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
Friday, September 28, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
My Angel
I got into Norfolk, Nebraska, at 8:20pm. The first motel I came upon was very run-down, though likely very inexpensive. The unpleasant woman on the porch of the office said there were no vacancies. I was rather relieved. Others told me there were many more motels, not much further on. But not one had a vacancy. The first chain place said there were no rooms available in town anywhere, except maybe one place. She knew because she had earlier called around when someone else stopped by. But that place too was full. Next door was a Super 8, and also full. I was beginning to get the message.
Why no vacancies? It seems there was an annual car show event that weekend, and coupled with that, many family reunions. The family reunion circumstance grew because there was such a major attraction for them with the car show. Cars were being shown from a lot of surrounding states: hot rods, antiques, classics, customs, street rods, T-buckets, oddballs, whatever.
The Super 8's desk clerk’s name was Mandy. Mandy was maybe 6 months pregnant. (This was beginning to become a pattern – my getting help from mothers-to-be. See the “Friendliness: Second Installment” blog entry.) Mandy first called all the motels in town, then all the not-nearby places (over 25 in all), and eventually reached out to places 25 miles away. Still nothing. I asked her about churches, and she couldn’t help there. I asked if I could sleep on a chair in the lobby. And then I asked about a storeroom. She did not react visibly, but a light went on. She made a hushed call to someone, outside of my earshot, then told me there was a possibility. It seems the management had taken a room out of the computer “inventory.” They had stored 5 humongous rolls of rug padding in that room. If I was able and willing to move the rolls, I could have that room. It was a temporary “storeroom,” hence the trigger for Mandy, and she had called her supervisor.
Bingo! Not only did I get that room for only $35, but it included a hot breakfast! It was as fine a room as any other. The 8-foot rolls of padding (maybe 20 inches in diameter each) all fit, piled on the double bed nearest the wall, where I could stack them. Although rather heavy, they were easy to roll into place and then tipped over and onto the bed.
The whole exchange took maybe 45 minutes for telephone call after telephone call and flipping yellow pages. I was preparing myself mentally for crashing on the walkways around the motel and now I had a plush setup … and dirt-cheap to boot.
My heroine! My angel!!
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!!
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
ALWAYS OPEN … NOT! And more ...
The plan for the entire trip was to not eat breakfast until I had ridden about an hour, so as to have achieved something before taking time off. It was a good strategy, until other criteria overrode the plan.
The first to seize supremacy was the stomach. There were times when it just plain ruled. Just as with stopping for a sip of water or a mini-rest, not by the clock (as in once an hour or some such), but when the body ordered it. Listening to the body sounds like a mystery when you’ve never done it before. It doesn’t just out and talk to you in some obvious way. You simply get urges that you eventually learn not to ignore. Thirsty? Drink. Tired? Stop. Hungry? Eat.
Next criterion: out west, along with watering holes and motels, eateries could be 40 or more miles apart, so I learned to have breakfast at the first opportunity, else stop number one would be lunch.
And that’s why I got off Interstate 25 just 2 miles south of the town of Trinidad, Colorado, where I’d spent the night. The sign across the highway, maybe 100 feet tall, so it could be seen from the Interstate by cars going 80mph, said "Always Open." It was below another that said "Earl’s Country Breakfast" … or something like that. But it wasn’t. And there was no "Earl’s Country Breakfast" either. However, there was a restaurant called "Tequila."
I took the overpass and rode over to the restaurant, only to discover that it didn’t open till 10am. I didn’t want to waste an hour waiting, but by then my rear tire was flat. (I got way too many flats on highway exits and overpasses. Debris seems to gather there, dammit!) This turned out to be a tiny pinhole which, I later learned, was caused by a local plentiful burr that has a slender very sharp spike which easily penetrates tires and tubes. This flat happened to my rear tire, necessitating unloading the saddle bags, which, by now, were intricately lashed on to prevent being dislodged by bumps. I was proud of the Rube Goldberg solution for its effectiveness, but it took a while to undo it all.
When I got the tube out of the tire, I discovered that my two spare tubes were missing. A quick memory search: that odd noise I heard a few days ago was the sound of the bundle of two of them hitting the road after a bump. I had not stopped to investigate the noise. Damn.
