1) Recovery ..... 2) Is This Ride My Legacy?

People ask me: “Have you recovered yet?”

“From what?” I think. I had no enduring physical problems during the ride save some hand pain from the constant leaning on the handlebars. This, despite wearing biker’s gloves with gel pads in key spots. Actually, I developed calluses on my palms which have only just faded.

Another reminder: my arms and legs got so very sunburned that there still is a sharp divide between the tanned skin and the whiteness of the covered areas. It has been 8.5 weeks since the ride – I have not been in the sun at all in that time – and I am still heavily contrasted.

Most people view the ride as so far beyond their capabilities (now and at most any time in their lives) as to be an impossible undertaking. My perspective is different because I have been blessed, genetically, with physical stamina and fitness that rewards the measly efforts I exert in training and nutrition. I have become so used to my good physical fortune that I never really doubted that I would finish. The major challenge for me was the mental one. While there are probably a few athletes who could handle the ride physically (in the high school where I substitute teach just about every day), I doubt there are any who could have kept up with me the whole way. Severe headwinds, steep hills and lots of walking up them, rain and thunderstorms, flat tires and bike problems were intensely dispiriting.

I have also been asked: “Do I consider the successful ride as my legacy?”

I haven’t thought of the ride in terms of a legacy. I haven't ever thought about any legacy ... that would admit to finality, and although it is closer and closer, it's still "out there" for me. I don’t see the ride as so dominating in how I may be regarded by my progeny. I see it as just a piece in the whole fabric of my life, which I regard as generally adventurous and more edgy than many.

• I took jet pilot training in the Air Force and have a bunch of hours at the controls under my belt.
• I have sky-dived (and would continue, if I could afford it).
• I lived and worked in two foreign countries, staying in one throughout an armed revolution, after most foreigners evacuated.
• I spent about 500 hours, snorkeling mostly, in the Red Sea, amidst poisonous mollusks, poisonous fish and snakes, poisonous plants, jellyfish, sharks … whatever. I have never experienced anything so beautiful or fascinating, with some rare exceptions. There were nights on snow-covered dirt roads in the Rockies when the stars were staggeringly numerous; sunrises and sunsets in the desert countries are surreal, because of the dust in the air that refracts the light in ethereal ways; in Kenya last year, I saw both a baby rhino and a 5-day-old baby elephant nursing. It sounds banal in the telling of it, whereas the feelings it engendered, in real time, are literally indescribable.
• I am an intrepid skier, self-taught (part of the problems with my technique). It means I will go anywhere on the mountain, but I don’t cliff-jump. I don’t do all of the mountain that well, but I manage to get down, even if side-stepping through a chute is all I can manage. If I could afford it, I would ski 100+ days a year! I have skied in 5 countries at maybe 25 resorts, and some at over 11,000 feet.
• I married a foreign woman from a totally different culture. But we share basic values and beliefs. We are still married, and still passionate about each other, after 41 years, despite the usual squabbles couples have.
• I worked in Information Technology for 40 years, as a coder, analyst, instructor, designer, project and contract manager. I rarely repeated an assignment. For half that time I worked as contractor-consultant. I was always learning new computer languages, new applications, and new businesses (and new countries!). There were many times when I thought I may have bitten off more than I could chew, but mostly, I succeeded. It required being creative and flexible, and a quick learner, especially when working overseas, where the rules can be unknowable.
• I learned to read, write and speak the Farsi language (it was extremely challenging for me). It is also fading away from disuse.
• I became the President of The Ethical Culture Society of Bergen County, a humanist organization. It is a volunteer position. It has been very challenging, to put it mildly. One aspect: I preside at public and Board meetings. It is a role I have been especially uncomfortable with, but it has forced me to stretch and grow.

Another question I was asked: “What did you say when people told you that you were crazy?” Actually, no one called me crazy … maybe "suicidal."
The ones who came close to “crazy” were all women, who tried to influence my wife ("Don't let him go" or "Talk him out of it"), as if she had the ultimate authority. Some said they'd never let their husbands go.

Although she did try to discourage me, at first, she eventually realized that my mind was made up. She saw that I was training seriously, and had put so much effort into it, so she encouraged me. Example: When I worried about not making it on time to get to the wedding in August, she suggested: A) I skip the wedding, or B) I park the bike somewhere, go to the wedding, then go back and resume the trip. It was extremely important, maybe even more to her than me, that I finish the trip.

Several men told me, afterwards, that they never thought I'd make it, but didn't say it to me beforehand. That surprised me, but it made sense when I thought about it. I would not have told another guy he'd never make it.

To keep things in perspective, it was not a death-defying venture, like climbing Mt. Everest or bungee-jumping, or rowing across the Atlantic, or scuba diving with sharks. It was just exciting, and a challenge; besides, I like to push things a little.

I suspect that most people don’t know that I am continuing to add to this blog, but I am now writing essays with a longer perspective on the trip. It may surprise you readers to know that I am more prideful of my writing, or maybe I should say that I appreciate praise of it more than congratulations on the bike ride. As it is, I get no feedback on these later posts, much as I would love to get such comments. Anyone?

Loneliness

One question I am often asked: “Weren’t you lonely?”

Quick answer: “No.”

But upon reflection, I guess I was. Let me explain. I was not aware of feeling lonely. Between intense concentration on the road surface and my position relative to traffic, there was little time to think of almost anything but those physical things.

There were other high priority subjects: Am I thirsty? How much time before darkness? How much time before I’d better nail down a place to stay, or rather, a destination known to have places to stay? Also: Was that a rhythmic sound I heard? (Geez, another flat?) Where the hell do I find a tree to pee behind? (Sounds simple, but there are no trees in the desert, though there are scorpions and poisonous snakes. So, there was no venturing off-road, ergo, how do I position myself so as to be hidden … mostly … from sight, cause I’m gonna do it right here on the shoulder? And by the way, how do I do it so as not to pee on my own legs/shoes? I was not always successful; not only did that damned wind undermine my progress, it made me embarrass myself too.

But I digress. While I was not aware of feelings of loneliness, I realize that I seized every opportunity to stop and chat with ANYONE. I figured 5 minutes here and there, in the scheme of things, wouldn’t cost me much. Except that I now realize that I coveted those interchanges. So, I was lonely, or at least hungry for interaction with other people. Same thing, no?

I also got to feed my ego, because virtually everyone asked my age. After the first time, when I gave a straight answer, I made everyone guess. I suppose a few may have suspected a higher number (the face gave one clue and the body gave a contradictory one), but they did a good job of looking surprised when I told them. Not a one came within 5 years, and many were off by 10 or more years.

The best part of ego food: it adds no weight to the bike.

I've Changed

I’ve changed. I am not the same person. Or so I have been told. I don’t feel any different, physically or consciously. It takes some inward-looking reflection to see it, as opposed to the reflection in the mirror and on the bathroom scale noting the slimmer me ... unfortunately, that won’t last.

True, my interest in story-telling and writing is renewed. And the stories are mostly new, except where they stir up an earlier memory worth the telling.

But I always wrote.

Well, the Bike Across America ride tested me in a new way. It calibrated my resolve to push on. I had to repeat the old marine mantra a number of times: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” But I didn’t feel so tough at times. It would have been much easier to sit down and cry, which I considered doing more than once, such as when, for example, I made bare progress after hours of facing severe headwinds, or had to walk up so many impossible hills (even in the desert, which I expected to be flat!) or when I had three flats within seven miles.

The mantra worked. I kept on ... and the body held up.

But I always fancied myself as physically capable.

So what exactly has changed?

I proved I can keep going when the physical challenge starts to turn into an attitudinal one. The depth of my resolve was plumbed. I’d say it is a matter of knowing something more of my limits, or rather the reverse: knowing that my apparent limits can be stretched.

Is there some way to put that to my advantage elsewhere in my life?

I hope I can make a habit of pushing harder when it is needed, despite the difficulty of the struggle.

So I have changed … not in kind (I was always adventurous) … but in outlook; call it self knowledge.

Not a bad lesson, at that. And not a bad habit either, if I can still muster the resolve when challenged again.

Now, about beginning a new training program to replace the weight I lost on the trip with some muscles: yeah, I'll start, one of these days soon … real soon. I am put in mind of a bumper sticker I saw: "Procrastinate Now!"

Bob

My Angel

I got into Norfolk, Nebraska, at 8:20pm. The first motel I came upon was very run-down, though likely very inexpensive. The unpleasant woman on the porch of the office said there were no vacancies. I was rather relieved. Others told me there were many more motels, not much further on. But not one had a vacancy. The first chain place said there were no rooms available in town anywhere, except maybe one place. She knew because she had earlier called around when someone else stopped by. But that place too was full. Next door was a Super 8, and also full. I was beginning to get the message.

Why no vacancies? It seems there was an annual car show event that weekend, and coupled with that, many family reunions. The family reunion circumstance grew because there was such a major attraction for them with the car show. Cars were being shown from a lot of surrounding states: hot rods, antiques, classics, customs, street rods, T-buckets, oddballs, whatever.

The Super 8's desk clerk’s name was Mandy. Mandy was maybe 6 months pregnant. (This was beginning to become a pattern – my getting help from mothers-to-be. See the “Friendliness: Second Installment” blog entry.) Mandy first called all the motels in town, then all the not-nearby places (over 25 in all), and eventually reached out to places 25 miles away. Still nothing. I asked her about churches, and she couldn’t help there. I asked if I could sleep on a chair in the lobby. And then I asked about a storeroom. She did not react visibly, but a light went on. She made a hushed call to someone, outside of my earshot, then told me there was a possibility. It seems the management had taken a room out of the computer “inventory.” They had stored 5 humongous rolls of rug padding in that room. If I was able and willing to move the rolls, I could have that room. It was a temporary “storeroom,” hence the trigger for Mandy, and she had called her supervisor.

