bobgstravels

The Most Beautiful Thing I Have Ever Seen

2009-08-22T16:08:00.026-04:00

She: “I have a great interest in all the beautiful things in the world, but I have never traveled.”
Me: “Why not? “
She: “I don’t know ... I’m just a farm girl ... and I am afraid of new places.”

Besides having a small farm, she worked in the purchasing department at Archer Daniels Midland, in Decatur, Illinois. She had bought me a beer after I stopped at the first bar inside the town limits to ask about motels in the area. It was the end of the third day of my solo bike ride from St. Louis to New Jersey. We had talked about traveling and she picked up on that I have done a bunch, in the US and abroad.

She: “What’s the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”
“Besides my wife? And besides the most thrilling moment of my life when I held my just-born son in the delivery room ... and when he immediately stopped crying and became still?
“And how he smelled … and how he felt to me when I repeatedly brushed his smooth infant’s cheek with my face when I held him, which I never got enough of?”

She: “Well, I meant art, I guess. Like, how about Michelangelo’s David. Have you seen it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“To tell you the truth, it was magnificent, but I don’t have a trained eye. I had seen copies and they looked perfect to me. And I had seen so many photos of the statue that actually seeing it “in the flesh” was sort of anticlimactic.”

“So what else would you say is the most beautiful?”

My mind raced. There were so very many works of art, and so very many places. How could I choose?
Besides, for me, there were equally as many vistas and aspects in nature that blew me away. I didn't think she wanted to hear that.
I had a statue-of-David experience with the Mona Lisa too. In fact, it was so inaccessible that it was not even appealing. Between the glass protection and the crowd control, and even how it was displayed, there was no way to appreciate it.
And maybe I have an off-center reaction to things anyhow. For example, I was utterly taken by the seemingly infinite variety of patterns of the parquet floors in the Hermitage (in Leningrad, as it was called when I was there in ‘86, at the beginnings of glasnost) … and the doorframes … and the equally varied tray ceiling treatments … and the parade of urns on both sides of the many stairways (or perhaps, more accurately, the ascending promenades) … and … and …
Visit Catherine’s Palace and the summer environs of (now-called) St. Petersburg, and even without acquiring an understanding of the massive and impossible-to-imagine restoration that was accomplished, you will throw rocks at Versailles.
Try the exquisite mosaics on any number of mosques in the Middle East for evoking involuntary gasps of wonder at the intricacy and beauty. Or the special churches in so many other places, with their carvings or precious marble interiors.
I had one experience that is as vivid now as when it happened. I get chills even now as I write this. The tour guide closed the door behind us after we entered the baptistery at Pisa. He signaled for quiet. He arched his neck upward and sang four consecutive notes, pausing briefly between them. You could almost literally see the notes swirling and circling upward. They melded into a chord, as though four singers simultaneously launched their separate notes. And he repeated that miracle a few times. Such a simple thing, really. Amazing!

As for the beauty in nature, there is no end of it. I have been blessed to see so many things. Where does one start?
The sunrise over the desert in Saudi Arabia. If it were a painting, you would say it could never exist in nature ... it is too surreal ... almost cartoonish. The shafts of darker and lighter orange light are sharply demarcated more by the dust in the air than the clouds (rarely seen in that desert of nothingness): Breathtaking! No wonder the nomads were awed by the heavenly display and had religious experiences.
And its opposite: the sunsets viewed from Jeddah, west across the Red Sea. It is called the Red Sea because of all the dust in the air over it, blowing on the wind from Ethiopia, northern Sudan and Egypt. The light is refracted at sunset and the water’s surface appears a true blood red.
On one occasion, I sat on the beach after hours of snorkeling. The sky was lowering. Looking across towards Africa, I saw a flock of flamingos on the horizon, outlined against a vertically narrowing yellow background. Just above the sea’s surface, they flew arrow-straight to the north. There was just enough light to see their pink/red feathers. It was my only sighting of flamingos in my 15 months there; a fleeting, ethereal goose bump occasion, permanently etched in my mind’s eye. Did I mention that it was Xmas eve?
Look below the surface of the Red Sea … see the reefs … the dazzling variety and beauty of the creatures and the hard and soft corals. I have seen Cousteau’s stunning Red Sea documentary. You would think that it might have truly captured that beauty. But put your head in the water: Not Cousteau – or anyone else – could do it justice!

One very clear night, after the pavement ended on Old Stagecoach Road, I continued driving, on into the deep dirt tracks and up into the Rockies behind the Broadmoor Hotel, in Colorado. The “road” leads right into the maw of an abandoned mine’s entrance. Returning, you have to back up all the way – maybe a half-mile. No fear – the ruts are so deep, the car can’t climb out of them. You can drive it with your hands off the steering wheel.
I was there because it was an especially clear night. Once around the first bend, all trace of light from the resort was gone. The star points were close-set, in a sky resembling pavé jewelry. They looked so low; you felt as though you could simply reach up and grab a handful. Eerily seeming near, yet vast and limitless … and humbling. It was whisper quiet … truly awesome … and I ached not having someone there to share it with.

But you don’t have to go to exotic places or be adventuresome or appreciative. Take the time to ponder the ocean shore most anywhere, but especially when the water is angry. Take in the breadth of the mountain peaks from any vista that includes them.
See a mountain meadow ablaze with wildflowers blooming.
Spot a truly wild creature in its element and think a little about the local ecosystem that supports its existence.
Get far enough away from all hearing of human activity and be still in the woods for a spell.
Or truly contemplate a tall tree.

I am always awestruck by the talent and creativity that bespeaks art and all the artisans' constructs ... maybe because I have so little capability and recognize the vast gulf between my deficiencies and the gift of talent their creators possess.

I could not rank artisanship ahead of nature, nor behind. They’re just different things. Seeing the best examples of either is not nearly as satisfying as sharing the seeing of them.

I told none of this to my Decatur lady. I needed time to reflect, though I knew while we were talking that an essay would be my reaction to her question. It haunted me some during subsequent days of biking. It also bothered me that she was so fearful of getting out of her own comfortable space that she could not have similar experiences of discovering beauty for herself, in person. Would that I could be her agent in the effort.

Sad, really.

Day Six (6/20, Saturday)

2009-08-22T15:46:00.001-04:00

Bright sun, spotty clouds, less heat and humidity, but still energy-draining. Obviously the problem was as much me and my condition, as it was the weather. The route was a lot of zigzags ... all county roads, first east, then north, then east, etc. The paving was more good than not, but few areas had decent shoulders.

I started trying to determine potential motel stops at 3:30 or so, with no luck. By 6pm the nearest place was 20-25 miles away. I was at a bar. A whole pizza was given to the guy next to me (gratis from the management). He offered slices to everyone near him. He looked like Grisly Adams, with a never-trimmed gray beard – not much of a talker. Good pizza though. It went well with the beer. Doh!

I reached a major intersection of 2 wide roads, but still no motels near. There was one maybe 17 miles due north (I had wanted to go east at that point), but there was no choice. I decided to hitch. It seems that half the vehicles on the roads are pickup trucks in middle America and further west, so prospects were good. It was getting dark. Within 3 minutes of sticking out the thumb, I caught a ride with Bob, a young guy, maybe 19 years old. He was towing a trailer and on his way to fetch his other truck that had died in Michigan City, where I was headed. This truck sounded and ran like it might not make it, but he assured me he did all the rebuild work on it and it was in much better shape than it looked (and sounded). He took me straight to a lower cost motel that he used. It was a rather fine place, actually, but there was very poor cell phone coverage, the fridge never got really cold, and I couldn’t find a place for a cold beer anywhere near, though there were lots of establishments. This turned into a junk food dinner, which I thoroughly enjoyed.