The yellow pages in the phone book in the restaurant yielded no bike shops in Trinidad, but on chance, the white pages showed one in town. I called and they had my tubes, but they don’t, won’t and can’t deliver, so I had to catch a ride. The address was on E. Main Street, so I thought I’d have an easy time of it.
By now, the restaurant was almost open. A middle-aged couple came out and they agreed to take me to E. Main Street. The couple’s names were Manuel and Nelly Garcia, and they owned the restaurant. I must admit I was disconcerted by their constant reference to me as “gringo,” but it sounded benign.
Problem: There was no bike shop on Main Street, east or west of the midtown area. In fact, there was no official East on Main Street. Manuel recalled a suburb, north of town, that had its own Main Street, and so it did, and there it was. They showed incredible patience while they waited .. it took extra long because the bike shop’s computer was down and they seemed not to be able to conclude my business without it. Then they asked if I minded them making some stops on the way back to the restaurant! Indeed, it was why they left the restaurant in the first place. Talk about politeness, civility and generosity of spirit!
It took awhile. By the time I got back and had the bike ready to go, it was nearing noon, so breakfast became lunch. I don’t recommend a mega-meal of Mexican food, as good-tasting as it may be (and this was), as the way to begin a serious biking effort. Enough said.
This was the day I got three flats within seven miles, and destroyed a tire on one of them. My resolve was severely tested. It was also one of four occasions when (sorry, ladies) if I were a woman, I’d have sat down and cried ... which was my first inclination.
This last flat was on a steep uphill to Raton Pass, and the flat made itself known to me as I got off the bike to walk the last eighth of a mile to the top. A guy hailed me from the other side of the divided highway. He’d passed me going my way then circled back. “Do you need any help?” Answer: “Do you have any spare tubes with you?” I was speaking self-mockingly. I had one tube left. He circled back and made space to haul me to the next truck stop. I was dead tired and dispirited. Making space was no small feat. Ian Dolly was returning from a month’s graduate program of field studies in North Dakota. He camped while doing research on burrowing owls. All his camping gear and whatever was in the back of that little Toyota, plus his mountain bike on the back rack, where there was room for my bike too. The dog he’d acquired was in the front seat ... a wonderfully friendly and handsome long-haired Corgi. I still can’t figure out how my stuff got in there, but the Corgi wound up on top of everything else in the back, perched where she could continually lick my neck. I am not normally fond of licking, and I did have to inhibit her a little, but I needed a dose of friendliness of the touching kind, and I must say I mostly relished it.
Ian was heading south, way past Albuquerque and wanted to take me that far, but I got out at the next truck stop, maybe a total of 7 miles down the road, and more significantly, over the Raton Pass.
Once there, I proceeded to change the tube. A fellow pumping his own gas asked if I needed money. It sounded like a dumb question, but I explained that I was donating my ride to raise money for charity. Joseph and Eileen Edwards insisted on giving me $10.00! As with the unexpected donations handed to me in Fremont, Wisconsin, I reasoned that he would not be much inclined to support my humanist religion, nor my college, nor my home town, but undoubtedly would have preferred the high school club (Interact) that helps third world children with medical problems.
I made great time after that, but was extremely nervous about riding without spare tubes.
I came upon two young women in a small Honda beside the road. The car was wearing a totally shredded tire. When I stopped to check on them, they said an AAA truck was coming for them and they had requested he bring a tire. The truck arrived momentarily. No spare tire. But the ladies had a donut spare. They didn’t know you can drive on them up to 60mph and thought they’d be limited to maybe 30mph. I got some cool water from them and left, but they did invite me to ride with them if I wanted to. It was an empty gesture ... there really was no room in the little car (and no, they were being nice, not coming on to me). They were headed for a wedding in Albuquerque (or was it Santa Fe?). Eventually they passed me, without even a horn toot.
I stopped at a rest area, maybe 12 miles down the road. “Next rest area: 60 miles away.” At 80 mph, that’s only 45 minutes. No big deal in a car; on a bike, it can be the whole day.