Bingo! Not only did I get that room for only $35, but it included a hot breakfast! It was as fine a room as any other. The 8-foot rolls of padding (maybe 20 inches in diameter each) all fit, piled on the double bed nearest the wall, where I could stack them. Although rather heavy, they were easy to roll into place and then tipped over and onto the bed.

The whole exchange took maybe 45 minutes for telephone call after telephone call and flipping yellow pages. I was preparing myself mentally for crashing on the walkways around the motel and now I had a plush setup … and dirt-cheap to boot.

My heroine! My angel!!

ALWAYS OPEN … NOT! And more ...

The plan for the entire trip was to not eat breakfast until I had ridden about an hour, so as to have achieved something before taking time off. It was a good strategy, until other criteria overrode the plan.

The first to seize supremacy was the stomach. There were times when it just plain ruled. Just as with stopping for a sip of water or a mini-rest, not by the clock (as in once an hour or some such), but when the body ordered it. Listening to the body sounds like a mystery when you’ve never done it before. It doesn’t just out and talk to you in some obvious way. You simply get urges that you eventually learn not to ignore. Thirsty? Drink. Tired? Stop. Hungry? Eat.

Next criterion: out west, along with watering holes and motels, eateries could be 40 or more miles apart, so I learned to have breakfast at the first opportunity, else stop number one would be lunch.

And that’s why I got off Interstate 25 just 2 miles south of the town of Trinidad, Colorado, where I’d spent the night. The sign across the highway, maybe 100 feet tall, so it could be seen from the Interstate by cars going 80mph, said "Always Open." It was below another that said "Earl’s Country Breakfast" … or something like that. But it wasn’t. And there was no "Earl’s Country Breakfast" either. However, there was a restaurant called "Tequila."

I took the overpass and rode over to the restaurant, only to discover that it didn’t open till 10am. I didn’t want to waste an hour waiting, but by then my rear tire was flat. (I got way too many flats on highway exits and overpasses. Debris seems to gather there, dammit!) This turned out to be a tiny pinhole which, I later learned, was caused by a local plentiful burr that has a slender very sharp spike which easily penetrates tires and tubes. This flat happened to my rear tire, necessitating unloading the saddle bags, which, by now, were intricately lashed on to prevent being dislodged by bumps. I was proud of the Rube Goldberg solution for its effectiveness, but it took a while to undo it all.

When I got the tube out of the tire, I discovered that my two spare tubes were missing. A quick memory search: that odd noise I heard a few days ago was the sound of the bundle of two of them hitting the road after a bump. I had not stopped to investigate the noise. Damn.

The yellow pages in the phone book in the restaurant yielded no bike shops in Trinidad, but on chance, the white pages showed one in town. I called and they had my tubes, but they don’t, won’t and can’t deliver, so I had to catch a ride. The address was on E. Main Street, so I thought I’d have an easy time of it.

By now, the restaurant was almost open. A middle-aged couple came out and they agreed to take me to E. Main Street. The couple’s names were Manuel and Nelly Garcia, and they owned the restaurant. I must admit I was disconcerted by their constant reference to me as “gringo,” but it sounded benign.

Problem: There was no bike shop on Main Street, east or west of the midtown area. In fact, there was no official East on Main Street. Manuel recalled a suburb, north of town, that had its own Main Street, and so it did, and there it was. They showed incredible patience while they waited .. it took extra long because the bike shop’s computer was down and they seemed not to be able to conclude my business without it. Then they asked if I minded them making some stops on the way back to the restaurant! Indeed, it was why they left the restaurant in the first place. Talk about politeness, civility and generosity of spirit!

It took awhile. By the time I got back and had the bike ready to go, it was nearing noon, so breakfast became lunch. I don’t recommend a mega-meal of Mexican food, as good-tasting as it may be (and this was), as the way to begin a serious biking effort. Enough said.

This was the day I got three flats within seven miles, and destroyed a tire on one of them. My resolve was severely tested. It was also one of four occasions when (sorry, ladies) if I were a woman, I’d have sat down and cried ... which was my first inclination.

This last flat was on a steep uphill to Raton Pass, and the flat made itself known to me as I got off the bike to walk the last eighth of a mile to the top. A guy hailed me from the other side of the divided highway. He’d passed me going my way then circled back. “Do you need any help?” Answer: “Do you have any spare tubes with you?” I was speaking self-mockingly. I had one tube left. He circled back and made space to haul me to the next truck stop. I was dead tired and dispirited. Making space was no small feat. Ian Dolly was returning from a month’s graduate program of field studies in North Dakota. He camped while doing research on burrowing owls. All his camping gear and whatever was in the back of that little Toyota, plus his mountain bike on the back rack, where there was room for my bike too. The dog he’d acquired was in the front seat ... a wonderfully friendly and handsome long-haired Corgi. I still can’t figure out how my stuff got in there, but the Corgi wound up on top of everything else in the back, perched where she could continually lick my neck. I am not normally fond of licking, and I did have to inhibit her a little, but I needed a dose of friendliness of the touching kind, and I must say I mostly relished it.

Ian was heading south, way past Albuquerque and wanted to take me that far, but I got out at the next truck stop, maybe a total of 7 miles down the road, and more significantly, over the Raton Pass.

Once there, I proceeded to change the tube. A fellow pumping his own gas asked if I needed money. It sounded like a dumb question, but I explained that I was donating my ride to raise money for charity. Joseph and Eileen Edwards insisted on giving me $10.00! As with the unexpected donations handed to me in Fremont, Wisconsin, I reasoned that he would not be much inclined to support my humanist religion, nor my college, nor my home town, but undoubtedly would have preferred the high school club (Interact) that helps third world children with medical problems.

I made great time after that, but was extremely nervous about riding without spare tubes.

I came upon two young women in a small Honda beside the road. The car was wearing a totally shredded tire. When I stopped to check on them, they said an AAA truck was coming for them and they had requested he bring a tire. The truck arrived momentarily. No spare tire. But the ladies had a donut spare. They didn’t know you can drive on them up to 60mph and thought they’d be limited to maybe 30mph. I got some cool water from them and left, but they did invite me to ride with them if I wanted to. It was an empty gesture ... there really was no room in the little car (and no, they were being nice, not coming on to me). They were headed for a wedding in Albuquerque (or was it Santa Fe?). Eventually they passed me, without even a horn toot.

I stopped at a rest area, maybe 12 miles down the road. “Next rest area: 60 miles away.” At 80 mph, that’s only 45 minutes. No big deal in a car; on a bike, it can be the whole day.

Rest areas are different out west. Attractively architected, but consisting only of toilets, nice sheltered bench areas, and water fountains that run cool, if you wait long enough. (And warnings not to venture off-path because of poisonous insects and snakes. Don't gotta tell me that twice!) No other services, although one place had a soda vending machine. Huge areas for trucks to park. I had conversations with two truckdrivers. Both offered to give me a ride, and one was going all the way to L.A. That was the older one. He said he'd won a $172 million lottery. His wife stole the ticket and took off. He got not one cent of it. Meanwhile, he was raising their kids and two nephews. He said other things, and was so earnest, but I really didn’t believe him. I guess I'd like to think it wasn’t true.

The younger one, maybe 23 years old, had a completely different tale. He had gone on a church walk with five other youths, at the age of 15. They carried a cross and walked from Oklahoma to Missouri, to spread the faith by their so doing. They were not allowed to ask for food or shelter, but could accept it when offered. They’d camped out a lot and eventually scored a ride all the way back to Tulsa. He wanted to do it again, and walk further, as much for the spiritualism of it as the wanderlust and experience. Guess I wasn't the only odd duck on the road. Everyone, it seems, has a story.

At a truck stop later on, I asked how far to the next motel and the countergirl said there was one in Springer, 5 miles further. Then she called it and made a reservation for me ... the last room available. They said they’d hold it for me for 30 minutes, till they heard I was on a bike, and bumped that to 1 hour, at my request. I must have been prescient. The countergirl suggested that I take the newly paved frontage road beside I25, to avoid the traffic. Mistake! Newly paved, yes. But it was the worst kind of macadem, overmixed with stones and bumpy/vibrationy as hell. Worse, I forgot, for the time, that frontage roads have more ups and downs than the highways they parallel. Worse, the headwinds picked up. I needed most of the one hour hold time to make it to the motel. The town was Springer, famous locally for its correctional institution. Road signs warn against picking up hitchhikers in the area!

There was a small Mexican restaurant next door to the motel, closing soon after I checked in, where I had the tastiest sauteed chicken strips/caesar salad I’ve ever had. The salad dressing was a package of Newman’s Own Italian, 180 calories of which 170 were fat ... something I’d normally avoid like the plague, but relished on the road.

Sometimes you win.

Was it a "he" or a "she" ?

I met “Pat” in a small café in the small town of Julesburg, just west of the border from Nebraska into Colorado. I had to wait out the morning rain in that small café before setting out. It took till near noon. And so I had a chance to meet many locals who came and went in those morning hours.
“Pat” is a name I ascribed to one local, after the androgenous character on Saturday Night Live. Was “Pat” a he or a she? Many skits over many shows attempted to put Pat into situations where gender would be revealed. All failed.
But I was successful with my Pat … it wasn’t really my doing … it just took quite a while for the fact to “out” itself.
Very tall, very large frame, blonde hair down to the shoulders, and the killer confusions: a hot pink long-sleeved tee shirt plus enough extra poundage to exhibit what might be a woman’s chest. (Boobs!)
I was facing the rear of the café so only saw Pat from the side and back, until Pat took a booth in front of mine and faced me. No help there. It seemed like a lot of time for me to wonder about this, but then Pat ordered breakfast … in a deep voice. No mistaking that.
In a metropolitan area, nowadays, you see all sorts. In a tiny town in the West, given his age (he looked to be in his mid-forties) Pat had to be quite the character.
I decided that Pat liked the notoriety and the recognition of being the only one of his type around.
Pat was literate, getting many chuckles out of the typos in the local weekly newspaper, pointing them out to me. (I did learn a new word, however: “chemigation” refers to the mixing of crop treatments with the irrigation water.)
But was Pat a farmer? A silo worker? A railroader? A trucker? A merchant of I-don’t-know-what? A professional? My conclusion was that he was financially independent and a man of leisure; I decided that he owned most of the town, or the land thereabouts. He was probably the provincial lord of the manor. Who knows? Right or wrong, that’s the way I will remember it.
But it was fun guessing about Pat and his place in the scheme of things.