Day Five (6/19, Friday)

2009-08-22T15:41:00.000-04:00

Decent start time. Wanted breakfast at the Dairy Queen, but closed. Hit the MickeyD, which I normally avoid like the plague. A large group of older men talked with me, and I got good route info … a bridge was out on the route I had planned.

On the way, I called a friend in NJ, who was my back-up for emergency repairs at the building of the Ethical Culture Society, for which I am responsible. All the rain in the east caused flooding in the basement when the water table rose to the surface. Our building was draining the town. We settled on a sump pump to sit in the window well, but it was very shallow and he had to find a switch that would operate in a narrow range and at a low level. It was sure a relief to have a capable guy to fall back on.

Late afternoon coolness set in. I went after a sun block of SPF 100 I’d seen advertised on TV, but it wasn’t out on the shelves yet. Settled for an 85. Not nice stuff – heavy, icky. Kinda late in the game to be worrying about it, but I began the drill anyhow. I had already blistered on the arms and legs. The neck was tender too, and my nose had already peeled. The worst was my head. I always forget about the aero slots in the helmet and the sun burns my scalp in strips. No issue, until I go to scratch my head. Owwww. Somehow I remember to bring the spray sun block when I go skiing, but not on a bike ride. Dumbkopf. Well, it is worse on the mountain, because the UV rays increase intensity 5% for every thousand feet above sea level. Betcha didn’t know that.

I passed a lot of time today by reliving my memorable vacation in 1977, when I left Iran for the first time in 4 years. It was a 5-week trip, 4 of which were sans kids, in Europe. I then thought about various problems or things I was undecided about, and had a few revelations/solutions. I gotta do that more often – think long and hard and repeatedly. Somehow I was able to think outside the box when riding.

I got to Kentland, Illinois, and stopped at the first restaurant, at the edge of town. It looked like a nicer than usual place. As I was talking with the cashier girl, some departing patrons helped out. I got a motel name, she made a phone call, and I got a reservation, then moved to sit down for dinner. Just then a man approached and asked if he could buy me dinner. He said he’d passed me on the road some time earlier and was a huge Tour de France fan, and here I was, a bike rider. I explained that I was not the usual cyclist and barely ride when not on an adventure, but he didn’t care. His French accent was so thick I barely understood him. I joined him and his wife. He himself was a piece of work. He was born in the Pyrenees and came to Canada when he was 19. He worked as a lumberjack in eastern Canada, and also was a tomato picker on a gigantic farm owned by Heinz. He said he picked 2,000 pounds a day. Somehow I cannot visualize the number of tomatoes, by weight, but I am still impressed. Eventually he went way out west and worked with Eskimos (doing what, he never said). He told me he hiked to within 200 miles of the Arctic Circle. Then he became a gold miner and worked 2 miles below ground. I wondered if that was the real depth. He also has been to every country in the western hemisphere and in Europe as well. Frenchie was now 68. His wife was American and apparently they’d only been married a few years. By the way, the dinner portions were massive. The lasagna quality was “strange” – I can’t think of a better word for it, as a food critic. But I got fed well, free! I did have to rush off, as a thunderstorm was very near and I did not want to ride even a mile in lightning, though that’s exactly what happened. Multiple simultaneous strikes, huge, and close together. Only a few drops, but scary.

The motel was inexpensive. Owned by an Indian immigrant, who had lived in Atlantic City for 17 years before buying this place. I gathered he kept going west until he found one he could afford to buy. It was a little downscale and not well maintained, and probably would stay that way, but he was personable.

Day Four (6/18, Thursday)

2009-08-22T15:39:00.000-04:00

Another late start, again, because of an am thunderstorm. I lost some time when I realized, about a mile later, that I did not have my riding gloves and had to back for them. Damn. A 90-degree day and humid. No surprise there. But at least half the day was overcast. A blessing. I even had a breeze at my back, though mostly I couldn’t feel it till I stopped for a sip of water. Translation: faster average speed and less effort.

Another day of back roads and few motels along the way. I got to Gibson City by 7pm. I had been told there were motels there. Right on – got a room for $49. Treated myself to a Dairy Queen, across the street from the motel, then managed to gash my calf when mounting the bike to get back across the street. I had hit the front gear ring.

It takes a few minutes before the red slashes actually start to run with blood. It did leave an interesting pattern. Sort of like a scarface on the leg. Boy, did I feel stupid.

It was a 70-mile day, which wasn’t too bad considering it was a late start. And I had my usual late-in-the-day productivity. I even had a long-ish stop in mid-afternoon to lie in the grass off-road for about 5 minutes, to recoup.

Day Three (6/17, Wednesday)

2009-08-22T15:31:00.002-04:00

Punishing sun, high temps (upper 90s), punishing humidity (high 90s). My energy got totally drained, often. I made a lot of mini-stops. These were very short, often around 75 seconds. A slug of ice water and a few slower breaths, then off again. Any longer and the legs turn into lead weights that burn when you try to make the muscles start again. It is exceedingly uncomfortable, even knowing that within 100 feet, the pain goes away. It is the lactic acid build-up in the muscles.

About that ice water: The two steel water bottles I bought are amazing. I fill them to the top with ice cubes, then top off with water. When the water is drained, I refill them with water from the two plastic bottles (which also had ice cubes in them, but they warm up within 20 minutes). The refills also get ice cold. I can do that up to 4 times! It was the smartest purchase I ever made.

Got to Decatur, Illinois, and stopped at a bar at the edge of town. I promptly met two women (mother and daughter), who were intrigued by my story and bought me a beer. I was after motel info, and got a steer to a Days Inn, at only $49. I think I had a chance to stay with the ladies, who were both employed, but liked to call themselves farm girls. They were more than stout … and strong. I didn’t need to go there and kept my mouth shut.
I have written an essay - a musing on a topic the mother brought up. She asked me, "What was the most beautiful thing in the world (I had seen)?" (That essay is posted elsewhere on this blog.) She asked me many questions upon learning about my travels. She is afraid to travel and has never left Decatur.

As it happened, my wife had called me in the morning about a problem with a credit charge on a new account, of which I was the only signatory. You know how it goes: you’re in a new store and they offer huge discounts if you get their charge card. Not only did I get 33% off everything I bought that day, but I got a $15 credit on the account for later use. It never occurred to me to register her too, and they would not let her deal with the charges and balance when the statement came. And it was wrong! So I got it fixed from beside a farm vehicle repair shop, out in the boonies. But when I spoke with her earlier, I was in the middle of nowhere, and as we talked, I felt a few drops of rain and realized that the sky was about to open up, STAT! I barely made it to a barn, about 100 feet away, exactly across the road from where I’d stopped. The downpour was intense, but exactly 12 minutes long. The farmer was not home. He did look perplexed when he came riding up the driveway later on a giant mower and saw me standing in the space where he parks the mower. He was a taciturn type, but not upset. Just quiet. Interestingly, the road surface was almost bone dry in about 10 more minutes. No mist kicked up on me from passing trucks. Nice.

Day Two (6/16, Tuesday)

2009-08-22T15:29:00.000-04:00

Huge thunderstorm overnight and still raining in the am. I couldn’t get under way till 11:40, after that big and cheap breakfast: two eggs, hash browns, bacon, English muffin, OJ and coffee – only $7.45 Damned good bacon too, and a lot of it.

Climbing inclines is still a bit much for me; the legs aren’t quite there yet.

No wrong turns today!

I was on county roads all day. Poor shoulders, if any at all, and not always smooth pavement, but little traffic. I got a few horn beeps (salutes) but no one stopped me to talk. Sometimes they beeped me from behind. Scared the shit out of me.