Rest areas are different out west. Attractively architected, but consisting only of toilets, nice sheltered bench areas, and water fountains that run cool, if you wait long enough. (And warnings not to venture off-path because of poisonous insects and snakes. Don't gotta tell me that twice!) No other services, although one place had a soda vending machine. Huge areas for trucks to park. I had conversations with two truckdrivers. Both offered to give me a ride, and one was going all the way to L.A. That was the older one. He said he'd won a $172 million lottery. His wife stole the ticket and took off. He got not one cent of it. Meanwhile, he was raising their kids and two nephews. He said other things, and was so earnest, but I really didn’t believe him. I guess I'd like to think it wasn’t true.
The younger one, maybe 23 years old, had a completely different tale. He had gone on a church walk with five other youths, at the age of 15. They carried a cross and walked from Oklahoma to Missouri, to spread the faith by their so doing. They were not allowed to ask for food or shelter, but could accept it when offered. They’d camped out a lot and eventually scored a ride all the way back to Tulsa. He wanted to do it again, and walk further, as much for the spiritualism of it as the wanderlust and experience. Guess I wasn't the only odd duck on the road. Everyone, it seems, has a story.
At a truck stop later on, I asked how far to the next motel and the countergirl said there was one in Springer, 5 miles further. Then she called it and made a reservation for me ... the last room available. They said they’d hold it for me for 30 minutes, till they heard I was on a bike, and bumped that to 1 hour, at my request. I must have been prescient. The countergirl suggested that I take the newly paved frontage road beside I25, to avoid the traffic. Mistake! Newly paved, yes. But it was the worst kind of macadem, overmixed with stones and bumpy/vibrationy as hell. Worse, I forgot, for the time, that frontage roads have more ups and downs than the highways they parallel. Worse, the headwinds picked up. I needed most of the one hour hold time to make it to the motel. The town was Springer, famous locally for its correctional institution. Road signs warn against picking up hitchhikers in the area!
There was a small Mexican restaurant next door to the motel, closing soon after I checked in, where I had the tastiest sauteed chicken strips/caesar salad I’ve ever had. The salad dressing was a package of Newman’s Own Italian, 180 calories of which 170 were fat ... something I’d normally avoid like the plague, but relished on the road.
Sometimes you win.
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.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Was it a "he" or a "she" ?
I met “Pat” in a small café in the small town of Julesburg, just west of the border from Nebraska into Colorado. I had to wait out the morning rain in that small café before setting out. It took till near noon. And so I had a chance to meet many locals who came and went in those morning hours.
“Pat” is a name I ascribed to one local, after the androgenous character on Saturday Night Live. Was “Pat” a he or a she? Many skits over many shows attempted to put Pat into situations where gender would be revealed. All failed.
But I was successful with my Pat … it wasn’t really my doing … it just took quite a while for the fact to “out” itself.
Very tall, very large frame, blonde hair down to the shoulders, and the killer confusions: a hot pink long-sleeved tee shirt plus enough extra poundage to exhibit what might be a woman’s chest. (Boobs!)
I was facing the rear of the café so only saw Pat from the side and back, until Pat took a booth in front of mine and faced me. No help there. It seemed like a lot of time for me to wonder about this, but then Pat ordered breakfast … in a deep voice. No mistaking that.
In a metropolitan area, nowadays, you see all sorts. In a tiny town in the West, given his age (he looked to be in his mid-forties) Pat had to be quite the character.
I decided that Pat liked the notoriety and the recognition of being the only one of his type around.
Pat was literate, getting many chuckles out of the typos in the local weekly newspaper, pointing them out to me. (I did learn a new word, however: “chemigation” refers to the mixing of crop treatments with the irrigation water.)
But was Pat a farmer? A silo worker? A railroader? A trucker? A merchant of I-don’t-know-what? A professional? My conclusion was that he was financially independent and a man of leisure; I decided that he owned most of the town, or the land thereabouts. He was probably the provincial lord of the manor. Who knows? Right or wrong, that’s the way I will remember it.
But it was fun guessing about Pat and his place in the scheme of things.