I had met someone like that in rural Georgia, in 1964. It was a one-factory town, and she owned the factory. Everyone in town worked for her, one way or another. She also owned the retail shops, thus getting back a lot of the wages she dispensed. It was right out of a cliched movie about a closed Southern community.
It had been raining steadily … for days, in fact. I was driving the dinky American Motors used car I’d bought a few days earlier in New Orleans, to replace my very dead Jaguar XK120M, may it rest in peace (I dearly loved that car!). The dink was the model that had the shift lever sticking out of the dashboard. Oy. It was going to take me all the way back to NY. How was a dumb Northerner to know that Detroit would sell cars in the South without heaters in them? No heat means no effective defrosters and permanent fogginess when it rains. I holed up in a café for days, nursing coffee after coffee. The short-order cook/counterman/owner befriended me and after many conversations, he offered me a job as a short-order cook. “I’ll teach you. Don’t make nuthin fancy anyhow.”
He allowed as how I was a breath of fresh air, being college educated and smarter than most anyone in town. “This town needs someone like you … and someone she don’t own! We could really liven things up around here.”
He introduced me to “her” when she came in with an entourage of toadies. She was quite civil, but acted every bit the Queen of her realm. She even asked me to come by the factory and make a job application so she could see where I might fit. I politely refused.
Cookie also took me a private club, just across the border, where we had some of the finest liquor I ever tasted. Moonshine! And on the house, to boot. In two days, I had met all the important locals!
Well, I was broke and out of a job, so I couldn’t say “no” straight off. But with my big mouth and not a small measure of arrogance, who knows how long I’d have lasted? Who knows how they would (and could) dispense with the wise-ass when the time came?
And, of course, there was no future in it. It might have been fun … for a while.
When the rain cleared, I cleared out too.
And that’s how I first got to NJ for home and career.

Friendliness: Second Installment

Not “No room at the inn” – No inn at all! But she was pregnant!

I got to a town called Whitney Point, NY, expecting to find a motel there ... after all, the name was writ large on the map. Wrong. Some older teens at an A&W stand or the like concurred that there was a motel about 8 miles further, but forgot to tell me to turn right at the corner. I went about 8 miles, straight ahead, on my planned route, and thought maybe I misread my gauge or the kids were a little off. It was getting rather dark, and rather cold too. A small VW stopped, on the other side of the road. They’d passed me and circled back. It seems the driver’s brother (and the brother’s girlfriend) had ridden cross-country the year before and recounted all the helpful people they met, so he thought he’d return the favor. He did not use the term “pay it forward” but that’s what he was doing.

He knew the area some and said there was no motel the way I was going. It was back the other way, contradicting what I understood.

He turned the car around and went ahead, returning within 20 minutes, while I had resumed riding. He had spoken with the woman who runs the gas station/Qwik Stop ahead, in Richford, who confirmed that there was no motel anywhere close. Then he threw me a Gatorade. He told the woman ahead to look for an old man cyclist coming in and asked for a drink to take back to me. She gave it, no charge.

By now it was quite dark, I was quite tired (but, fortunately, going downhill for a few miles), my toes were truly numb from the cold, and I needed to “be there” in a hurry.

The woman acknowledged there were no places to stay. I got a hot chocolate, but I was shivering so much and my hands were shaking so much that she had to carry it to the booth where I would sit. I had to have 2 hot chocolates to warm up. At this booth was a 19-yar old woman, pregnant – maybe 8 months. She was the niece of the station manager lady, or about to be, if the manager married her uncle.
I also ate a sandwich and then had an ice cream bar. The manager would not take money for anything but the ice cream bar.

After much discussion, it was agreed that the best course for me was to set up my camping gear in the gazebo at the nearby town park, but I waited a while and asked everyone who came in if they could, or knew someone else who could put me up for the night. (The nearest police station was 5 or 6 miles away, and I was not about to ride in the dark, and up and down hills too.) Finally, the pregnant one said she had a spare bed, but she needed to ask her boyfriend, 47 years old, if he minded, and he wasn’t coming to pick her up until near 11pm. (It seemed clear to me that he was not the father.) I waited. He was OK with it. We put the bike in a storage shed at the gas station and piled into his car, arriving well into the boonies at a small wooden structure. Mom-to-be cleared off a space under which was a mattress, and gave me a sheet and a lovely comforter. Her pretty cat and its kitten joined me for a while. The place had electricity and running water, but no working tub or shower. The floors were bare. It was clearly home-built and was nowhere near done.

We had coffee in the morning, then drove back to the Qwik-Stop. After heating a burrito or something like it in a microwave, I set out. I learned later that Richford was the birthplace of John D. Rockefeller, who clearly never looked back.

Here were people with little more than subsistence level income, making do on what few of us could deal with, who opened their hearts to someone in need. It doesn’t get any better than that!

Freebies

“You’re the biker!” she said. “Come on in. Have dinner on us.”

She had passed me in her car earlier on her way to the last bowling night of her bowling league. The fun league, not the one with the really serious (ultra-competitive) bowlers. They had a large pot-luck buffet; everyone brought a dish to it, and all had finished eating, with much left over. Shrimp cocktails, cocktail frankfurters and sausages, chicken, barbecue, the usual array of salads, Mexican dipping things, and a great variety of cookies and cakes, and more.

She recognized my orange shirt, and I was still in the biker pants and shoes. I had walked through one of the two doors to what I thought was a bar-lounge only, after checking in at a small motel a hundred feet away.

Not much of a town (but it had a bowling alley with 12 lanes). Two tracks of the railroad ran through town, parallel to the highway … or was the highway parallel to the railroad? Well, it wasn’t really a highway, but the road surface was pretty good, the road straight and the terrain wonderfully flat.

I thought I was lucky just to find a motel. Now I found a welcoming crowd anxious to talk to me about the trip, and offering me a full free dinner. I could feature this every night. Even the men were curious, but not as much as the women.

That makes me think of a question a friend asked me after my ride: "Did anyone hit on you during the trip?" None of these women did; in fact, I began to wonder why no women did! Then I remembered one, in retrospect, who probably did.

I wound up climbing 2,700 feet in all shortly after entering the Mojave Desert from western Arizona, where it is also desert-like, but doesn’t carry that fearsome name. I was thus introduced to the "high desert" just into California, at the town of Needles. I don’t do well on hills, but this very gradual stretch turned into a 6-mile long rise, then a short straightaway, then an 8-mile long rise. In neither case did I see the road as a hill because the terrain to either side rises with it, but oh so gradually. The only clue, at first, was that I was struggling to achieve a not very fast pace.

I had to walk the last quarter or half mile to the top of those two upgrades, and over the top, the Interstate descended only slightly. An ancient motor home was parked off the roadway. It had a trailer-with-car in tow. I stopped beside it but it was curtained all around, inside, and I had to go to the far side to find the door, which was midships between the front and back (they don’t make them that way any more).

When I knocked, to see if everything was okay, after a little shuffling, a woman pulled back the curtain to my right and motioned for me to open the door. There was a stairwell and she wasn’t getting down into it. She was wearing a nightgown and leaning over to talk to me, unavoidably exhibiting her attractions. "The motor home overheated on the long climbs, and I decided to park it till the cool of the evening." I asked for cold water and she readily gave me a bottle. I was distracted by her dress (or rather, her undress) and moved to beside the front of her motor home to drink the water, which went down in maybe two gulps. When I walked back to return the empty (I’m a good boy and don’t litter, most of the time), she asked if I wanted something to eat. When I declined, she then described her wonderful muffins (!). The thought did fleetingly pass my mind that I was being invited in and maybe it wasn’t entirely about food … but I had miles to go and places to see … yadda, yadda, yadda.

Yeah, she was hitting on me. And she was not in bad shape either for a woman in her late forties. But that was a precedent best left unset.
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I often ate breakfast at Denny’s. They have two features hard to duplicate, it seems. First, everything they serve looks exactly the way it is pictured on the menu. Second, the portions are copious, and, away from the big cities, inexpensive. (That makes 3 features.) They even allowed substitutions! What’s not to like? And some of the restaurants were next door to Motel 6 and earned me a 10% discount.

Even the dinners were good. (Remember, I was into eating everything full-fat and highly caloric.)

The waitress said “You can have anything you want for dinner. A customer paid for your dinner. He just left. He said he was a biker too, from Arizona.” I ran to the register and the guy truly had gone. No one to thank. The whole dinner was paid for, except for the outlandish ice cream concoction I ordered for dessert. Nice!

On another occasion, I stopped for a cold soda at an Indian handicrafts place. I was the only one there, except for the owner and an employee. They asked about my ride, by now a common occurrence, which I always looked forward to, and the owner did not charge for my soda. Those “types” have a reputation for being hard bargainers and cool to customers. Not this one!

Another time: the town was 2 miles off the Interstate, but there was a truck stop/eatery at the highway exit, and I eagerly ordered my usual late afternoon root beer float. I hadn’t had a root beer float since maybe my teens, having turned off root beer and preferring almost any other flavor ice cream than vanilla, but on this trip, I quickly made an afternoon buy mandatory. It is surprising how much variation there can be in those things, mostly having to do with the quality of the ice cream. I came to prefer frozen custard (or was it soft ice cream?) best of all.