Despite the late start, I made 71 miles today. As usual, I got my best mileage after 4pm … don’t know why. A sustainable energy boost comes on and I can crank out several hours of a good and high pace. Still walking up inclines. If I stood on the pedals I could ride them, but it does draw down more energy. I’d rather conserve. I forgot to mention that yesterday afternoon I caught a leg cramp and what felt like a groin pull. I rode through them, with discomfort, and damned if they didn’t pass. Nothing of that sort today, thankfully.

When the size of the dot on the map is small, you can’t tell if it is so small that there’s not a chance of a motel, or maybe it does have one or more. I had hoped this one town would work. Nada. Decided to have a chocolate ice cream and chat up the locals. A Best Western was 6 to 8 miles the wrong way (they always are). I could get there but it means losing time the next day too. So a local with a pick-up truck offered to take me there. Right on! Glen Edge made a decent pun about his name. Not well educated. Dead beer cans in the cab and pick-up bed. But good-hearted.

The Best Western was not all that inexpensive, but there was a coupon for a free second drink, and breakfast was included. When I went to the lounge area for a beer, after showering, there was a group of about 8 guys finishing theirs. They’d had a gang of pizzas and there were leftovers (a whole pie), which they offered to me. Free dinner, and my favorite food! I enjoyed the free beer too, and only $3 for the first one.

Day 1: St. Louis Did Me Wrong, Weatherwise

2009-07-07T16:38:00.023-04:00

6/15: It was raining when I left the hotel, near the airport. Not too heavy, not too light. And heavy solid overcast, so no access to the sun for orientation.

Locals gave me directions to what was called the bike-friendly Mississippi River Trail (MRT).

I found it by a devious route (I coulda been there with less mileage), but signage was so poor that NJ's signs are superlative by comparison (and us locals in NJ know how preposterous that sounds).

I managed to turn the wrong way on the "trail," heading west. Then came torturous curves and route changes. There are NO straight-line roads in StL except Interstates. Every route curves, at some point, and ends somewhere other than where one wants to be.

I re-passed the hotel, eventually, when "Butch" gave me a good steer. Butch, (across the street, in the body shop), was referred to me by the ladies working at a gas station Kwik Stop. Although nicknames are not age-specific, I expected to find someone not out of his 20's. Butch was tall, gray and maybe in his early 60's. He was absolutely not "butch" either. The ladies told me he was a "bikist" and he'd know how to direct me.

That word stuck in my brain like a hair that sticks up the wrong way on one's head, and you feel that it is sticking up. My mind came back to it again and again. (What the hell else is there to think about when on a long-distance bike ride?) Ultimately, I decided I liked it: it is easier to say than "bicyclist" or just "cyclist" and conveys a difference between "biker" and bicycle-rider. Short, snappy, distinctive.

Did I mention that there were at least 3 thunderstorms that day, each of which had me seeking shelter and waiting them out? I had some luck, as I always found myself exactly across from or adjacent to adequate protection. Because of the overcast, each storm was a sudden surprise. Normally you can see them coming well in advance. Cracks of lightning do command one's attention, STAT!

About the MRT: It is not a bike trail - it is a series of car routes that run east-west and happen not to be Interstates. They are secondary routes with lousy road surfaces. Contrarily, the River Bike Trail runs north-south alongside the Mississippi, up from StL a ways. There are entrances every half-mile or so, but I hit it going south from its northern end, and the entrance there is totally hidden when going southbound, so I rode over a mile out of my way before turning back. The entrance off the roadway headed north is almost as hidden (by overgrown bushes) when coming from the south. The path leads immediately to the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge; what a mental image that conjures up! It is strictly for bicycle and foot traffic. Unless some of those people were aliens, traffic included horses too, judging from the droppings. It was once a part of the old Route 66 and is decorated with signs and artwork to convey that. I took a few photos.

Now near dark, I stopped a mile or so after the bridge, but not before going through a marshy area and before that, crossing another bridge over a river side-channel. It was exceedingly steep (I had to walk it), and down to one lane (for repairs), which did not allow any room for me to get out of the way when on-coming traffic appeared. I flinched and squeezed against the pylons. Obviously I made it. My stop was at the first motel I saw, and I got my first of several bargains on the ride. They only had the larger unit available - a suite - and it cost all of $39 for the night. One registers at the adjacent bar (the door marked "office" says there are no rooms available; it is a permanent sign). The bar sold ice-cold beer for $1 a bottle! They had fabulous sandwiches at super low prices. Ditto breakfast (like: $7.35 for two eggs, hash browns, large OJ, English muffin and coffee. Plus bacon!).

I have rain gear that just happened to have worked - surprise! The neoprene booties even kept my feet dry, as advertised! But heavy rain gets me off the road - I simply cannot see when it is really pouring. Unfortunately, the gear encloses me like Saran wrap, so I was alternately cold from the wind and damp, then broiling. It does knock the water out of you, and losing weight is good, even if temporary. Would that it were permanent. As for water replenishment, I had the good fortune to buy 2 steel water bottles (made in Europe) that keep cold drinks ice cold for 3 days or more (!!) - supposedly they keep hot fluids hot as long too. I used the 2 regular plastic bottles to refill the steel ones, because as I drained them of ice water, the ice cubes were only half gone and the remainder would chill the fresh water just as well as when the steel bottle had only ice cubes in it and water was first added. Probably the best equipment purchase I ever made.

So much for Day 1: Very eventful, very interesting (in hindsight), very aggravating, very frustrating, and rather damaging. Why? I haven't mentioned the two spills I took early on, within minutes of each other. They were identical in how I flew over the handlebars, to the left, and hit the ground, but they were triggered differently.

Because the roads were so wet, when I turned to get back on the roadway from the shoulder, the tires did not bite the pavement. The front tire caught in the small crack between the surfaces and I flew. I landed, each time, on my head/helmet (the left front side ... zero injury), my left forearm, held flat and parallel to the ground, and my left upper thigh/hip. I caught some road rash and abrasions on the arm and got a healthy (?) bruise on the leg/hip, that turned a perfect blue-black-purple rather quickly, then swelled to grapefruit size. As I said, both hits were identical. Some blood on the arm, which stopped almost immediately and virtually no pain or imposition on the riding. The second fall came minutes later. This time it was because I rode through a shallow puddle ("shallow" he says?). Actually it was shallow. But the hole it hid was created by a chunk of concrete road that broke off into a larger hole, and that chunk was slice-of-pie shaped and angled. It grabbed the tire and flung it to my right whilst I was heading straight on. (Great word "whilst," no?) Same launch, same head hit, same forearm, same hip hit. Same bruised ego.

I was becoming discouraged, to say the least. Fortunately, I am not a quitter, tempting though it might have been ... at least, not then, having just set out. You'll read more on that later.

(Cross-America Ride, 2007) ... What Changed?

2008-01-26T17:02:00.004-05:00

Well, “change” may not be the appropriate word. Let’s say I was “reminded” of things I once realized a long time ago, but had lost touch with. I refer to the the simultaneous diversity of all who are Americans and the common thread of decency in those same people. There just needs a way to be personally involved to get to that level of decency in interaction. It takes the right set of circumstances for it to be revealed.

A nutty 70-year old on a bike worked for me – especially with the legend on the back of my jersey (“NJ to LA”). It caught people’s attention and provoked their curiosity.

If you’ve read much of my blog, you must have realized how different the nice people were whom I met en route. There were those in extremely poor circumstances, as in Richford, NY, and the very comfortable upper middle class folks who put me up in their homes in Michigan; there was the college president as well, and all the others who opened their homes to me for a night’s sleep or a meal; there were the fellow bike-riders in Canada who outfitted me with the best tires around (they gave them to me - no charge!) and the humanly and humanely concerned Hispanic family in Arizona who followed me and lit the shoulder of the road for me at night with their pickup truck. There were all the others who said they’d pray for me, and wished me well; the bike repair shop pros all over the US who never charged me for the adjustments to my bike; and even the simply curious who wanted to ask me about the trip, and shake my hand ... quite a few even took pictures of me with them.