I had met someone like that in rural Georgia, in 1964. It was a one-factory town, and she owned the factory. Everyone in town worked for her, one way or another. She also owned the retail shops, thus getting back a lot of the wages she dispensed. It was right out of a cliched movie about a closed Southern community.
It had been raining steadily … for days, in fact. I was driving the dinky American Motors used car I’d bought a few days earlier in New Orleans, to replace my very dead Jaguar XK120M, may it rest in peace (I dearly loved that car!). The dink was the model that had the shift lever sticking out of the dashboard. Oy. It was going to take me all the way back to NY. How was a dumb Northerner to know that Detroit would sell cars in the South without heaters in them? No heat means no effective defrosters and permanent fogginess when it rains. I holed up in a café for days, nursing coffee after coffee. The short-order cook/counterman/owner befriended me and after many conversations, he offered me a job as a short-order cook. “I’ll teach you. Don’t make nuthin fancy anyhow.”
He allowed as how I was a breath of fresh air, being college educated and smarter than most anyone in town. “This town needs someone like you … and someone she don’t own! We could really liven things up around here.”
He introduced me to “her” when she came in with an entourage of toadies. She was quite civil, but acted every bit the Queen of her realm. She even asked me to come by the factory and make a job application so she could see where I might fit. I politely refused.
Cookie also took me a private club, just across the border, where we had some of the finest liquor I ever tasted. Moonshine! And on the house, to boot. In two days, I had met all the important locals!
Well, I was broke and out of a job, so I couldn’t say “no” straight off. But with my big mouth and not a small measure of arrogance, who knows how long I’d have lasted? Who knows how they would (and could) dispense with the wise-ass when the time came?
And, of course, there was no future in it. It might have been fun … for a while.
When the rain cleared, I cleared out too.
And that’s how I first got to NJ for home and career.
“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.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Friendliness: Second Installment
Not “No room at the inn” – No inn at all! But she was pregnant!
I got to a town called Whitney Point, NY, expecting to find a motel there ... after all, the name was writ large on the map. Wrong. Some older teens at an A&W stand or the like concurred that there was a motel about 8 miles further, but forgot to tell me to turn right at the corner. I went about 8 miles, straight ahead, on my planned route, and thought maybe I misread my gauge or the kids were a little off. It was getting rather dark, and rather cold too. A small VW stopped, on the other side of the road. They’d passed me and circled back. It seems the driver’s brother (and the brother’s girlfriend) had ridden cross-country the year before and recounted all the helpful people they met, so he thought he’d return the favor. He did not use the term “pay it forward” but that’s what he was doing.
He knew the area some and said there was no motel the way I was going. It was back the other way, contradicting what I understood.
He turned the car around and went ahead, returning within 20 minutes, while I had resumed riding. He had spoken with the woman who runs the gas station/Qwik Stop ahead, in Richford, who confirmed that there was no motel anywhere close. Then he threw me a Gatorade. He told the woman ahead to look for an old man cyclist coming in and asked for a drink to take back to me. She gave it, no charge.
By now it was quite dark, I was quite tired (but, fortunately, going downhill for a few miles), my toes were truly numb from the cold, and I needed to “be there” in a hurry.
The woman acknowledged there were no places to stay. I got a hot chocolate, but I was shivering so much and my hands were shaking so much that she had to carry it to the booth where I would sit. I had to have 2 hot chocolates to warm up. At this booth was a 19-yar old woman, pregnant – maybe 8 months. She was the niece of the station manager lady, or about to be, if the manager married her uncle.
I also ate a sandwich and then had an ice cream bar. The manager would not take money for anything but the ice cream bar.
After much discussion, it was agreed that the best course for me was to set up my camping gear in the gazebo at the nearby town park, but I waited a while and asked everyone who came in if they could, or knew someone else who could put me up for the night. (The nearest police station was 5 or 6 miles away, and I was not about to ride in the dark, and up and down hills too.) Finally, the pregnant one said she had a spare bed, but she needed to ask her boyfriend, 47 years old, if he minded, and he wasn’t coming to pick her up until near 11pm. (It seemed clear to me that he was not the father.) I waited. He was OK with it. We put the bike in a storage shed at the gas station and piled into his car, arriving well into the boonies at a small wooden structure. Mom-to-be cleared off a space under which was a mattress, and gave me a sheet and a lovely comforter. Her pretty cat and its kitten joined me for a while. The place had electricity and running water, but no working tub or shower. The floors were bare. It was clearly home-built and was nowhere near done.