The woman at this truck stop had a stern visage as she went about closing up the place and was all business-like in serving me, so I was startled when she said: “No charge” as I prepared to leave. There had been conversation about my ride with another customer which she clearly overheard. Then she asked me where I was staying and I asked which of the motels in town was the least expensive (but clean, etc.). She endorsed what the gas pump guy said, and there I went, and was pleased. The owner was in his 30’s and had bought the place 6 months before, fixing it over as he got the cash flow. It had very interesting features. Example: the bathroom included a bar of Dove soap fully half the size of a regular bar, vs the almost useless mini-soaps you get in even the best hotels. (Has anyone mastered getting the paper wrapping off those wee things?)

The owner had an automatic pistol on his hip. I asked if he was auxiliary police or some such and he said it is legal to carry a weapon in Arizona, as long as it is not concealed. To carry concealed, you need a permit. He liked giving the message that a stranger was not to mess with him.

The next morning I went to stern-face to have breakfast. No, it wasn’t free. But you should have seen her face melt when I told her it was the best bacon I’d had anywhere, and the coffee was outstanding. I think I made her whole week.

Many other places gave me a drink or a sandwich on the house. One notable place was a Mexican Restaurant I stopped at, where I was changing highways. It was later in the day and I was parched. I had to have a Dos Equis. I had two! An older couple sat across from me having drinks and was waiting for another to join them. We talked and I got recommendations regarding local routes. I always asked locals if there were alternative roads that were flatter or more direct than what I had planned. (And I always got good advice, with one exception. I covered that in another essay, where I describe staying at a young pregnant girl’s place after failing to be informed that the motel that was only 8 miles further required me to turn right onto another route. The mother-to-be lived in Richford, NY, the birthplace of John D. Rockefeller. He clearly never looked back. It is an extremely depressed ((poor)) area.)

The waitress in the Mexican restaurant told me that the owner would give me a dinner on the house, if I liked. I had to decline or I would never have made the planned distance that day.

Almost every café and restaurant I stopped at was run by or owned by a woman. And they all wanted to nurture me, as is woman’s nature, no? One even offered me a ham sandwich to take with me, to eat on the road. God bless them.

Friendliness [First Installment of a Series]

Day One of the bike trip. Late start because of partying the day before, but it still got me a jump over leaving the next morning. I got to an area near Kinnelon, NJ, on Route 23, and had a late afternoon flat. A staple had punctured tire and tube with both prongs, but the tire was salvageable. It is the first flat I would be changing by myself. Disconnected the trailer. (This and most others to come were on the rear tire, which bore so much weight. Also, because it was too easy to have them on the front where the tire comes off in no time. Bikes are definitely evil.)

I butchered the new tube trying to mount it, due to inexperience and the use of a less forgiving tool used to pry tires off and on rims, later replaced with a virtually foolproof tool. It got too dark to bother trying a new tube. I expected to camp out a ways into the woods.

However, while I was sitting off the shoulder and on the grassy upslope, a car pulled over just past me, and then a police car stopped just short of me, flashing lights blazing. I first thought the cop had pulled over a speeder and I just happened to be between where they stopped. No, the car stopped because Nicolas Ortiz thought I might need help. The cop stopped because there had been a telephone report of someone in trouble. They both told me I dare not camp there because of the bears. Nicolas offered to drive me further, to where there is a bike repair shop, in Essex. There also was a motel within a hundred feet of the shop. I was not inclined to do this, but had no choice. En route, we chatted. Nicolas hails from Colombia, originally, and we had a touchpoint because my youngest son’s ex was her Colombian parents’ first-born in the US. By and by Nicolas offered to put me up for the night. “Why spend the money on a motel?” He lived in Essex and would drop me off in the morning on his way to work, in Newark. He had nearly a quarter million miles on his Ford Echo with such a healthy commute, but it looked pristine inside and out! That little car swallowed my bike, inside (front wheel off), and my bags and the trailer, although we had to lash the trunk down.

His wife, Angela, and their teenage son, Michael, were welcoming. It was hot and muggy, so the Corona beer was mightily appreciated, and so were the chicken slices and dinner they provided.

I slept on the couch and we had an early start. Loaded the car, drove to the repair shop (not open yet) and unloaded everything, and then discovered that the shop is closed on Tuesdays! There was not another repair shop within 25 miles (we learned later). Nicolas took me to a gas station opposite a Wal-Mart, where he had bought a bike for his son. The young sales guy now worked at the gas station, and I (obviously) needed help mounting a replacement tube.

I waited for the guy to come to work. The gas station owner would not let the young man help me: “We work on cars, not bikes,” he said, very gruffly.

Wal-Mart does no service work on bicycles.

I grabbed the wheel and a replacement tube, holding them out prominently, and hitched for a ride to what I had remembered seeing, maybe 13 miles back on Route 23. I was picked up quickly by a man who asked what the problem was. He biked some. He then said he could help me and had the use of all sorts of equipment in a shop his landlord let him use. And so he did, and returned me to the gas station where I reassembled everything and set off. It was now 9am. I got only a few miles and the same tire went flat. I was at an intersection that had a gas station on it, where I checked the yellow pages and found 3 bike shops listed. None were open and all were far, but the gas station manager said one was not so far. Except the listing only gave a highway route number as an address, not a town. And they were not going to be open till 10am.

A young man, Jason, and his wife, Lindsay (married 2 years, but they looked so young!) overheard all the telephone calls and conversations and, of course, I was in biking gear. They could see from the sign on my back ("NJ to LA") where I was headed. They offered to drive me. En route, she called his mother at work who checked Mapquest and got specific driving directions. Yes, it was on the route given, only 8 miles to that route’s intersection, but it was 15 miles south from there! They still drove me! This fellow had returned from Iraq recently … he was in a tanker truck battalion. He knew his wife in high school, but they did not date then. She wasn’t interested, until he graduated and showed some spark when he enlisted.

I thanked them profusely, but they had other places to go, so I hitched back, getting 3 rides in quick succession. Two were from bikers. An older man was named Perry and he rode extensively with a group called the Free-Wheelers (this is a great fraternity!) and one rode recumbent bikes. The third was a cop, who could only take me to the other border of his town, maybe 3 miles. Meanwhile, because I got into his patrol car, he had to card me.

Why did that tube go flat? It may have been because the valve wasn’t fully tightened. As it lost air, it got to a critical point. The tube was slit in a circle around the valve base, which can happen when a lot of weight combines with insufficient inflation, I was told.

The bike shop had found an anomaly in the rim which could cause future problems and fixed that. Then they sold me much stronger inner tubes. And while they were at it, I had them adjust the shifter cables, which had stretched, as new ones always do.

I set out for Port Jervis, hoping to get a little beyond there before stopping for the night.

Jason had been going to Oakland for a job interview and was to return to Port Jervis, to his in-laws' home, and lo and behold, he overtook me on the long and very steep climb up High Mountain towards the lookout point. So he stopped and we talked some more. He said he’d have a beer waiting if I rode past where he was staying, and told me about the long downhill I was going to enjoy. Which I did.

I stopped at a very small grassy park, at the foot of another very steep but shorter hill, at the far end of town, and lay on the grass for 10 minutes or so. Jason showed up (again!). He remembered the long hill I was now facing and suggested I take the shore road, beside the Delaware River, which rejoins the route later on and avoids the climb. Wow, what a nice guy! He was dead on. But I never did see him on the porch of any homes I passed and lost out on the cold beer.

I did stay at a motel where the roads rejoined. A dump, but clean and reasonable. It had a shower, and the A/C worked. That’s enough for me.

Not only was Jason pleasant and outgoing and generous with his time, but both he and Lindsay were a very handsome couple indeed. I hope his future works out well for him.

PS: This was Day 2 of 95 degree heat, 95% humidity, bright sun, zero clouds, zero wind. I remember thinking that if my heart could take this kind of punishment, I WAS in good shape and the rest of the trip was not going to be a problem.

PPS: I spoke to Nicolas after the ride, when I got back to NJ. What a sweet man. Michael says his Dad often helps people he comes across on the highway. That's a lucky boy, who has a wonderful role model!!

Obese, Obeser & Obeserer

You may recall a movie title: Dumb and Dumber, and its sequel: Dumber & Dumberer.

After impossible-not-to-realize observances, I title this:
Obese, Obeser & Obeserer.

I had thought that the national obesity plague was more of an urban/suburban thing. We have fast food 24/7, spend long hours sitting … at work, on public transportation, in front of the tube (being too tired and getting home too late to do more), and eating take-out or order-in.

I also thought it was mostly a US thing.

Then I rode into the hinterlands and across Ontario … hence this essay. I could not believe my eyes. I am not coming from: “Well, I lost a lot of weight so how come these people haven’t/don’t?” Since I grew up “chunky” and managed to exceed the more pleasant euphemisms more than a few times, I look out from these eyes with the internal mindset of a fat person, even though I have not been all that heavy for many years.

As a kid, my parents would take me to the old Barney’s, where they sold suit pants and jackets separately so they could find a set that would fit me. There are family album photos of the 4-year old me, bundled up and standing outside our home in winter. My arms were as close to my sides as they could get and were at a 45 degree angle to my body.

I remember an Air Force sergeant telling me (at ROTC summer camp) that I was so fat that if they told me to shag ass, it would take me two trips.

At my biggest, and in my mid-twenties, I weighed 225 pounds. Though I yo-yo’ed, I got to maybe 212 when my son Gregg was born, in '71. I came down steadily and consistently after that through diet modification ... I found healthier substitutes for all the things I loved and wound up finding things I loved as much (but it wasn’t easy and took a lot of searching around).

My oldest son had a revelatory comment: "So many people buy SUV’s because they don’t fit into smaller vehicles."

I would have thought work was harder ... more physical ... in the hinterland. That there was more leisure to get into other activities (time not spent commuting).

So wherefore this grossness? Why is it rampant in the non-urban set? We can all guess. I haven’t spent much time trying to analyze this, but aside from the other most significant observations on the trip (laughter, friendliness and generosity), this was so painfully obvious that I had to register it with the telling.

North American people are dreadfully obese, obeser and obeserer!