And the native American in the curio shop out west ... they are reputed to be cold and uncompromising negotiators (at least to us white men) ... but one guy wouldn’t take money for my cold soda and offered me a second one as well.

This is heartwarming stuff. It was far and away the best part of the adventure.

It doesn’t take much to run into kindnesses of this type; better still, they are indelible in the my memory now. Why peoples’ general good nature is not what stays firmly in one’s consciousness is a bit of a mystery. Many of us have had wonderful experiences of this sort. But the memory of them seems to need special evocation. I think we become overwhelmed by the things that make us shake our heads sadly. The calculus seems to be that even one evil event overshadows countless “good’s.”

Maybe that’s the bane of being an optimist. We know it can be better and we seem so undone, repeatedly. But like the dog that only needs a pat on the head now and then but always comes back for more, we persist. Optimists are the goldendoodles of the human kind. Anyhow, that’s how I like to characterize us.

Sometimes I think the optimist is less of a realist than the true cynic. The cynic certainly seems to get more positive reinforcement. Good things don’t last. Evil is ever to be counted upon to appear. That idea goes to that veneer of civilization that strips away so easily, all too often. But it needs countering, so some of us tilt after the windmills and try to make the good fight.

That is part of what underlies my commitment to the Ethical Culture Society and the causes I get a chance to support and advance through and with them.

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

2007-10-10T19:33:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-02T12:45:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-28T09:42:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-19T19:06:00.001-04:00

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 ...

2007-09-12T15:57:00.001-04:00

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" ?

2007-09-10T19:41:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-07T18:59:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-07T18:35:00.000-04:00

“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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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]

2007-09-05T00:32:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-05T00:15:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-05T00:07:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-08-29T00:21:00.000-04:00

THE BUTTONS ARE TOO SMALL

2007-08-29T00:20:00.000-04:00

Yeah, that's me!

2007-08-29T00:18:00.000-04:00

Calling Home Upon Arrival

2007-08-29T00:08:00.000-04:00

Thanks For Your Contributions

2007-08-28T15:33:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-14T01:28:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-13T01:36:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-11T10:12:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-10T10:40:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-08-09T11:32:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-06T21:17:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-05T20:22:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-05T18:43:00.001-04:00

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

2007-08-05T18:18:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-02T13:00:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-07-31T18:06:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-30T13:21:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-29T01:15:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-28T10:35:00.001-04:00

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

2007-07-27T00:58:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-26T00:04:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-25T06:31:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-23T19:54:00.000-04:00

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

In Iowa, then Nebraska

2007-07-21T22:43:00.000-04:00

Got work from Bob that he made it through Iowa, and is now in Nebraska. He mentioned something about Kansas, but from the map, I can't tell why that state would be on his route unless he angles in a southwesterly direction very soon.

In any event, his ride on Thursday was about 122 miles and he was quite happy with it. Yesterday, Friday, did not net him nearly as many miles thanks to tough winds. The winds were quite strong today as well, though they were either cross or tail winds and as such, he was able to keep on going without many problems. That is, of course, until a blowout today which damaged both the tire and the tube. He used his spares and was able to keep on moving, but he was concerned about no longer having spares and being stuck en route to Denver.

We've been unfortunately relegated to voicemail communications; his last one to me today was a request to help him find a bike shop in Kearney, Nebraska. He called Mike for help too. I found two bike shops in the town, called both, and asked both if they had the special Dunlop Gatorskin tires that Bob's become so fond of; neither did, but one did have the Continental Armadillos which are reported to be as durable as the Gatorskins. I left a message for Bob with this information as well as the address and telephone number of the bike shop, but it's not clear if/when he got it. I was hoping to hear from him tonight, but no word yet.

I'll pressure him for more details the next time I do hear back, and I'll of course post his comments. By my calculations, he's between 1,750 and 1,800 miles into the ride so far, though I could be a little off since I'm using MapQuest and trying to gauge the distance using various key point. Stay tuned for more info.

Gregg

A note from Bob regarding charity

2007-07-18T22:59:00.000-04:00

Directly quoted from Bob: "I never intended to use the blog for fund-raising, just trip progress. But many have asked. Please post a comment with your e-mail address and telephone number, but I may not be able to get back to you til mid-August. If you wish, also say which charity you prefer. Thanks, Bob."

Today was a rough day

2007-07-18T22:14:00.001-04:00

Gregg here again: Bob called today with a definite gloom in his voice. When asked how today went, he dejectedly reported that he'd only managed 25 miles or so today thanks to terrible weather. His story is as follows:

He got a bit of a late start and upon arriving in the town of Fairmont, Minnesota, he asked a local if there was a bike shop around. The guy pointed off to the not-so-far distance and warned Bob that the bike shop guy was a character. Once Bob found the place, he asked a guy working outside on some bike apparatus if Larry was around. The guy responded that Larry had moved to Mexico about 20 years ago and sold the bike shop to him for one dollar. Upon seeing Bob's reaction, the guy admitted that he in fact was Larry (last name Vogel) and was just pulling Bob's leg. The two of them enjoyed a nice conversation and thereafter, Larry refused to take any money from Bob for adjusting the cables on the bike.

I don't recall from Bob's call today when the following occurred, but he was told that thunderstorms were likely today and that they could be lengthy. Sure enough, they arrived right around Bob's visit with Larry. Larry offered Bob his shop as a place to relax and potentially sleep the night, although he cautioned that there were no "facilities" or creature comforts. At some point, Larry asked Bob to watch the shop while he stepped out. Bob has no idea where he went, but he was gone for a bit of time and eventually returned without a care in the world.

The rain stopped around 5 p.m. and Larry suggested that Bob try for the next town which was about 40 miles away. At 10 miles an hour, Bob would get there around 9 p.m., but it would involve many obscure lefts and rights and it just didn't sit will with Bob that he should travel on side roads at dusk. He instead opted to call it a day and asked Larry's friend, Greg King, for motel recommendations. I don't recall if it was Greg or Larry who offered a ride to one particular motel that was about 2 miles away, but Bob accepted and here's where it got interesting.

The motel manager was a strange fellow who offered Bob a room at a reasonable price. When Bob arrived in the room, it was unprepared and unready for guests. He asked the motel manager for another room and was provided with one that had no door locks. Bob begrudgingly accepted it. As he sifted through this gear, he realized that he left his water bottle(s) at Larry's shop. With it only being 2 miles away, he decided to cycle there but was concerned about leaving his gear in his unlocked motel room. He decided to ask the motel manager if it was okay to leave the gear with him for a short while. The motel manager, quite incredibly, said that he'd had enough of Bob's problems and to get lost! He then tore up the room slip! All of this was out of nowhere and Bob was both shocked and entertained by it all. The kicker: the motel owner's last name was Putz!! (Dad has his business card to prove it.)

He cycled back to town, found a second motel which was just slightly more expensive than the first one, and treated himself to the Chinese food restaurant (all you can eat buffet!) right next door. Tomorrow, Thursday, the 19th, he may get up super early and get a very early start to the day to make up some of the lost mileage.

He estimates that he's about 615 miles from Michael in Denver. He guessed that it's 9 days away. I suggested 8 days, but he was noncommittal thanks to the potential for hills, bad weather, attacking dogs, etc.