We had coffee in the morning, then drove back to the Qwik-Stop. After heating a burrito or something like it in a microwave, I set out. I learned later that Richford was the birthplace of John D. Rockefeller, who clearly never looked back.
Here were people with little more than subsistence level income, making do on what few of us could deal with, who opened their hearts to someone in need. It doesn’t get any better than that!
I got to a town called Whitney Point, NY, expecting to find a motel there ... after all, the name was writ large on the map. Wrong. Some older teens at an A&W stand or the like concurred that there was a motel about 8 miles further, but forgot to tell me to turn right at the corner. I went about 8 miles, straight ahead, on my planned route, and thought maybe I misread my gauge or the kids were a little off. It was getting rather dark, and rather cold too. A small VW stopped, on the other side of the road. They’d passed me and circled back. It seems the driver’s brother (and the brother’s girlfriend) had ridden cross-country the year before and recounted all the helpful people they met, so he thought he’d return the favor. He did not use the term “pay it forward” but that’s what he was doing.
He knew the area some and said there was no motel the way I was going. It was back the other way, contradicting what I understood.
He turned the car around and went ahead, returning within 20 minutes, while I had resumed riding. He had spoken with the woman who runs the gas station/Qwik Stop ahead, in Richford, who confirmed that there was no motel anywhere close. Then he threw me a Gatorade. He told the woman ahead to look for an old man cyclist coming in and asked for a drink to take back to me. She gave it, no charge.
By now it was quite dark, I was quite tired (but, fortunately, going downhill for a few miles), my toes were truly numb from the cold, and I needed to “be there” in a hurry.
The woman acknowledged there were no places to stay. I got a hot chocolate, but I was shivering so much and my hands were shaking so much that she had to carry it to the booth where I would sit. I had to have 2 hot chocolates to warm up. At this booth was a 19-yar old woman, pregnant – maybe 8 months. She was the niece of the station manager lady, or about to be, if the manager married her uncle.
I also ate a sandwich and then had an ice cream bar. The manager would not take money for anything but the ice cream bar.
After much discussion, it was agreed that the best course for me was to set up my camping gear in the gazebo at the nearby town park, but I waited a while and asked everyone who came in if they could, or knew someone else who could put me up for the night. (The nearest police station was 5 or 6 miles away, and I was not about to ride in the dark, and up and down hills too.) Finally, the pregnant one said she had a spare bed, but she needed to ask her boyfriend, 47 years old, if he minded, and he wasn’t coming to pick her up until near 11pm. (It seemed clear to me that he was not the father.) I waited. He was OK with it. We put the bike in a storage shed at the gas station and piled into his car, arriving well into the boonies at a small wooden structure. Mom-to-be cleared off a space under which was a mattress, and gave me a sheet and a lovely comforter. Her pretty cat and its kitten joined me for a while. The place had electricity and running water, but no working tub or shower. The floors were bare. It was clearly home-built and was nowhere near done.
We had coffee in the morning, then drove back to the Qwik-Stop. After heating a burrito or something like it in a microwave, I set out. I learned later that Richford was the birthplace of John D. Rockefeller, who clearly never looked back.
Here were people with little more than subsistence level income, making do on what few of us could deal with, who opened their hearts to someone in need. It doesn’t get any better than that!
Freebies
“You’re the biker!” she said. “Come on in. Have dinner on us.”
She had passed me in her car earlier on her way to the last bowling night of her bowling league. The fun league, not the one with the really serious (ultra-competitive) bowlers. They had a large pot-luck buffet; everyone brought a dish to it, and all had finished eating, with much left over. Shrimp cocktails, cocktail frankfurters and sausages, chicken, barbecue, the usual array of salads, Mexican dipping things, and a great variety of cookies and cakes, and more.
She recognized my orange shirt, and I was still in the biker pants and shoes. I had walked through one of the two doors to what I thought was a bar-lounge only, after checking in at a small motel a hundred feet away.