Laughter

Among the several overpowering impressions that marked my soul on the bike ride was that of laughter. It was more plentiful in the East, Mid-West, and West than New Mexico, Arizona and eastern California, where the population was sparse. It hits you when in sit-in eateries of all sorts: little cafes in tiny farming towns, some chain places, and places that qualify as cities by the locals (we congested Easterners would quibble with that categorization). Some towns had populations of 774 or 432 (I remember those two specifically).

There was a lot of laughter. Families, working people having lunch together, knitting circles, church-based men-who-lunch-together once a week, even truckers swapping stories and advice … whatever. They seemed to find many things to say to generate laughter throughout their dining experience. I never did overhear anything specific, except for one group that good-naturedly poked fun at first one, then another of their group, with everyone enjoying the banter.

What a pleasant thing to become conscious of after it has insinuated itself into your awareness!

It was clear that, often, these were people of very modest means. Homes were simple, or ramshackle, or often trailers. Cultural amenities seemed to be severely limited or non-existent. But folks were happy – if such easy, frequent laughter is a guide.

Maybe I am imputing a false relationship, opposing the non-urban with the push-push of densely populated areas with their preponderance of non-farming related professions, and the rush-rush atmosphere that resists relaxation. But it seems an almost inescapable conclusion that leisure has something to do with it.

Does anyone care to reflect on this and contribute their thoughts to a discussion?

CAN YOU MAKE OUT THE STREET SIGN?

THE BUTTONS ARE TOO SMALL

Yeah, that's me!

Calling Home Upon Arrival

Thanks For Your Contributions

Now that my cross-country ride is over, I wish to acknowledge, as a group, all who have made financial contributions in my name, to any/all of the 4 groups that sponsored me. They are:
- The Interact Club, at The Bergen Academies, a Hackensack, NJ high school club that works to the benefit of the hungry and homeless in Bergen County, and also provides airfare for children of the third world coming to the US for medical treatment. This is a remarkable endeavor for such young people.
- The Fire Department, The Ambulance Corps, and The Rescue Squad of my hometown of Upper Saddle River, NJ, volunteers all!
- The Ethical Culture Society of Bergen County, a humanist religious community (of which I am the current president).
- Hobart College, Class of '58 (to augment the presentation of a class gift on the occasion of our 50th reunion in June, '08).

For all who chose to hold their gift-giving until I concluded the trip, I traveled 3,467 miles in all, spread over 40 days on the bike.

What's next?

Most immediately, an essay (or two) on my experiences, once I have a little more time to reflect on everything, plus a specifically tailored set of ramblings on what I consider worth mentioning for anyone thinking about a similar ride. I am also compiling a list of the names of those who extended helping hands along the way. I have a lot to "pay forward."

In another vein, my wife insists that I regain a lot of the weight that disappeared en route, so a weight training routine is in the offing.

A new adventure? We shall see. I have nothing in mind at this time, but you never know.

Bob

PS: Does anyone want to buy a slightly used bicycle trailer, and some brand new, unused camping gear?

Traveled 3,467 miles

Not to be misleading, a few chunks of that were not on the bicycle. I had a 60-mile four-hour ferry ride across Lake Michigan to Wisconsin.
I also had a few rides: when I ran into a lightning/thunderstorm, and it was already dark and late, a fully loaded moving van stopped and managed to get all my gear in the 2-level cabin behind the driver. Remarkable, because his wife and one grown daughter were already ensconced in the space, as were some of the customer's possessions that did not fit into the van. It was carrying 28,000 pounds!
I was cold and tired and I dozed off. He was going to unload in Albuquerque and go on to LA, so he said he'd take me all the way, if I wanted. I got out in Albuquerque about 10pm. It is amazing how easily a truck that big moves at 75 mph, and how comfortable it was. I felt guilty about the extended ride, and had I not dozed off, I would have gotten off sooner, but: the thunder, lightning and heavy rain continued much of the way to Albuquerque and was supposed to continue through the next day as well.
The last hitch I made was in the desert. I was on Interstate 40 and heading from Needles, CA to Ludlow, 83 miles away, where there was supposed to be a motel available. I got about 40 miles, after battling strong headwinds, and many hills. I never knew I would be going up and down so much. I actually gained about 2,700 feet in elevation. That's why they call it "high desert."
At about that 40-mile point, around 2:15 in the afternoon, there was a sign saying bikes must exit. Usually bikes are not allowed when there is an alternate route. But when I got to the end of the off-ramp, there was only a sign pointing me to Old Route 66 and Amboy, 46 miles away, as opposed to the truck stop less than 2 miles further on the Interstate. I was tired and did not have enough water to go another 46 miles where there might, or might not be services available.
By the way, the state highway department had closed the only rest area for almost 200 miles (for repairs that would not be complete before December). It was unconscionable to do that in the desert! Tell Arnold I will NOT be back.
Fortunately, I never saw one highway patroller in all of California until within LA County, and I was illegal on more occasions as well.
I got back on I40, illegal now, and was delighted to down a cold beer in what seemed like one swallow at the truck stop. I was beat. I can handle the temperature, meaning 112 was not the issue. I did not sweat much (8% humidity), I drank often (but water hotter than my body temperature is not pleasant), and did not feel uncomfortable, but: it saps your energy fuel tank quickly and I needed the rest. After downing a hot dog, then a snow cone, I fell asleep in a chair, for a while, at least. Many tour buses came through, always with Korean passengers. I thought I would wait for my batteries to recharge and for a later-in-the-day restart when it might be cooling a little. Then the owner/manager and his wife told me the signs were wrong and Ludlow was another 58 miles, so I set out at 4:30.
I got maybe 10 miles further and realized that I was not going at a fast enough pace, and the hills were killing me, so macho went by the wayside and I used my head instead and hitched. Fortunately, I found an overpass to stand under, which had to be 15 degrees cooler. It was 98 in the shade at the truck stop.
All the pickup trucks roared past me, but a lone man in a PT Cruiser stopped and my gear fit in, once I removed the front wheel. He is a courier making one or two round-trips a week to collect water samples from the Colorado River at Needles and bring them to LA for testing. Name: Marion Bowles. Although he wasn't using air conditioning, it was way better than being "out there." After just under 50 miles, we saw no motels at Ludlow, so continued to Barstow, another 50 miles (and only 38 minutes at highway speeds). We stopped for gas at Barstow and I found a Motel 6 in the yellow pages, a few miles down Main Street. Marion wanted to eat dinner first, at a Flying J truck stop that has an all-you-can-eat buffet for $10.95, so there we went. I paid for dinner, but Marion did not want to go back the few miles, saying there was another Motel 6 ahead, near Victorville, as if I knew where that was. It was 20 miles further!! I felt hoodwinked because he still kept pushing me to go all the way to LA.
Marion, you were extremely nice to pick me up, but you did not do me a favor by forcing me 2o miles downroad.
From Barstow, it was 14 miles to the Cajon Pass, a 12-mile downhill ride, from an elevation of around 4,900 feet. It took me 2 hours to go just under 13 miles due to the 20+mph headwinds. At one point I could barely keep the bike balanced, on level ground, and fighting to hold 5.3 mph!! The shoulder was the white stripe and the road surface resembled a jigsaw puzzle or the parched chunks of land you see in drought country. Rough and uncomfortable.
The frontage road I was on ended abruptly, leaving I40 the only option. I was not going to get cheated, after over 3,000 miles, from having the greatest downhill ride of the country, so onto I40 I went. The 1st 4 miles were a 6% grade, and I started to fly, but the expansion joints were so bumped up that I could not go more than around 18mph and maintain control, not to mention tolerate the rough ride. And neither could the tires. I had a flat on the rear after 2 miles. I had to take off all the gear. Just maintaining my own balance, standing on a steep grade, bent over the wheel in open sun was a challenge. Then too, I was using a new super thick super burr-resisting tube, which I had great difficulty in stuffing into the tire and getting the tire on the rim. The tube was so thick and heavy that the box it comes in is the size of a full carton of cigarettes!
It took maybe 45 minutes to complete the chore. I went another 2 miles and took a break at a truck stop, then set out again. The grade was maybe 4% now, and the pavement better, but still not really good. I held my speed back to 27 or 28 and an occasional 30, whereas with a good surface I would have been close to 40, if I dared. It is not nice to have a flat at speed when the tire and bike go squiggly. You worry about being able to stop in time before destroying the rim, or worse: crashing at speed. I felt a little cheated out of a great ride, but then, it was still pretty damned good to go for 8 miles without pedaling.
I15 was heading southwest, so I continued to I210, which runs east-west, also illegal. It took over 4.5 miles to get to the first exit, when I headed south looking for the parallel local road I had seen on the map, found it, called daughter Leila, and set the rendezvous point. This was San Bernadino County. 14 miles later, at 8:05, I sat and waited for Leila to arrive shortly thereafter.
Then we stuffed the bike in her car and went on to her place.
I used the waiting time to call all the members of my family.
Today, the first day after, feels odd. I feel no euphoria, and also never doubted I would finish the trip. It just feels a little anticlimactic. But it did get me a bargain today.
I went to buy a pair of jeans and found a store selling Bullhead jeans @ 2 for $55. Although a small shop, they had a great size selection and I found a good-fitting pair (for now, until I gain back the weight). While I was in the try-on room, my friend Gene told the salesgirl I had just arrived the night before from NJ by bicycle. She immediately offered a $25 coupon they give to sports people, usable immediately. But it was not off the single $39.95 pair. I had to buy 2 pair. So the 2 pair for $55 minus the coupon, came to $30, whereas the single pair came to $39.95!!!
Duh!
So I asked her how much money SHE would give ME if I bought 4 pair.
I wore them home, but first I had to contort my leg onto the counter to get the magnetic alarm tag off. It was easier than mounting the bike over my panniers.
I will need more time to gain perspective and make pithy remarks about the trip. I will also be posting some fuller and better-considered advice to the Marine amputee who is going x-country next year with 4 other wounded marines. Ditto re: the man from Costa Mesa (with the very handsome young son) who thinks they might go x-country too (sorry, but the boy must have gotten his good looks from his mother).
Leila took some pics of me when I arrived. Now to get them via e-mail and choose one to post.
Bob

California, Here I Came

I met daughter, Leila, at an agreed rendezvous point that I got to at 8:05 pm, just inside the Los Angeles County border.
We hit the supermarket and are now enjoying a beer and Doritos at her home.
More tomorrow ... B

Bob is in Needles, California

Gregg here: Bob made it from Kingman, Arizona to Needles, California on Friday night. He crossed over the Colorado River, which is the border, and when he stopped into a marina to have a couple of beers, a guy there said that he saw Bob on television and that he recognized him because the logo on his shirt-back. While the temperature today was 112 degrees, Bob said that it wasn't a problem although he did say that he didn't like drinking water that was hotter than his body! Fortunately, for this particular portion of the ride, the places to get replenishment were not that far apart.