In Minnesota

2007-07-17T22:53:00.002-04:00

Gregg here: Bob called yesterday afternoon and reported that his overnight stay on Sunday night was in a town called Houston, Minnesota, about 10-12 miles west of the Wisconsin border. He managed 90 miles on Sunday alone thanks to less severe winds than those he had otherwise faced in central Wisconsin. The weather seemed to generally cooperate as well with temperatures in the mid to high 70s and only 54% humidity. As has been expected, a few thunderstorms stalled him here and there and while his route featured a mostly flat terrain, there were some moderate hills. Bob reports that it's so much easier these days to tackle them thanks to the freedom from the anchor that was his trailer. He is also fairly certain that his route will no longer include the northern pass through Montana since the additional mileage just doesn't seem to make sense. So, it's back to the original plan to go through Denver and see Michael.

On Monday, Bob got a late start on Monday morning thanks to inclement weather and choosing to sleep a bit late. Late in the day, he became concerned about where he'd find accommodations since the approaching darkened skies suggested that storms were soon to hit. Sure enough, torrential rains followed complete with hail and wind. Somehow, he made it to a town called Wyckoff and wound up eventually settling for the night in Spring Valley, Minnesota. We shared a laugh at the irony of both town names since our home town of Upper Saddle River, NJ is quite close to two towns that are similarly named. His mileage total for the day was a disappointing 60 or so miles, but he's optimistic about the ride on Tuesday.

It's now Tuesday night and sure enough, Bob had a great day. Total distance covered was 96.1 miles, his longest single day distance thus far. Turns out that the temperature was 88 degrees and with the high humidity, the heat index was about 98 degrees. He didn't seem to be bothered by it much fortunately.

While in the town of Brownsdale, Minnesota, he came to a detour in the road where the only options were to go on unpaved and gravel roads. As he studied his maps to find an alternate path, a woman stopped by to ask if he needed help. She indicated that the detour was only a mile or so long, but that the road was quite muddy. She further offered to put his bike in her car and take him to the end of the detour. Bob was naturally very appreciative and accepted the ride. Upon bidding farewell to her, he promptly got back onto the bike eager to get more mileage under his belt. Shortly thereafter, at another intersection, he found that his only options, aside from turning around, were gravel roads once again. As he told me this story, he shared his frustration that after traveling 1,300 + miles and avoiding even the smallest of rocks as best he could, here he would be forced to go though a mine field. He found that the conditions were even worse than they appeared; deep ridges that were cut by tractors were hard to see and made the 4 or 5 miles difficult and dangerous. As such, his maximum speed was 12 mph.

Later, after the gravel section, Bob stopped again to consult his maps. Just then, another woman stopped by to ask him about his trip. She seemed enthused and shared her husband's interest in cycling as well, then asked if Bob was interested in taking a short trip down the road to meet her husband who was picking sweet corn in a field. Bob was concerned about time and politely declined. He instead stopped at the cafe that was at the corner nearest to him to get a quick bite. Before he left, the husband showed up, introduced himself and they shared a few brief stories. He also helped Bob with setting forth a navigation plan to go around the town of Austin. The directions were helpful though not 100% perfect, but Bob's a natural when it comes to finding his way.

He eventually found his way to a town called Blue Earth, Minnesota. Shortly after arriving, a guy in a gas station across the street waved at Bob and asked him to come over. Bob obliged and they engaged in the type of conversation that he has been accustomed to... where are you going, why, etc. He asked the man for his advice on motels, food, etc., and was advised to try out an original root beer parlor in town. Sure enough, Bob stopped by and enjoyed a frozen custard along with his root beer. He eventually had to choose between a Super 8 motel and a place called AmericInn; he chose the latter and saved 25% while enjoying a spacious and clean suite with many amenities.

He confirmed that he will be going through Denver after all. It's not clear if he'll simply stay overnight or stay an entire day with Michael. More to come on that.

Feel free to leave comments to this and/or other posts. I am relaying them to Bob regularly.

Gregg

Photo of Bob

2007-07-16T00:43:00.000-04:00

Here is a photo of Bob and his bike while in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

A celebrity in Wisconsin

2007-07-15T14:34:00.000-04:00

Gregg here: Sorry that the following story is somewhat brief, but what it lacks in detail in no way diminishes the sentiment shared by Bob. On Friday night, Bob arrived in a town in Wisconsin called Fremont, population about 670. This is, of course, after taking a night ferry from the town of Ludington, Michigan to Manitowoc, Wisconsin late the previous night, and fighting omnipresent and serious headwinds most of the day. Once in Fremont, he was received and treated like a celebrity. Turns out that there was a news article or television story about him that many of the folks had seen, and upon being ushered to the area where the town was hosting a two-day fair type of event, folks came up to him and conveyed their knowledge and support of his adventure. People offered and insisted that Bob accept their cash donations. The grand total was not important, but Bob was blown away by the generosity and enthusiasm. Fans included older residents, young women, motorcycle dudes, etc. If I recall correctly, he also met the mayor and was interviewed by the local newspaper (he was promised a copy of the article). I imagine Bob will write about this in greater detail at some point, for the level of enthusiasm in his voice after such a long day and fun party was impressive.

On Saturday, Bob fought long and hard pedaling into the headwind. There were times when he was forced into the easiest of gears despite being on flat terrain and as a result, his total mileage when we spoke around 6 or 7 p.m. was only 50 or so miles. However, he was eager to get in a few more miles in the next two hours and sure enough, he managed another 30 miles in those two hours making Saturday's grand total 81 miles. All things considered, he was pleased.

It should be noted, in case not previously indicated, that Bob left his trailer in Ann Arbor with his brother to ship back to NJ. He estimates that he is about 30 or more pounds lighter, and that's net of the addition of the bike panniers (frame bags). Other comments: other than the hassle with the headwinds, his legs feel great. He's also considering a more northernly route that would take him on Route 2 until Montana where he'd begin to head southwest; the route was recommended to him by his brother's son Scott (my cousin) who knows many truckers who prefer hauling their cargo across this somewhat less treacherous alternate. I think that Azar mentioned that Bob was still unsure about it and may yet go through Denver. I suppose he'll make it a game-time decision. And, as always, he continues to meet supportive and generous people who offer water, food, accommodations, and on occasion, free ice cream!

No word from him today, Sunday, but I'll post again (and much more regularly hereinafter) once I hear from him.

Gregg

Since Ann Arbor

2007-07-14T23:56:00.002-04:00

I had a very late start from AA because the bike needed adjustments and I had to buy panniers, a rack, etc and sort out what I was leaving and what I was taking. I didn't get under way until 3:20pm. My brother, Jess, drove me to the edge of town. It was extremely hot.

I got maybe 27 miles and stayed in a weird motel. The office had a phone and you had to dial "0" to get someone to come and register you. I got the manager's wife, who is an invalid and she said her husband was out delivering a truckload of sand but would be back shortly. It turned out he took 45 minutes.. The office area was run-down and the A/C barely worked. But the room was in many ways the best I'd gotten. A 2-person sofa faced a TV on a stand. There was a kitchen table w/2 chairs, a full-sized refrigerator, a full stove and kitchen sink w/cabinets, a microwave, a double bed and a 4-person sofa! And this A/C worked.

I got a decent start to the day and was making a great day of it - over 90 miles, but ran into a thunderstorm. I got off the road immediately and there was a house with a full porch on 2 sides of the house. No one was home. I waited it out, high winds and all and it took 1hr45min. So I could only go a little farther, to a town called Ionia. I stopped at a state police office to ask about the least expensive motel and the police office had closed at 4!

There was every kind of fast food joint available, but I chose Subway even though I was not watching the fat intake. Got my sandwich, chips and a soda, and headed out for a motel. A couple pulled me over less than a mile away. They had seen my shirt in the store (the back says: LA to NJ), and just had to talk to me. They immediately offered me a place to stay and I follwed them home -- nearby. They both bike, but on tandem bikes. They were very nice. I don't have time to go into any details about them and their place but it was unique!