Not much of a town (but it had a bowling alley with 12 lanes). Two tracks of the railroad ran through town, parallel to the highway … or was the highway parallel to the railroad? Well, it wasn’t really a highway, but the road surface was pretty good, the road straight and the terrain wonderfully flat.
I thought I was lucky just to find a motel. Now I found a welcoming crowd anxious to talk to me about the trip, and offering me a full free dinner. I could feature this every night. Even the men were curious, but not as much as the women.
That makes me think of a question a friend asked me after my ride: "Did anyone hit on you during the trip?" None of these women did; in fact, I began to wonder why no women did! Then I remembered one, in retrospect, who probably did.
I wound up climbing 2,700 feet in all shortly after entering the Mojave Desert from western Arizona, where it is also desert-like, but doesn’t carry that fearsome name. I was thus introduced to the "high desert" just into California, at the town of Needles. I don’t do well on hills, but this very gradual stretch turned into a 6-mile long rise, then a short straightaway, then an 8-mile long rise. In neither case did I see the road as a hill because the terrain to either side rises with it, but oh so gradually. The only clue, at first, was that I was struggling to achieve a not very fast pace.
I had to walk the last quarter or half mile to the top of those two upgrades, and over the top, the Interstate descended only slightly. An ancient motor home was parked off the roadway. It had a trailer-with-car in tow. I stopped beside it but it was curtained all around, inside, and I had to go to the far side to find the door, which was midships between the front and back (they don’t make them that way any more).
When I knocked, to see if everything was okay, after a little shuffling, a woman pulled back the curtain to my right and motioned for me to open the door. There was a stairwell and she wasn’t getting down into it. She was wearing a nightgown and leaning over to talk to me, unavoidably exhibiting her attractions. "The motor home overheated on the long climbs, and I decided to park it till the cool of the evening." I asked for cold water and she readily gave me a bottle. I was distracted by her dress (or rather, her undress) and moved to beside the front of her motor home to drink the water, which went down in maybe two gulps. When I walked back to return the empty (I’m a good boy and don’t litter, most of the time), she asked if I wanted something to eat. When I declined, she then described her wonderful muffins (!). The thought did fleetingly pass my mind that I was being invited in and maybe it wasn’t entirely about food … but I had miles to go and places to see … yadda, yadda, yadda.
Yeah, she was hitting on me. And she was not in bad shape either for a woman in her late forties. But that was a precedent best left unset.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Friendliness [First Installment of a Series]
Day One of the bike trip. Late start because of partying the day before, but it still got me a jump over leaving the next morning. I got to an area near Kinnelon, NJ, on Route 23, and had a late afternoon flat. A staple had punctured tire and tube with both prongs, but the tire was salvageable. It is the first flat I would be changing by myself. Disconnected the trailer. (This and most others to come were on the rear tire, which bore so much weight. Also, because it was too easy to have them on the front where the tire comes off in no time. Bikes are definitely evil.)
I butchered the new tube trying to mount it, due to inexperience and the use of a less forgiving tool used to pry tires off and on rims, later replaced with a virtually foolproof tool. It got too dark to bother trying a new tube. I expected to camp out a ways into the woods.
However, while I was sitting off the shoulder and on the grassy upslope, a car pulled over just past me, and then a police car stopped just short of me, flashing lights blazing. I first thought the cop had pulled over a speeder and I just happened to be between where they stopped. No, the car stopped because Nicolas Ortiz thought I might need help. The cop stopped because there had been a telephone report of someone in trouble. They both told me I dare not camp there because of the bears. Nicolas offered to drive me further, to where there is a bike repair shop, in Essex. There also was a motel within a hundred feet of the shop. I was not inclined to do this, but had no choice. En route, we chatted. Nicolas hails from Colombia, originally, and we had a touchpoint because my youngest son’s ex was her Colombian parents’ first-born in the US. By and by Nicolas offered to put me up for the night. “Why spend the money on a motel?” He lived in Essex and would drop me off in the morning on his way to work, in Newark. He had nearly a quarter million miles on his Ford Echo with such a healthy commute, but it looked pristine inside and out! That little car swallowed my bike, inside (front wheel off), and my bags and the trailer, although we had to lash the trunk down.