When he left the restaurant on Friday morning in Kingman, a Polish couple stopped Bob outside. They said that they were driving from Toronto to Vancouver (not clear from Bob's message why they were in Arizona), and the husband took a photo of Bob with his wife.

At the marina, there were those impressive cigarette boats, women, and other fancy stuff. He had conversations with lots of people there.

Bob believes that he is 285 miles from Los Angeles, but he's not sure if that's from downtown proper. The border of Los Angeles county is about 70 miles out. So far, he seems to be okay with continuing to ride on Interstate 40; no signs seems to indicate that it's prohibited. I-40 ends in Barstow, California but he can't make that in one day. He'll likely make it to Ludlow, California on Saturday. Barstow may be too close to call it a day the next day. He'll call a tourist information bureau and find out what his options are.

Overall, he sounds wonderfully upbeat and excited about the impending end of this adventure. By my estimation, he'll be done on Monday or Tuesday.

Gregg

50 miles from California

Gregg here: Finally heard from Bob last night. He stayed in the town of Seligman, Arizona on Wednesday night and made it about 80 miles to Kingman, Arizona which is 50 or 60 miles from the California border. He was initially told by some locals that the route would be somewhat downill and fairly easy, but it was hardly the case. In fact, Bob commented that the hills were the most that he had seen in the last 4 or 5 days combined! Azar and her aunt and uncle did a little research and found that Seligman is at 3,300 feet of elevation whereas Kingman is at 5,000.

When Bob was about 20 miles from Kingman, he came across a road surface that was the worst of the paved surfaces he'd seen in 3,000 miles. He described it as being waffle-like, with deep grooves and many of them. There was a constant vibration and even going downhill, he couldn't go faster than 7 miles per hour. Given how unbearable it was, he decided to hitch a ride and a nice guy in a utility truck gave him a lift for the last 20 miles. About 10 miles later, the shoulders changed back to something that appeared rideable, and though Bob didn't want to cheat on his mileage, he wasn't sure if the improved conditions would last and instead opted to just get to Kingman and call it a day. Once there, he stopped by a place to get a root beer float and yet again, his money was refused.

The weather was reported to be clear yet hot, though Bob's indicated that the heat has not affected him much. He estimates that he can continue to cover about 80 or so miles each day. He also estimates that he's about 300 miles or less to Los Angeles. Lastly, he indicated that he believes that he will have fulfilled his goals if he simply gets to the border of L.A. since it is so large; thereafter, he might see if he can arrange for one of Leila's friends to pick him up. I'm taking Azar to the airport on Tuesday morning, and she indicated that she wanted to have her camera ready to see Bob roll in. We're all guessing on when and where that might be, so I imagine that Bob, Azar, Leila, and Reuters will all have to coordinate their schedules. More on that as it develops.

Gregg

Where's Bob?

Gregg here: I've been asked about Bob's whereabouts by several folks. The answer is... your guess is as good as mine. Okay, maybe my guess might be slightly more accurate given my intimate knowledge of his experiences thus far, and given my estimations of the distance left to travel, but the reality is that Bob hasn't called in a couple of days. One can only assume, optimistically of course, that all is well and that his efforts are so monstrous and productive leaving him simply too exhausted to call in. He's also in the deserts of the southwest, so maybe cell coverage also isn't great.

In any event, lest I be accused or otherwise thought of as shirking my blog responsibilities, I thought I'd make this entry. I'll hopefully hear from him today or tonight and post again immediately thereafter.

Gregg

In Winslow, Arizona

Gregg here: Bob's in Winslow, Arizona tonight, Monday night. He did 83 miles today. He indicated that he had another 2 to 3 hours of riding in him, but with the next motel about 60 miles away, he had no choice but to stop for the night. Apparently, his rear wheel has a significant wobble to it (in technical terms, we say it's "out of true"), so he'll get to a bike shop first thing tomorrow morning. He'll also stock up on tubes given what has been a tough go of things thus far.

After he departs tomorrow, he'll make it to Flagstaff, Arizona. The route features about 1,600 feet of rising terrain between Winslow and Flagstaff. Weather permitting and flat tires notwithstanding, he'll also try for Williams, Arizona which is another 35 miles west from Flagstaff. It's unlikely he'll get a cheap motel room since it's a popular point of origin for folks who visit the southern rim of the Grand Canyon, but c'est la vie. For tonight, he's in a Motel 6 and got the senior discount; naturally, he's happy about that. He also seems to love Denny's restaurants as he's eaten at them for three days in a row. The portions are generous and by his account, the meals actually look just like the photos in the menu!

The following was quoted from Bob for specific inclusion here:

Flash floods in Death Valley

Based on my run of luck, such as three flats within 7 miles on one day, and three flats within 2 days on another occasion, increasing headwinds in the evening coupled with thunderstorms, I predict unprecedented flash floods in Death Valley when I get there.

I entered Colorado at an elevation of over 4,200 feet, topped out at 7,000 feet and have been riding most of the time at around 6,200 feet above sea level. I find no effect on my pace or stamina but I am slow when the altitude is increasing.

In Arizona

Gregg here: Yesterday, Bob crossed over the Continental Divide and is finally in Arizona! Again, he had a discouraging day with 2 more flat tires and terrible rain. Apparently, it's an afternoon phenomenon that results from heat rising over the course of each day, eventually forming thunderstorms and downpours. He is now in the town of Chambers, Arizona and will try for Holbrook, Arizona tomorrow. It looks to be between 45 and 50 miles and while it's possible that he can go farther, the weather is really the x factor. We discussed the possibility of him starting his ride at sunset and quitting in the afternoon, and he's now asked the motel to wake him up at 6 a.m. so that he'll be on the road at sunrise at 6:30.

Incidentally, the Indian Casino was called Sky City. Once he got into Arizona, most signs had to do with Native American references; he stopped at one "Indian Trading Post" and they didn't charge him for his can of Sprite. The good nature of Americans continues.

Gregg

Gallup and Denny's

Gregg here: It was one of the most pleasurable nights of sleep Bob has had in ages. He woke up Saturday morning, however, and realized that yet again, he had another flat. Some piece of steel wire was to blame, but after it was corrected, he finally got on the road though not until 12:30 p.m. The goal was Gallup (sp?), New Mexico which was 81 miles away, but at 5 p.m., the rains came once again, lightly at first, but thereafter steady and hard for 3.5 hours. Bob rode through it and he did make it to Gallup, but it was no fun slogging in the rain. He sounded miserable about the experience in his voicemail to me. The tires and tubes did hold up thankfully.

He went to Denny's for dinner while still wearing his gear and everything. When he went to pay, the waitress said that some guy who admired what he was doing had already paid for him. Bob couldn't even find him to thank him; he had already left. Amazing.

It's not clear where he stayed on Saturday night and I don't know what his plans are for Sunday nor how far he'll go, if the weather will support him, etc., but let's all hope for the best.

Gregg

The Rains in New Mexico

Gregg here: While en route to Las Vegas, New Mexico, Bob ran into some light rain which forced him to put on a rain jacket, but as it got heavier, he doubled back and went to a spot behind him and waited about 4 hours for the rains to pass. Though he was prepared to stay the night (not sure where), around 5 p.m., the skies cleared up so he decided to give it a shot to get the 40 miles to Las Vegas. About 30 miles into it, he got pummeled again by rain. It was cold, raining hard, and Bob was tired, so he decided to hitch the final 10 miles or so. Bob counted 40 or so pickup trucks with empty flatbeds that had gone by but no one stopped. Ironically, the first (and seemingly only) person to stop was a guy driving a huge Mayflower moving truck. The driver had his wife and daughter with him and his rig (it had a two-tiered compartment), and it was packed to the brim. Somehow though, Bob managed to get his bike and all his gear into the truck. The guy drove him to Las Vegas and offered to take him to Santa Fe and even as far as Albuquerque. Given how cold, wet, tired, and miserable Bob was, and despite his misgivings about what it meant to the overall mileage, he accepted even though it meant a little bit of cheating. Given that he had doubled back several times over the course of the trip, he finally decided that it wasn't that bad after all.

In Albuquerque, he wound up staying in a terrible motel with a broken air conditioner. Bob complained to the manager who fiddled with it, but never really fixed it resulting in a rough night of sleep. The next morning, Bob got his bike checked out and also purchased a few extra tubes made by Bontrager (called Slime Tubes) which should help with the spate of flats he's had. It took about an hour and a half for Bob to get out of Albuquerque thereafter, and he immediately had to face a tough climb called Nine Mile Hill, though it was probably only about one mile long; nonetheless, he had no choice but to walk it. He finally got onto Interstate 40 around 2:30 p.m. and got in 67 miles, just about 12 miles from an Indian casino before stopping on a break. He got a burger (he raved about how good it tasted) but later rued the decision to stop when he came outside and saw lightning in three spots on the horizon. He was very worried about if/how he'd make it to the casino (where he thought he'd get accommodations) both because of the weather and because it was dark outside. Yet another good Samaritan and his wife offered to drive behind him and lit up the shoulder/road for him as he rode. At the bottom of a hill where Bob would make the turn to go to the casino, they parted ways but not before sharing contact information. His wife gave Bob her phone number and address so that he'd call her when he arrived in L.A. and confirm that he arrived safely. Bob did make it to the casino/hotel and had a nice (but not cheap) room.

