary style. He wanted me to believe the CIA was responsible for every crime committed since John F. Kennedy was assassinated up to the “Stolen Election” of 2020. We rode along for half a mile, before he informed me he would drop me off at the next light (to my relief). 

Then he thought a moment, and said he’d come along until I hit the trail, and I listened for another fifteen minutes, nonstop. 

Then again, he did get me back to the trail. 

Another problem I was having on this third cross-country ride was that I wasn’t making the distances I had planned. I averaged 62 miles by the time I finished, but I had averaged 80 miles per day the first two trips. I met a young rider going east on my 2007 ride (I always head west), who had a car following, and he told me he was doing 140 miles a day. Now, with progress so slow, I kept missing good places to stop, and ended up consistently camping in the woods. Finally, I decided to cut south, off the Erie Canal Trailway, pedal through Letchworth State Park, and aim for the Pennsylvania panhandle, to save a couple of days. Letchworth is well worth a visit, I should add, and some say it’s 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 the park, and a monument to her still stands. Talk about Fate, and journeys taken, good or bad. Or both. In 1758, Mary’s family was nearly wiped out during and after an Iroquois raid. Two brothers did manage to duck behind a barn and escape into the woods. The rest of her family was taken prisoner and marched away. Mary was twelve or thirteen at the time and never forgot the last words her mother ever told her. “Don’t forget, my little daughter,” she told her one evening, “the prayers that I have learned you. Say them often. Be a good child and God will bless you.” 

The next morning, Mary was alone with the natives, but that night she saw them cleaning several fresh scalps. 

At first, the young girl viewed the Iroquois as “cruel monsters.” But she was soon adopted by two Iroquois sisters, who treated her “as a real sister, the same as though I had been born of their mother.” In fact, 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 died during a raid on the Cherokees, to the south. She married again and once more found happiness with a husband who had a kind and loving heart. When the American Revolution exploded, the Iroquois sided with the British, however. In 1778 a powerful American army marched into Iroquois territory and burned town after town. In the following years, Mary watched as the native way of life was destroyed. Waves of settlers poured into Iroquois lands. Alcohol ravished the tribe. Her son, Thomas, named after her father, often collapsed from drink. A drunken fight one night, between Thomas and her son John, ended with John killing Thomas with a tomahawk. John then killed his brother Jesse, also after a bout of drinking. Then John was murdered by two questionable friends. 

Mary spent the rest of her life in a cabin near the Genessee. She was interviewed by Dr. James Seaver, in 1823, and told the story of her life. She lived another decade, dying on September 19, 1833. She was then about ninety years of age. 

So that was one journey.

 

Mine, on a bicycle, was far less sanguine. Even my time in the Marines, during the Vietnam War, proved bloodless. I was assigned to a supply unit and spent most of my twenty-one months on active duty at Camp Pendleton in California, while other Marines were shipped off to Southeast Asia to get cut down in a war now widely considered to have been a colossal mistake. 

As I was saying, Letchworth was beautiful, and I recommend pedaling through the park if you’re in the area. I can say there are some serious hills to climb, so be ready for that. As for Mary’s story, it can be found online. When I was teaching, I created a reading about her life, which my classes enjoyed. 

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

I should also note one of my better ideas for these kinds of rides. That is: Stop at every local café and restaurant you can. It’s the best way to meet locals and talk, and the bacon and eggs are always better than what you get at fast food joints. In Canastota, New York, for example, I talked to the young woman who owned the place where I had breakfast. She explained how the closing of a local factory, and several others in towns nearby, had put a serious dent in the economy of her town. 

Even in Ohio, my planning sometimes proved lacking, and at one point I took a road due south. On my old-fashioned roadmap, it was marked as lightly traveled. On a AAA map, roads of that kind are colored light gray. Busier routes are black. Heavily traveled highways are marked in red. 

The road I was on was light gray on a map, but bright red on a sunny spring day, and cars ripped past at high speed, and I began sweating profusely. At first, I thought it was just the heat and exertion. Soon enough I realized terror was involved. 

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

And land on the stones. 

