Another Bicycle Ride across America

 

The Future Comes for Us All.

 

July 22, 2024.
The old guy makes it to Glacier National Park.

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 will humor me.

 

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

 

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

 

Okay, sure. Throw in a bad right knee (thanks to the Marine Corps), a bad left wrist (from a bad fall in basketball), and an 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.

*

 

I suppose you could call me an optimist (or a fool) because I believe if I hop on my bicycle and pedal away, I will end up somewhere good. So far, I always have. But for this trip, my planning was a little shaky. If you’ve never been to Acadia National Park, make it a point to get there before your journey takes 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, near the coast. 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 stop 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, 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 aboard ship? 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 also 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.

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 change 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 and 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 I asked if I could use the bathroom, as the librarian (I think) showed up to open, 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; and I was tempted, I admit. But there’s no sense trying to ride across the USA, if you’re going to wimp out every time it gets hard. Sure enough, up I went for the next few miles – and then I flew into Bennington, feeling strong. There were several times on this trip, where I would get up to such high speeds, that my hands would get tired of holding down 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 1751.
I really wish I had had a chance to go inside. The old boxed pews,
reserved for certain families on the first level, are still there.

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, and my plan from there was to hit the Erie Canalway Trail and pedal the next 300 miles almost entirely off the roads. The weather was getting better, although it did sprinkle most days, and the sun wasn’t out nearly as much as I had 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 now 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 mountains out West. It was her first experience battling the long, hard climbs – and she wasn’t shifting effectively, and she 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 do curse. The longest climb I’ve done so far is up and over Powder River Pass, out of Buffalo, Wyoming, a 33-mile climb and a mile of elevation gained.

 

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.

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.)

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 Erie Canal, 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 give credit for enthusiasm.

Trip #1

(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...