On Saturday, Bob expects to go to Gallup (sp?), New Mexico (81 miles) and maybe beyond. From the casino, he estimates that it's 810 miles to Los Angeles so he may actually get there before Azar. He may attempt the desert at night though to avoid the heat. He's going to research this a bit more before making any definite decisions.

Gregg

In New Mexico

Gregg here: Bob had a very tough go of things on Wednesday. He called me around 5 p.m. NY time, which was about 3 p.m. New Mexico time. Apparently, there are these burrs in the road which have very sharp pin-like needles (or something to that extent) which are perfectly suited to puncturing bike tubes. He had only gotten a few miles down the road Wednesday morning before stopping for breakfast and upon dismounting his bike, found that his front tire was flat. He then realized that he had lost his two spare tubes and was basically stuck! The owners of the diner, which was closed but sported a "Open 24 hours" sign, appeared and offered to help Bob in his dilemma, and eventually, they found a bike store and Bob was ready to roll again.

When Bob called me with the story, I was driving and unable to write down everything, so my memory is a bit sketchy on what immediately followed, but I think that he was cycling up a very steep pass/hill/mountain and decided that it he'd just hitch a ride to the top. When he stopped and looked down, again he had a flat! He was able to change it, but still wanted a ride to the top of the mountain and waited a bit until a guy slowed down on the other side of the road, shouted that he'd come back around, and finally did so. He was driving an older Toyota (I think) that was stuffed to the gills with who-knows-what... but he had a bike rack on the back with his mountain bike and enough room for Bob's. After getting his bike on the rack, Bob stuffed his bags into the back, and himself into the front. The guy's dog, a long-haired Corgi, clearly loved Bob and kept licking his ear, his neck, etc. We mused that it must have been because of the salt on his skin produced from sweating. The guy was interesting by Bob's account; he's a college student and spent the last month in North Dakota studying burrowing owls (I think that's what Bob said; I'm sure he'll crucify me for any inaccuracies, thus my disclaimer!).

Again, I'm not sure when the following occured in the chronology of his day, but at one point, a man who saw Bob's cycling jersey ("NJ to LA") offered to give him money, just like that! Bob naturally refused but shared with the man the list of charities he's supporting. Bob eventually accepted the donation and took down his (and his wife's) name and address. I can only recall that his name is Joseph Edwards; his wife, I think, is Elaine. If you're reading this, please forgive me if that's incorrect.

In any event, his first 6 hours netted less than 10 miles, but he managed to get in another 50 or so that afternoon and wound up in the town of Springer, New Mexico. He's about 70 miles from the town of Las Vegas, New Mexico where there is a university location and a bike shop. Bob later realized that despite having replenished his stock of lost tubes, he lost yet another tube and tire during the day. He'll stock up again at the bike shop. There weren't many motel options available to him in Springer, but he did find one place with vacancies and got the last room they had.

It's not clear how far he thinks he'll go on Thursday; he called again very late on Wednesday night (I was already asleep) and am only able to convey the thoughts he left on my voicemail. By my estimation, he's about 135 miles from Santa Fe, New Mexico which itself is another 850 miles from his eventual destination in Los Angeles. He'll likely not make Santa Fe tonight, but then again, anything's possible.

Ever hear of a watch-horse?

As written by Bob...

It was getting late. I had stopped beside a driveway and had a drink of water. I saw 2 horses trot quickly (and regally) down the 300 foot long driveway, on the other side of the fence, and eye me. I decided to go the handsome house (in the middle of nowhere, it seemed) and had to walk it because the driveway was mostly sand. Aimee Phillips and husband Ken told me it was not far to the next motel, but "why didn't I come in and have a beef sandwich?" which two of their four guests had brought from Chicago (the beef, that is).

At first I demurred, wanting to get to the motel before dark, but I WAS hungry and it seemed it would be dark anyway, and I needed more water, so I went in for the sandwich, and side dishes too.

They too had wondered why the horses took off from near the house, like watchdogs, so I called them watchhorses, but it seemed they were hungry and thought maybe I was bringing food (I really don't believe that, but it was not their regular behavior).

We had a nice conversation, and I got underway. They said it was only 10 miles to Colorado Springs and "all downhill." But first they explained why I had such difficulty having any kind of reasonable speed for so many miles since Denver ... I had climbed 2,000 feet over 40 miles. The rise is imperceptible to the eye, but my legs and speedometer sure knew. I was relieved. I had stopped several times to check the bike ... maybe the brakes were dragging, or - I didn't what "or." I have to tell you, it was discouraging, and tiring.

Well, there were some more slightly uphill sections, but it was late, it was dark, I was tired, and it was 7,000 above sea level, so I had more slow going. (I had my rainproof jacket and reflective vest on, and a good light on the bike, so traffic did not concern me, and there wasn't much of that anyhow. But when I did hit the downhills, wow! I could not see the road surface, though the lane markings were clear. And I could not see my speedometer, so I don't know how fast I went, but I would guess it was near 35 mph, and might have gone higher had I not judiciously applied the brakes.

Later I learned that I had only descended about 500 feet in elevation, so I must have climbed a bunch before the downhills.

I took the first place that came up because I did not know how far it would be to less expensive places, and I was cold and tired. It was 10:30 or so when I checked in.

Thanks, Ken and Aimee.

I got to Colorado City, maybe 30 miles south of Pueblo. Clearly I had gotten into adding elevation because I ran into a long slog of slow speeds, but I still wound up double-checking the bike/brakes, etc. Last night, the late sun did not get under the clouds on the horizon, so when it first darkened from shade under the clouds, it never brightened again.

Another downer was that several people had told me it was 20 miles to Colorado City, but the one who said it was 30 miles was correct.

I had a bad moment (now I was riding on I25, and 5 miles of it illegally: they like to throw bikes off when near a city because alternative side roads are available, except that the side roads disappeared 5 miles before the end of Pueblo). The bad moment came as I approached Colorado City's exit, and the info signs showed only gas and food services at the exit. Then came more info signs, but not till the last sign, just before the exit, did it show a motel there. What a relief!

Oddly, I25 is not consistently surfaced, and ride quality wasn't so great the last 15 miles. I have found as much as 3mph difference between supersmooth roads and others.

The motel had this computer available, but I was too tired last night.

Now, I am off! I expect to get to New Mexico today. Depending on wind and hills (it is sunny) and possible scattered thunderstorms, my initial target is a place called Raton. Time permitting, and motel availability in my favor, I'll go farther.

Colorado Springs

Gregg here: Bob called today to both report on the latest and to gauge how hurt my feelings might be based on his last commentary. I told him that he hadn't used good judgment in criticizing me so openly and before the finish of this adventure since I still have editorial control and can easily insert a ton of disparaging content! But, then again, this is his forum, not mine and with all that I have on him, far be it for me to not take pity on the guy.

Given Bob's adamant stance that he shouldn't cheat any miles out of the ride, he left early Sunday morning to ride about 40 miles so that he could make up the difference that he described in his earlier post. He rode several paths including one that was adjacent to a reservoir, called Dam Road. With a few wrong turns and other adventures, he got in his 40 or so miles and late in the afternoon headed south towards Colorado Springs, a distance that he estimated to be 70 miles. He had a tough go of it though and often found that his speed was in the single digits with maximum bursts up to only 13 or 14 miles per hour. He stopped now and then to check his gear to verify that it wasn't a mechanical reason for the slow rate of speed.

At one point, he decided that he needed to ask advice from some locals about the location of motels. He knocked on the door of a nice house and was told that it was only about 10 miles to the outskirts of Colorado Spring and that it was mostly downhill. He was also told that this town or area, known as Larkspur, was about 7,000 feet above sea level, thus explaining why Bob found it so hard to generate any sustained speed.

As has been the usual case, he was very warmly received and was offered to come in for a dinner featuring what was described to be some very special beef, "straight from Chicago". (Bob mused that the beef must have come from Colorado or Nebraska originally; who associates quality beef with Chicago?!) Bob accepted, enjoyed a nice meal, filled up his water bottles and decided to shove off even though by this point, it was already dark. He's not yet ridden in the pure darkness, but he continued on with his bike lights illuminating the way and with his jacket on (it had gotten chilly). He could see the white traffic stripe beneath him but for the earlier portion of this night ride, there were no material shoulders. There were some slight hills initially, but he then descended about 2,000 feet over the course of three miles; these are estimates since he couldn't see the data on his cyclometer. He was occasionally blinded by the lights of oncoming cars and couldn't see approaching road debris that clearly, but he managed to get through it and settled in at the first motel in Colorado Springs that he encountered.

He's leaving Colorado Springs today and will easily make it into Pueblo, Colorado as it's only about 45 miles or so. Once in Pueblo, he'll ask locals about motel locations between Pueblo and Albuquerque, New Mexico and plan the rest of today's ride and subsequent rides accordingly. From Albuquerque, he'll head west on or alongside US 40 which will take him straight into Los Angeles. According to MapQuest and my calculations, Colorado Springs is 380 miles from Albuquerque which itself is another 780 miles or so to L.A. This southern route definitely adds miles, but will largely avoid the 10,000+ foot monster climbs in the Rockies.