His wife, Angela, and their teenage son, Michael, were welcoming. It was hot and muggy, so the Corona beer was mightily appreciated, and so were the chicken slices and dinner they provided.
I slept on the couch and we had an early start. Loaded the car, drove to the repair shop (not open yet) and unloaded everything, and then discovered that the shop is closed on Tuesdays! There was not another repair shop within 25 miles (we learned later). Nicolas took me to a gas station opposite a Wal-Mart, where he had bought a bike for his son. The young sales guy now worked at the gas station, and I (obviously) needed help mounting a replacement tube.
I waited for the guy to come to work. The gas station owner would not let the young man help me: “We work on cars, not bikes,” he said, very gruffly.
Wal-Mart does no service work on bicycles.
I grabbed the wheel and a replacement tube, holding them out prominently, and hitched for a ride to what I had remembered seeing, maybe 13 miles back on Route 23. I was picked up quickly by a man who asked what the problem was. He biked some. He then said he could help me and had the use of all sorts of equipment in a shop his landlord let him use. And so he did, and returned me to the gas station where I reassembled everything and set off. It was now 9am. I got only a few miles and the same tire went flat. I was at an intersection that had a gas station on it, where I checked the yellow pages and found 3 bike shops listed. None were open and all were far, but the gas station manager said one was not so far. Except the listing only gave a highway route number as an address, not a town. And they were not going to be open till 10am.
A young man, Jason, and his wife, Lindsay (married 2 years, but they looked so young!) overheard all the telephone calls and conversations and, of course, I was in biking gear. They could see from the sign on my back ("NJ to LA") where I was headed. They offered to drive me. En route, she called his mother at work who checked Mapquest and got specific driving directions. Yes, it was on the route given, only 8 miles to that route’s intersection, but it was 15 miles south from there! They still drove me! This fellow had returned from Iraq recently … he was in a tanker truck battalion. He knew his wife in high school, but they did not date then. She wasn’t interested, until he graduated and showed some spark when he enlisted.
I thanked them profusely, but they had other places to go, so I hitched back, getting 3 rides in quick succession. Two were from bikers. An older man was named Perry and he rode extensively with a group called the Free-Wheelers (this is a great fraternity!) and one rode recumbent bikes. The third was a cop, who could only take me to the other border of his town, maybe 3 miles. Meanwhile, because I got into his patrol car, he had to card me.
Why did that tube go flat? It may have been because the valve wasn’t fully tightened. As it lost air, it got to a critical point. The tube was slit in a circle around the valve base, which can happen when a lot of weight combines with insufficient inflation, I was told.
The bike shop had found an anomaly in the rim which could cause future problems and fixed that. Then they sold me much stronger inner tubes. And while they were at it, I had them adjust the shifter cables, which had stretched, as new ones always do.
I set out for Port Jervis, hoping to get a little beyond there before stopping for the night.
Jason had been going to Oakland for a job interview and was to return to Port Jervis, to his in-laws' home, and lo and behold, he overtook me on the long and very steep climb up High Mountain towards the lookout point. So he stopped and we talked some more. He said he’d have a beer waiting if I rode past where he was staying, and told me about the long downhill I was going to enjoy. Which I did.
I stopped at a very small grassy park, at the foot of another very steep but shorter hill, at the far end of town, and lay on the grass for 10 minutes or so. Jason showed up (again!). He remembered the long hill I was now facing and suggested I take the shore road, beside the Delaware River, which rejoins the route later on and avoids the climb. Wow, what a nice guy! He was dead on. But I never did see him on the porch of any homes I passed and lost out on the cold beer.
I did stay at a motel where the roads rejoined. A dump, but clean and reasonable. It had a shower, and the A/C worked. That’s enough for me.
Not only was Jason pleasant and outgoing and generous with his time, but both he and Lindsay were a very handsome couple indeed. I hope his future works out well for him.
PS: This was Day 2 of 95 degree heat, 95% humidity, bright sun, zero clouds, zero wind. I remember thinking that if my heart could take this kind of punishment, I WAS in good shape and the rest of the trip was not going to be a problem.