At one point the road I was following proved to be heavily trafficked and I decided I couldn’t keep on. Luckily, the new phone aps allow for a rider to punch in safer routes. My new directions indicated that all I had to do was pedal due west for a mile, then turn south again on little used township roads. I now had ten miles of peaceful highway all 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, whenever the way is clear, and let them pass, then come back to the left.) 

My next destination was Granville, Ohio, a pretty college town, where my youngest daughter Emily lives with her family. By this point, I was riding on some very hot days, and I didn’t know my phone could get cooked and stop working. But not for the last time on this trip, my phone overheated and died. The good news was that there are a lot of good bike trails now in Ohio, and I got to Granville in fine shape. After a pleasant visit with Emily and her crew, I got a ride with my wife home to Cincinnati on May 21, and took the next two weeks off. I caught up on news and chores at home, 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 other veterans at Angela's Cafe in Conneaut,
and another great breakfast.
Bacon and eggs across America, we go!

They have an entire wall filled with pictures of veterans.

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, he said, 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 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 in the Vietnam War (above).
I could have been sent to Vietnam. I twice volunteered to go.
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.
My favorite riding companion.

June 3: I was now ready for the second leg of my ride.
(I was even in pretty good shape!)

North to Michigan and then West. 

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

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

Nothing. We found nothing. In my disgust, I turned to talk to the nurse, and the police officer, also an avid cyclist, asked, “Could you have put your phone in the back of your jersey?” God d**n! I was an idiot. My phone was there all along. But I was reminded again, how many people want to help in life. 

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

Anyway, my plan was to ride up along Lake Michigan, which I did, but go as far north as the Upper Peninsula, before heading west. Again, I was going too slowly, so when I heard about a ferry across the lake, I took it and cut five days off my route. At this point, I’ll just note that I started meeting a number of other riders – starting with two friends on recumbent bikes, Zack Pedersen and Cameron Crane. 

I cut across Wisconsin and Minnesota, and then into North Dakota. I met a young couple riding east, on their honeymoon. I thought that was cool. I met Sky, 25, who grew up in Cincinnati, also riding east, and we talked over lunch about our adventures. She had already walked the Appalachian Trail. I met Emily Johnson on a broiling hot day in Montana, and the 40-ish-year-old rider and I shared stories. I had breakfast one morning with two young ranchers in Montana and spent an enjoyable night in a small Montana town, talking to a family with two twins with Type-1 diabetes. I met a pair of church leaders riding one day along a trail – and they told me about their plans to take a group of 55 teens hiking later in the summer. I met a second conspiracy theorist – and had to politely tell him I didn’t think the 2020 election had been stolen. I had a bicycle breakdown north of Bismarck, North Dakota, and ended up renting a car to drive to Portland, Oregon to see my daughter Sarah, her husband Logan, and my wife (who had flown out) – and then, after a twelve-day break, drove back to Bismarck and started pedaling west once more. 

Each individual I met, I knew, had a story to tell, and one well worth telling. So, I took down contact information and hope to follow up with each of them soon. I found nice people at every stop, which has been true on all four of my long rides across this country (in 1999, I pedaled back from Yellowstone to Ohio, my first real bicycling adventure. Whereas, if we watch the news, we would have to believe most Americans are ready to kill each other, due to politics. 

You would think that someone like me, a Democrat, would be unsafe in the red states; but I have more faith in people than that. 

I think there’s a good story to tell – if only I have the ability – and the time. At 75, you never know. My wife’s uncle once told her, at age 80, that he wasn’t sure whether to buy a gallon of milk – because he might not live long enough to finish it. I liked Uncle Fred’s sense of humor in the face of aging. 

And I still think that’s a model to follow. 

Anyway, I’ll just add pictures; and I’ll work on text later on.

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 about every third day.
These two gentleman heard what I was doing, noticed my beat up shoe,
and gave me a $100 dollar gift certificate to REI.

I count all such gifts as donations to to JDRF, and add the requisite amount to my fundraising account.

(I hope to talk to them about their family history.)

My phone ap 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 strong.

I found a great state park on the Michigan shore.
(I will look up names and details later.)

I was packing up my tent, when this nice couple asked if I'd like coffee.
I would. They ended up serving me breakfast.