Gregg

Caught a break

I left the bike for repair in Denver this morning. I had been unable to shift onto the big front gear without derailing, and could not shift at all onto the small front ring. If I had to have only one ring to be in, at least the middle was the best of the three. They told me the front derailleur (sp?) was worn out and that they can be expected to wear out anywhere from 2,000 miles on. Then they offered me an upgraded derailleur, which I accepted.
When I came to pick it up, it turned out that my derailleur was fine - it was just missing a pivot bolt, whatever that is. Besides, the upgrade derailleur wasn't made for this particular model and would not have fit. I got out for only $15 for the fix. The Gordon finally won one!
You know, I am a compulsive editor, even if I do not catch all my own mistakes in the monthly newsletter. So I am always surprised how Gregg gets so many little details wrong, mostly because we communicate by phone, and pronunciation/cell service quality intrudes. And I rarely remember to spell out key words. So the town of North Platte came out N. Flat, and Julesburg came out Jewelsburg. Then too, I speak in a rush and probably garble the message myself. But for anyone who may actually be trying to spot these places on the map, I suppose it can be frustrating. (Sorry, Gregg, I know you try your best. It is the situation ... and my compulsiveness.)
Now that I am at my oldest son's place in South Denver, it is a good feeling to be somewhat caught up on my e-mail and to have a full set of clean clothes for when I set out tomorrow.
I have not told Michael that I need a ride back to Hudson, Colorado, to complete the trip as though I hadn't had him pick me up there last night. One advantage: I may be able to skirt much of Denver without getting much into it, assuming I head south. Ooops. Cancel that. Mike can't take me back there tomorrow morning. I will ride 20 miles out in some other direction than south (my chosen route to LA) and then back, to make up the 40 miles I missed last night.
I think I forgot to say that I got caught in a thunder/lightning/rainstorm last night, 40 miles away. I got off Interstate 76 at the first crack of lightning ... I happened to be right at an exit, and I immediately went into a Mexican restaurant, named El Faro. It had a vestibule that I put the bike into to keep it and my gear dry. I had a wonderful dinner, but there was still thunder and steady rain, so I called Mike to come and get me, after first determining that no one at the restaurant would put me up for the night.
By the way, that Interstate permits bicycles. This is Colorado after all - a big big biker state (though mostly mountain bikers, not "roadies").
Another by-the-way: El Faro was the name of a wonderful tiny Spanish restaurant in the Village, in the late 60's. Inexpensive and great paella Valenciana!
As for my route to LA: I have determined that (for cars) the route through the mountains is 1,019 miles and thru Albuquerque is 220 miles further. However, I am dreadful on the hills and I do very well in heat, and even better in dry heat. If the gods are with me, the extra 220 miles is only 2 days of extra riding, and a whole lot less draining of my energy. It could even be faster!! Yesterday I was on track to do 135 miles before 8:30 pm so it is only headwinds and thunderstorms that will defeat me (and they get those in the mountains too ... just what I need when struggling at 5mph to get up a hill).
The next posting will be from my loyal (if now abused) son.
Regards to all,
Bob
PS: I believe that I still have enough time to make it to LA for the wedding in mid-August. However, one alternative plan, if time becomes critical, is to practice bicyclus interruptus. That is, I will stash the bike at some point - interrupt the ride to attend the wedding - then go back and resume the ride where it left off. Stay tuned.

Almost in Denver

Gregg here: Last night, Bob made it to the town of Hudson, Colorado which is about 30 miles from Denver. It was a tough day mechanically; Bob's bike chain derailed 5 times and he had a flat tire on his front him. He checked the tire and tube thoroughly but was unable to find the cause of the flat, so he simply put on another tube and powered on. With thunderstorms approaching, he was faced with 20 mph winds with additional powerful gusts and he was only able to manage about 6 mph. After battling for 30 minutes against these elements and within soundshot of thunder (and with lightning sure to follow), he pulled off the road and went into a Mexican restaurant for dinner. When he came out, it was still raining and still thundering. He decided to call Michael in Denver and get a ride to his place until Saturday morning at which time, he'll get a ride back to Hudson to finish the ride. His comment was, "I don't want to fudge on the mileage."

Gregg

120 miles from Denver

Bob is in the town of Sterling, Colorado. It's 120 miles from Denver. Unfortunately, there are so few motels along the route, and he's been forced to stop for fear of not finding another before nightfall. Otherwise, he would have covered many more miles. A thunderstorm this morning delayed him and he didn't get on the road until 2 p.m. or so, but he managed to cover 60 miles in 4 hours. If tomorrow features good weather, he'll make it to Denver in one day. The forecast calls for scattered showers, so it's going to be tight. He'll be writing the next post.

Gregg

Gregg here: Bob made it to Jewelsburg (sp?), Colorado which is in the extreme NE corner of Colorado. It's near US Route 138 and according to a trucker he met, quite near I-76 which might allow bikes. If so, Bob will take it all the way to Denver. If not, it's back to the original plan of taking US Route 138 to to US Route 6.

There are few motels en route and according to Bob's information, gleaned from those he's met, the town of Fort Morgan, Colorado may have a couple. Problem is that he's currently 178 miles from Denver and Fort Morgan is more than halfway. As such, he may not make it to Mike's in Denver tomorrow night after all, but instead arrive on Friday. The daily distances won't be a problem for Bob; he's more concerned about the winds. The temperature will be nearly twenty degrees cooler; it was 103 degrees in Ogallala last night. Bob didn't make it there last night, but instead in North Flat, Colorado. He found an inexpensive motel but it didn't have any a.c. or a fridge. Next door, however, was a bar/lounge/diner/bowling alley, and upon entering, a woman said, "Hey, you're that guy on the bike." Apparently she had passed him on the road. She offered him carte blanche at the buffet; he took advantage and then ordered a beer. She also gave him bags of ice for his drink bottles in advance of Thursday's ride.

More to come when reports back in...

Getting Close to Denver

Gregg here: Bob finally made it to Kearney on Monday, but despite low winds, it was 94 degrees and high humidity and proved to be a tough day. Knowing that that Kearney would be his eventual destination, he was fortunate to be able to take many breaks along the way. By his estimation, he took his breaks about every 7 miles and re-hydrated, chatted with locals, etc. before finally arriving in Kearney around 7 p.m. En route, he stopped in the town of Grand Island, Nebraska and picked up one of the aforementioned Armadillos tires as well as a few other items including bungee cords to better ratchet down the bags attached to his bike frame.

On Tuesday morning, he stopped by the bike shop in Kearney to pick up yet another Armadillo tire. He asked the folks at the bike shop for their recommendations on best routes. Bob offered his ideas on three potential routes, but the bike shop guys were quick to eliminate two of them due to hills and other reasons. Instead, they recommended that Bob continue on US Route 30 past Ogallala, Nebraska and in Big Springs, Nebraska, switch to US Route 138. He estimates that this will be 7 miles from the exact northeast corner of Colorado. From there, he will head southwest until he eventually gets onto US Route 6 which will take him right into Denver, Colorado. There's no real rush since he doesn't expect to land in Denver until Thursday night. Thereafter, he'll take off Friday and visit with Michael before heading back out Saturday morning. He'll be internet-connected while at Mike's, so he'll likely issue the next post on this blog.

Gregg

Still in Nebraska

Gregg here: Bob reported having gone only 56 miles on Saturday thanks to rather hilly terrain in Iowa. I was surprised to hear this since most people, including me, think of Iowa as flat. While in Sioux City, Iowa, he had a very difficult time figuring out how to cross the Missouri. He asked four people for directions; two people were rather unhelpful while the other two were able to collectively give him enough information to find the right bridge to cross. Unfortunately, the logistics were quite difficult since upon approaching the bridge, it wasn't very clear how to get to the pedestrian/bike path which was on the other side of where Bob stood. He did see a few folks on a grassy path near the median and figured that he should follow suit. At some point, however, he knew he'd have to get past, over, or through what he referred to as a cyclone fence (I'm not familiar with that term) lest he wind up getting caught up in the vehicular traffic lanes. Sure enough, he saw why others had taken the path as there was a hole in the fence that was big enough to fit him and his bike. The whole ordeal, though, took him 90 minutes or so. Naturally, Bob wasn't thrilled with the inefficiency of things in getting to the Nebraska side. His eventual arrival, on the other side of the bridge, was to the town of South Sioux City, Nebraska.

Later Saturday evening, Bob arrived in the town of Norfolk, Nebraska. The first two motels he visited were booked. At the third motel, a young pregnant woman named Mandy also reported that her motel, a Super 8, was also booked, but Bob decided to ask her for help. She wound up calling 25 places within a 20 mile radius and again, no rooms were available. Turns out that the weekend featured a huge auto show complete with show cars, hot rods, suped-up street cars, etc. He also learned that many folks use the occasion to host family reunions, thus the booking of every available room around. Feeling discouraged and concerned, Bob asked Mandy if the Super 8 had a back room he could use or if there were any churches nearby. Just then, Mandy remembered that one of her motel rooms didn't appear on her computer screen because it was full of carpets and padding and was therefore unavailable for rental use. At Bob's request, she called and got the approval to allow him to stay there and after shifting around some of the contents of the room, he made himself comfortable. He also got a great rate of $35 for the night which included a hot breakfast! He is so grateful for Mandy's efforts that he promised he'd send a letter of commendation and appreciation.

Sunday netted him 86 miles, but it was a nasty fight with the winds. He engaged in a self-described stair-step approach by traveling south, then west, then south, etc. With the wind coming from the south, he suffered when that particular "stair" took him due south. While on US Route 30, he traveled mostly southwest and fared a bit better with the crosswinds. The weather was tough as it featured super hot and humid conditions. He eventually wound up staying in the town of Central City, Nebraska. Contrary to my prior posting, he is not yet in the town of Kearney (I misunderstood his voicemail), but he may make it there today, Monday, so long as the terrain and winds cooperate. It's approximately 75 miles away. He'll continue on US Route 30 which follows train tracks. He's thankful for that fact since the road will likely be flat and since the railway is quite busy. As such, he estimates that about 8 major trains go by each hour, some of which include 100+ cars. To him, it's a welcome distraction to count cars while he pedals along.

One more note about another previous posting; when I reported Bob's interaction with the motel owner who kicked him out, I failed to mention the guy's name. Bob read that posting and commented to me that his name provides the perfect climax and irony to the story and that he "never met a man more aptly named." Orville Putz. Enough said.

Gregg