I was not on the road much before 9:30 this morning, and suffered through intense headwinds. Yesterday it was all from the west and I was going due west. Today it was due north and the headwinds had shifted to from the north. I barely got 65 miles. A fellow had pulled off the road and waited for me to come up to him, again, because of my shirt. A few quick questions, and an invitation to a meal and a place to stay. I am using his computer now and chose to send the e-mail rather than update the blog. Of course, he is a biker, but not a dedicated road warrior.

He has 2 kids at home, 2 at camp, and he's leaving in a few days to go to Wyoming with the boys and go back-packing. It is a church-related organized trip. Nice kids. Got a choice of sandwich stuff and some pasta for dinner, with watermelon, and lots of ice water. Neat!!!

I wrote it down so I wouldn't forget it, but I don't have the paper in front of me. If I recall correctly, his name is Harley Blake.

We reviewed my routing and he showed me a bike trail that I can use for about 17 miles, where I'd need to turn off it. It is paved and has zero vehicles on it. I must do 75 miles tomorrow to make the 8pm ferry at Ludington, MI to Manitowoc, Wisc. It is a 4-hour trip, but Wiconsin is back an hour, so if I make it, I arrrive at 3am, WI time. Yucccch. If I miss that departure, I have to wait 12 hours.

PS: The bike trail was gravel and unusable with my skinny tires. I stopped for breakfast after a short while, and wasn't there long when Harley's son appeared to return my water bottles to me. Dumb me had left them in the fridge. What a very nice thing for them to do, to chase me down!

2007-07-08T12:05:00.000-04:00

It is Sunday, and I am in Ann Arbor and taking a full day off, having arrived last night at 8:30 pm. It was a 90 mile day.
The first order of business is an apology. I pass info by cell phone to my wife, who relays it to my son, Gregg (sometimes I talk to Gregg directly). As you know, when A tells B who tells C and then tries to recreate the details in writing, a lot of "facts" get garbled. I know Gregg has apologized in advance for such mistakes, and reiterated that he feels bad if he made egregious mistakes, so I won't waste time and space being anal about them. Maybe some day I'll set the record straight on a bunch of them, but later on, who'll care? With one general exception: mischaracterizations.
I have met so many helpful generous people who have gone out of their way for me, and some with an astonishing amount of grace, as well, such as Mary Gearan, wife of the President of Hobart College, who plopped me down at her dinner table when she had dinner guests, and even was thoughtful enough to hand me a plastic baggy of goodies (desserts) to take to the room when I left. (By the way, I did not go to a dorm room but to the brand new condo-like housing for (special?) alumni. I sure felt special and their daughter took photos of me with Dr. Gearan!
While I do not diminish the Gearans' generosity in the least, perhaps the most giving persons were Charlotte, from Richford, and her soon-to-be-niece, Lisa. It was getting dark, and cold, when a car stopped opposite to me to check on me. They had passed, then came back. It was a young couple. The man remembered his brother's bike trip the previous summer when so many people were helpful and friendly to him ... he was paying it forward, though he didn't phrase it that way. I told him I had been told there was a motel just ahead, in Marathon. He said Marathon wasn't ahead of me but behind me, on a different route! (The people who sent me looking for the motel forgot to tell me to turn north back aways.) This driver went ahead and damned if he didn't return in 15 minutes. He handed me a Gatorade, saying the woman in the Quikway fast food place at the gas station ahead had given it to him for me. He'd asked her about a motel and she said not for 20 miles. So he told her an old man would be coming in soon, and he was going to take a drink to me. She wouldn't take money for the drink. When I got there, I was so cold I couldn't stop shaking. My toes were numb. Charlotte had to carry my hot cocoa to the table for me because my hands were shaking so much. By and by, I had a sandwich, another hot cocoa, and an ice cream bar (an ice cream a day is my big treat on this trip). Charlotte would only take money for the ice cream bar. I had asked about the police, but the nearest station was 5 miles away and I wasn't going to ride in the dark. Charlotte's niece, Lisa, had been sitting in a booth waiting for her boyfriend to take her home ... he was working very late. Lisa is about 7 months pregnant. We had all agreed I would camp in a nearby town park, on the pavilion, when Lisa offered to let me stay with her and her boyfriend, Henry, age 46, if he agreed. So we waited, until 11 pm, as it turned out. Henry agreed. We put my bike and trailer in a storage shed at the gas station and went to their place. It was indeed an extremely humble place, much cluttered, but there was a bed, electricity and running water ... plus a momma cat and kitten ... very beautiful and friendly. Lisa and Henry took me back to the gas station in the morning. These were people of extremely modest circumstances, but the outreach was as handsome as anyone else's, maybe the more so!
Equally as generous and welcome was Nicolas Ortiz, on day 1. I'd gotten a flat late in the day (a staple through tire and tube) and was sitting beside the road changing the tube. A car pulled over just past me, then a cop car just before me, lights flashing. I thought he'd stopped a speeder, but no: the cop had gotten a call that a biker was in trouble, and Nicolas, in the car, had stopped, being a good Samaritan. I messed up putting in the new tube and it was getting dark fast. I thought I'd camp out and they both said the black bears were too dangerous in this area. So Nicolas offered to take me and all my things up the road to the town of Sussex, where there is a bike shop, and within 100 feet of it, a motel. He had a little Ford Echo, but it swallowed my bag, and almost the trailer, but we tied the trunk lid down with the bungee cord from the trailer set-up. The bike, with the front wheel removed, fit in the back seat. He drives 110 miles a day, commuting to Newark, and this little car looked new yet had 225,00 miles on it. We talked en route. Nicolas is from Colombia and I mentioned that my son's ex-wife was from there and that Gregg had visited several cities there. Then Nicolas said: "Why pay for a motel? Stay with me." So I met his wife, Angela, and their teenaged son. They served me an ad hoc dinner and an ice-cold beer, and I had a good sleep on their couch. Nicolas leaves for work at 6 am and dropped me off at the bike store. We unloaded all my gear then discovered the shop was closed on Tuesdays! So he dropped me off further down the road opposite a Wal-Mart where he had bought a bike for his son once. Unfortunately, they only sell, not service bikes. Nicolas gave me his home telephone number and his cell phone, in case, and for me to let him know how it goes.
I decided to hitch 25 miles back to the last known bike shop location, holding up the wheel and tube along with the hitching thumb, and someone stopped within 5 minutes. When he asked the problem, her said he could take care of that ... that he's a biker ... that he lived 3 minutes from there, so we went to his place, and voila! ... job done. Except: either the valve was defective or he screwed up, because 1 hour later, the tire was flat. The next bike shop determined that the air leaked out slowly and at some point, pressed the valve back into the tube so that the tube got slit evenly on either side of the valve. I was at a gas station (across the street from where I had this flat) checking out bike shops in the yellow pages, and none were close. I chose 1 when the station owner said that Route 206 was 5 or 6 miles down the road. When I called them, I got a message that they open at 11 am (a half hour away), so I chose them. A young man was having a small thing checked on his car and offered to drive me. Justin had just finished his 2nd tour in Iraq, in a tanker group, and was with his lovely wife, Lindsay. It turned out that 206 was a little further, but that the shop was another 15 miles on 206. Justin took me all the way! The shop also discovered 2 anomalies with the wheel, neither of which caused this flat, but could, in the future, so they repaired them. And I bought 3 more spare tubes, this time of the best quality, made by Continental, at 50% more money. I needed 3 hitches to get back: the 1st man was about 75 years and an ex-biker. The second was a cop, who could only take me to his town line; and the 3rd had also biked.
It was noon by the time I got under way. Thank you, Nicolas (and Angela). You are very good people, indeed!
I was walking up the very steep hill to the top of High Mountain, the highest spot in NJ, and Justin overtook me. He had been to an interview in Oakland and was coming back to his in-laws place in Pt. Jervis, which I was going to pass through. I had a lovely 4.5 mile downhill, except that I had to constantly brake to hold my speed to 25 mph, else the trailer makes the bike squiggly (I did hit 30 when the road had a super-smooth surface and no debris on it). In fact, my hands and forearms ached after pulling on the brakes so much.
In Pt. Jervis, I stopped to rest on the grass at a tiny park in front of a short but very steep hill and was there maybe 15 minutes when Justin came by. Justin did not recognize the route I had described earlier because I used route numbers and he knew street names. He told me of a bypass, along the Delaware River shore, to avoid the big hill, and said I would pass right by where his mother-in-law lived. I said I’d stop by for a cold beer if I saw them, but I never did see them.
If I got it straight, Lindsay and Justin went to high school together but hadn’t dated until after HS. When he enrolled for the military, they married.
Eventually, Justin wants to get a college degree and become a SWAT member. Yuckk. I wonder if Iraq did that to him. I hope he mellows into a more conventional police role.
He and Lindsay are great people!!
Saturday, 7/7, was the fullest day of riding yet ... on the road for 11.5 hours (including breaks). The legs never tired, but I did start to run out of basic energy and took several breaks later on the day. Somehow, even after dinner with my brother and sister-in-law (Jess and Anitra) and lots of conversation, and a late shower, I was not sleepy and made notes in my little diary book, then read until maybe 1 am.
Interesting things yesterday: one fellow passed me in his car, then pulled off the road and waited for me to bike up to him and waved me over. Bernie was wearing a red tee shirt emblazoned with "French Laundry Coffee," not something you see every day. Bernie is a biker and wanted to see if I needed anything since he had some expertise. When he said he did not have a cold beer in the car, well, there wasn't anything I needed, except maybe cold water. I thanked him for his concern, warmly, and moved on. Less than a mile up the road, there was Bernie, with 2 water bottles (ice and water) and he gave me a gel pack (energy booster goo) and 2 energy bars. I am not fond of gel packs but I wound up eating this one, albeit with lots of iced soda to get the taste out of my mouth, They are icky. And later I ate the power bar too ... less icky but pretty sweet.
At another point, a woman stopped beside me and offered me a refreshing swim in her pool. No come-on. Her teenaged son was in the passenger seat. Had I been unable to make to Ann Arbor last night, I’d have taken her up on it. I got the feeling I’d have had a free dinner and place to sleep.
Still later, another woman had stopped ahead of me and was walking back, as though to get to a nearby mailbox. Except she approached me holding out a hand that held a pear. She said I looked like I needed refreshment (I did!) but I had to decline: it is the one fruit I do not like. She seemed hurt, saying she nothing else in her car to offer. I told her she was sweet to stop but that I was OK, had water, etc. Nice looking woman, too. I guess I really looked bushed. There were maybe another 12 miles to go. Fortunately, the last few were downhill!! Yeah, I won one.
Future entries, by Gregg, will be episodic in nature, diary-like happenings. When I next post, it will probably be essays, and maybe some entries by category, such as: Be Careful What You Wish For; Observations (these are all over the map – pardon the pun); Exotic Cars Seen; Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Roads; Sun Poisoning (at least, that’s what my mom called it); and more.
Bob