And they also prayed for my safe journey.

Cameron Crane prepares to roll his bicycle onto the ferry,
from Ludington, Michigan to Manitowoc, Wisconsin.
Cam had one of the best stories of how he and his wife fell in love
that I'd ever heard.

Wisconsin and Minnesota. 

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

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

I found a state campground, instead, but the mosquitoes were out of control. A young couple at the next site lent me bug repellant. 

Lesson to all riders: Pack bug spray.

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.
(To be honest, I can't stomach Trump.)

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'.

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.

North Dakota – I begin to cook my brains. 

I’ll add more text as time allows. I do recommend riding east to west, if you’re crossing the United States, putting much of the best scenery last. On my first two trips, I made sure to hit places like the Badlands in South Dakota, Mount Rushmore, Grand Teton National Park, Yellowstone, and on the second trip, Yosemite. 

In North Dakota, I found wide open highways for riding – including Interstate 94. It’s legal to ride the interstates in several western states. I also started running into excessive heat. One day, it was 98° and I could feel myself wilting. A young married couple, heading east, told me they had measured the road temperature at 120°. 

One highlight for me involved stopping at Fort Mandan, where Lewis and Clark built a post during their journey. The museum was great. But I was having trouble shifting gears, as my lever had worked loose. 

So I had to head south to Bismarck, fifty miles out of my way, to find a shop. I rented a car and drove to Portland, Oregon, to see my daughter, then drove back to Bismarck, got my repaired bicycle, and pedaled west yet again.

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

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

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!)

It was so hot one day, I almost passed out.
I decided a motel would be good, but the power blew out, too.

 
My view of the sky while camping out one day.

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

Stopping to fix a flat tire on Interstate 94.

Betting off the interstate, looking back east.

The Budget Inn wasn't exactly a four-star place.

Someone forgot to iron the pillowcases.

Even the door had seen better days.

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

The land dries out as you get closer to Montana.
Near Medora, you can visit the southern portion of Teddy Roosevelt's old ranch.

Cross-Country Trip #1 - Summer 2007.

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

When I ride for JDRF, I ride for my daughter, Emily.
She's a Type-1 diabetic (seen here in high school).
We love that young lady!!!!!

I always believe two legs will suffice. 
In many ways, pedaling across the USA depends on attitude.
I was 58 when I did my first ride across the country.

I was a history teacher. So I had to stop at battlefields in Virginia.
My students helped me raise the money.
They were awesome.

Stopping at Thomas Jefferson's home: Monticello.

 
Roadside memorial in Indiana.

I met these two young men heading east in Kansas.
(I'm sorry I lost their names.)

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 changing my flat, Sarah Brigham pedaled up.
She was going south to Durango, and told me she made the tutu herself.
I liked her free spirit.

If you plan to pedal across the USA, go through Grand Teton National Park.

Also plan on pedaling through Yellowstone.

These two lovely waitresses in Idaho heard I was riding for JDRF.
They happily donated.
A lesson repeated again and again: The kindness of so many people.

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

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

My first ride across America took me from Avalon, New Jersey, across Chesapeake Bay by ferry, through Virginia (including the beautiful Shenandoah Valley), West Virginia, and back to Cincinnati. (I had an eight-day rest to catch up with my wife and children.) Then it was west across Indiana, Illinois, Missouri and Kansas. The good part about going east to west is that so much great scenery comes last. I absolutely loved pedaling in Colorado and Wyoming, part of Montana, Idaho, into Washington, and crossing the Columbia River into Oregon, then down the Columbia River Valley, to Portland – and finally, ending my ride at Bay City, Oregon.

Raising money by painting.

 

In 2008, I retired from teaching, after 33 years with the Loveland City Schools, a suburban district north of Cincinnati. I had more than 5,000 students and loved the job and the kids. In 2010, I agreed to paint the Harry Whiting Brown building in Glendale, Ohio, where I live. It’s a complicated story – but I was able to donate $10,500 more from the job to JDRF. It was hot, hard work.

 

For the second time, I lost twenty-five pounds.

 

Spoiler alert: I didn’t keep it off.

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

Painting for JDRF.

Mission accomplished.

TO BE CONTINUED...