2007-07-06T23:09:00.000-04:00

Latest on Bob is that he has successfully made it through Canada and is back in the U.S. He was detained at the border though for a couple of hours as the bridge he chose to cross stopped allowing pedestrians and cyclists to use the bridge after 9/11. They offered to drive him in a pick-up truck but they were too busy to get to him. After a while, one of the staff who felt bad flagged down a random pick-up driver and asked for Dad to get transported. The driver agreed and Bob was helped with putting his rig in the back. Stop and go traffic ensued and upon disembarking, he realized that a couple of minor pieces of gear were left behind somehow in the pickup. Bob wasn't terribly concerned with the losses though since he was able to jury-rig his set-up.

Thereafter, while cycling on ahead in Michigan en route to Pontiac, a Harley-driving motorcyclist pulled Bob over to ask about what the trip was about. After a short while discussing the adventure, the guy offered for Bob to stay overnight at his nearby home. Bob accepted and was told to ride a few miles ahead and look for the Harley in the front of the guy's house. Bob thought that meant about 3 miles or so and despite efforts to find the bike, it must have slipped by. By the time Bob gave up on it, he figured he was a good 8 miles from where he had initially met the guy. Bob mused that either his navigation/sighting was off or the guy wasn't on the up-and-up. Either way, he had to keep on cycling.

Now concerned with finding a place to sleep for the night, Bob found someone to ask about the closest motel and was told that it was about 20 miles down the road. At this point, it was towards the latter part of the day. Despite the adventures from the day, Bob made it that final 20 miles and slept overnight in a town called Imlay City, Michigan. His brother thinks he is about 94 miles from Ann Arbor, so unless Bob is snag-free tomorrow, he might not get there until Sunday. It should be noted that he rode 73 miles despite the nearly two hours lost today.

The next entry will likely be from Bob himself while he's in Ann Arbor. Should be much more factual and entertaining from the first-person perspective!

Gregg

Argh, the rain!

2007-07-04T23:01:00.001-04:00

Bob called this morning with a definite gloom in his voice. He reported having stayed in some random motel last night in a small town in Ontario called Simcoe. It seemed to be nice enough though apparently only a mile or so from a larger, nicer town. Unfortunately, he only made it to the next "nice" town before the heavens opened up. Frustrated by the heavy downpours and the inaccuracies of the weather reports he had checked, he resigned himself to wait it out in an Arbys restaurant. When he called me, he was upset about the loss of time and mileage and conveyed his concern about getting to LA in time for his childhood friend's (Gene) daughter's wedding. Azar later conveyed to me his considerable annoyance with the whole situation. She also relayed that he was miserably cold thanks to an overzealous air conditioning system and undoubtedly, the lack of bodyfat to keep him warm.

Shortly after speaking with me, two gentlemen approached him and asked out of curiosity about what he was doing there. After explaining his trip and showing off his bike rig, they commented that his tires were of the racing variety and not very conducive to long-distance, puncture-free rides. Apparently, the two men are officials of some sort in the local government and are also avid cyclists. They offered to give him a new set of tires that they swear by so long as Dad cycled over to some motel that was a few miles from Arbys. Bob agreed, cycled over to the motel, and met up with the men who promptly took his bike, dismounted his wheels, and changed his tires for him. Bob insisted that it wasn't necessary, but Canadian courtesy prevailed. Thereafter, the three of them went to dinner and feeling an absolute need to reciprocate such generosity, Bob excused himself to find the waiter and pay for the meal. Lo and behold, the two men had already beaten him to the punch! He seems to be pleasantly amazed by how he has embraced by nearly every community he's visited.

As of tonight, July 4th, he's in Tillsonburg, Ontario which is about 200 miles from Ann Arbor, Michigan. If he has better luck with weather and if the terrain isn't hilly, he could it make it there by Friday.

Bob's in Canada, ay?

2007-07-03T09:17:00.000-04:00

Well, since Bob doesn't have the capacity (one could argue that it's not just a technical obstacle) to post updates while on the road, he's asked me, his son Gregg, to do so on his behalf.

Bob left NJ on Monday the 25th of June after a very busy and tiring weekend. As of the Sunday night preceding his departure, he hadn't even finished packing his gear nor the suitcase that Mom is expected to bring with her when she meets him in LA in August. He wound up leaving in the early afternoon rather than in the morning as was previously planned.

Almost immediately, he ran into mechanical problems. He had flats, drivetrain issues (poor gear shifting), and challenges simply staying upright given the odd physical properties of pulling a trailer behind a light aluminum road bike frame. Fortunately, he found helpful people in almost every town he visited. At one point, while disabled on the side of the road talking to a police officer, a good Samaritan offered to put Bob's gear in his compact car and take him to his home overnight since the bike shop was closed for the evening. Bob accepted and enjoyed their hospitality (dinner and an ice cold beer), their dog, and a surprisingly pleasant teenager son. The couch worked fine; he was safe for the night.

Bob's major problems, however, aren't confined to the many flats and stretched cables; it's the hills! He's reported walking up 4 out of 5 hills even if the gradient is modest. Without the trailer, he strongly believes that he'd be up them in no time. During his training, he put a number of heavy bricks on the trailer and drove around town to simulate the conditions he'd face while on this trip. If it helped at all, it certainly does not seem to be evident as even pushing the bike up some of the steep hills has been a challenge! As such, his goals for an average daily distance of between 70 and 100 miles are way off, but as the trip progresses, he believes his strength and endurance will increase and that he'll make up the lost time.

On Thursday night (I think), Bob was trying to figure out where he could camp for the night. He found this park and was considering all of the logistics involved with setting up camp, but wound up speaking with a young girl (maybe 19 or 20) who had just finished her shift at a local diner. She offered the home she shares with her boyfriend (in his 40s) for Bob that night, and he gladly accepted. His relief at having found safe and warm accommodations were quickly dashed as he arrived at what was described by him to be "Appalachia." It was the equivalent of a shanty-house in the middle of the woods; by his account, it was messy ... something straight out of the movies. Whie there were a toilet and a sink, the tub did not work. While he showed his gratitude to them, he was pretty startled at the bleakness of their circumstances, and yet their generosity. They made coffee the next morning and he went on to reclaim his bike and get back o n the road.

Eventually, Bob made it up to his alma mater, Hobart College, in Geneva, NY on Saturday (after waiting a rainstorm for about an hour). His plan was to hook up with a gentleman (possibly a former classmate who lives in the area) with whom he had been sharing correspondence, but didn't have the number to dial to reach the guy. Insert the world of technology; he called me Saturday in the early afternoon and asked if I was near a computer so that I could get to his e-mail and find the guy's number. I was in Central Park and without computer access, but I was able to use my buddy's Treo smartphone and after a few minutes, I found the number. That's the good news; the bad news is that when Bob dialed, the guy wasn't around. Somehow though, he managed to find the College President and when the President learned of Bob's adventure, Bob was invited to dinner as a virtual guest of honor at the President's home with his wife and another couple. They served pasta; Bob was VERY happy about that. Thereafter, he was offered a clean, albeit absolutely bare, condo-like suite for the evening and again, he accepted. The condo was newly built and had not been put in service yet, so only bedding was available, but no glases, silverware or cookware in the kitchen. But the A/C worked! And the shower was winderful! Bob's comments about this were entertaining to say the least; he just couldn't get over the contrast of being in the most primitive setting in Appalachia earlier in the week to dining with his College President in a near-regal element thereafter.

He was told that Sunday's ride route would be pretty flat but as usual, the information was bogus and Bob struggled again with hills. On Monday, however, he made pretty good time thanks to much gentler terrain and sure enough, his trip became an international one as he crossed the Peace Bridge connecting the US to Canada. He spent the night in Crystal Beach, Ontario on Monday night in a nice motel room with heat, cable TV, and vending machines. He was a happy man.

His original goal, before running into so many mechanical and topographical delays, was to arrive in Ann Arbor, Michigan to visit his brother Jesse by July 4th. This posting is dated July 3rd and Bob's message to me this morning was that he believes that he's about 200 miles from Windsor/Detroit. He expects to get halfway there today and if so, he'll likely arrive in Ann Arbor on Thursday. Thereafter, he's hoping that Jesse's U. of Michigan colleagues, who happen to include at elast one cyclist, will help him map out a flat-as-possible route to LA. Bob originally wanted to go through Denver to visit his son/my brother Michael, but it's unclear if those plans have changed. I get the feeling that most of his decisions at this point are going to be made on the fly.

Please note that all of the information in this post and future posts are subject to the inconsistencies of my memory or Azar's intepretations of Bob's stories, and while inaccuracies are very likely, the sentiment remains constant... that he's a loon who is undeterred in this amazing adventure. Please leave comments to this and future postings. Bob has been calling me a few times a day, and I'm sure he'll want me to relay your comments/questions/criticisms/support to him.

Gregg

The Departure is Nigh

2007-06-19T19:37:00.001-04:00

Six days till I set out. The closer it gets, the queasier I feel. Maybe another 6 weeks of training would work for me, except, of course, I already worry about my schedule and the deadline. So I'll be off on Monday, ready or not.
Just to make it dicier, we are hosting about 40 people for a Persian BBQ and pool party on Sunday. So much for a full night's rest.
I hope to get about 50 miles northwest of Port Jervis before I camp. Unless I get lucky, I do not see any campsites in that area in the guides available to me.
I also note that the pricing I am seeing in these guides for some of these camps make some motels cheaper!
Day 2's expectation is to reach the Binghamton area, and Day 3 would be around Ithica.
Day 4 will be Geneva, NY, and my alma mater, Hobart College, where I fully expect to be given a room for the night. After all, I am raising money for them.
Day 5 puts me just into Canada, maybe, else Buffalo.
We shall see.
My last item of gear is at the store today ... I could not find what the catalogs list (a 15-foot cable lock), so I am getting two 7-footers. These have one advantage: they do not automatically coil, so they can be stretched out to their full extent. Maybe they'll go around me too for the odd tornado.
My last experiment before leaving will be to test posting a blog to this site from my new cell phone (and a picture too). The phone is a Casio, from Verizon. It conforms to a military spec for being dustproof, water resistant and shock-resistant. I got Verizon's Vz GPS service, payable by the month, which is available via satellite, even when out of cell coverage areas. They say they can find me to within 10 feet, if have the cell phone on when lying in the ditch. Hopefully I will be able to keep the phone charged via the stops for meals.
The downside is that this phone is huge, heavy, and clunky. C'est le vie!
Bob

I am mostly done with the outfitting.

2007-05-06T00:14:00.000-04:00

I have the somewhat customized bicycle, a Trek Pilot 2.1, the B.O.B. (Beast of Burden) trailer I will be towing, most of the riding gear (clothing) and most of the route detail spec'ed.
I am about to finalize the brochures to be made available or mailed to the different sponsor groups.
Here's what will happen. Sponsors will pledge a sum of money keyed to my ride, payable when I reach LA. They can choose a lump sum or connect the amount to give with the number of miles I ride, such as a nickel a mile, or "x" dollars per thousand - whatever. The moneys are payable to the group supporting my ride (see addresses list below).
I expect to blog en route, but how often will probably be variable. I suppose I will also post a photo or two now and then, with the risk that they will all look pretty much the same: a grimy old man on a bike in front of a "Welcome to Podunk" sign. (Now to upgrade my minimal cell phone and service provider to be able to do so). My wife insists that I call her morning, noon, and evening so she knows the approximate highway area to send the state police looking if she hasn't heard from me.
One newspaper article had my contact e-mail as: bobgordon100@yahoo.com, which is valid, but I would hope this blog space gets used because once under way, I will not be checking the e-mails.
I will never have gotten enough training under my belt, but so far, so good. I have done a 50-miler in under 4.5 hours, which includes rests totalling 21 minutes, and I did 42 miles in a 3-hour outing. I have just begun training with the trailer, with a light load, and next up is a full load test. Trailer-pulling seems insignificant on the flats, and I averaged 14.26 mph. Now to try some hills.
Fortunately, the summer affords more daylight for the trip when speed is down or the slogging is rough (wind, rain, etc.).