PPS: I spoke to Nicolas after the ride, when I got back to NJ. What a sweet man. Michael says his Dad often helps people he comes across on the highway. That's a lucky boy, who has a wonderful role model!!
I butchered the new tube trying to mount it, due to inexperience and the use of a less forgiving tool used to pry tires off and on rims, later replaced with a virtually foolproof tool. It got too dark to bother trying a new tube. I expected to camp out a ways into the woods.
However, while I was sitting off the shoulder and on the grassy upslope, a car pulled over just past me, and then a police car stopped just short of me, flashing lights blazing. I first thought the cop had pulled over a speeder and I just happened to be between where they stopped. No, the car stopped because Nicolas Ortiz thought I might need help. The cop stopped because there had been a telephone report of someone in trouble. They both told me I dare not camp there because of the bears. Nicolas offered to drive me further, to where there is a bike repair shop, in Essex. There also was a motel within a hundred feet of the shop. I was not inclined to do this, but had no choice. En route, we chatted. Nicolas hails from Colombia, originally, and we had a touchpoint because my youngest son’s ex was her Colombian parents’ first-born in the US. By and by Nicolas offered to put me up for the night. “Why spend the money on a motel?” He lived in Essex and would drop me off in the morning on his way to work, in Newark. He had nearly a quarter million miles on his Ford Echo with such a healthy commute, but it looked pristine inside and out! That little car swallowed my bike, inside (front wheel off), and my bags and the trailer, although we had to lash the trunk down.
His wife, Angela, and their teenage son, Michael, were welcoming. It was hot and muggy, so the Corona beer was mightily appreciated, and so were the chicken slices and dinner they provided.
I slept on the couch and we had an early start. Loaded the car, drove to the repair shop (not open yet) and unloaded everything, and then discovered that the shop is closed on Tuesdays! There was not another repair shop within 25 miles (we learned later). Nicolas took me to a gas station opposite a Wal-Mart, where he had bought a bike for his son. The young sales guy now worked at the gas station, and I (obviously) needed help mounting a replacement tube.
I waited for the guy to come to work. The gas station owner would not let the young man help me: “We work on cars, not bikes,” he said, very gruffly.
Wal-Mart does no service work on bicycles.
I grabbed the wheel and a replacement tube, holding them out prominently, and hitched for a ride to what I had remembered seeing, maybe 13 miles back on Route 23. I was picked up quickly by a man who asked what the problem was. He biked some. He then said he could help me and had the use of all sorts of equipment in a shop his landlord let him use. And so he did, and returned me to the gas station where I reassembled everything and set off. It was now 9am. I got only a few miles and the same tire went flat. I was at an intersection that had a gas station on it, where I checked the yellow pages and found 3 bike shops listed. None were open and all were far, but the gas station manager said one was not so far. Except the listing only gave a highway route number as an address, not a town. And they were not going to be open till 10am.
A young man, Jason, and his wife, Lindsay (married 2 years, but they looked so young!) overheard all the telephone calls and conversations and, of course, I was in biking gear. They could see from the sign on my back ("NJ to LA") where I was headed. They offered to drive me. En route, she called his mother at work who checked Mapquest and got specific driving directions. Yes, it was on the route given, only 8 miles to that route’s intersection, but it was 15 miles south from there! They still drove me! This fellow had returned from Iraq recently … he was in a tanker truck battalion. He knew his wife in high school, but they did not date then. She wasn’t interested, until he graduated and showed some spark when he enlisted.
I thanked them profusely, but they had other places to go, so I hitched back, getting 3 rides in quick succession. Two were from bikers. An older man was named Perry and he rode extensively with a group called the Free-Wheelers (this is a great fraternity!) and one rode recumbent bikes. The third was a cop, who could only take me to the other border of his town, maybe 3 miles. Meanwhile, because I got into his patrol car, he had to card me.
Why did that tube go flat? It may have been because the valve wasn’t fully tightened. As it lost air, it got to a critical point. The tube was slit in a circle around the valve base, which can happen when a lot of weight combines with insufficient inflation, I was told.
The bike shop had found an anomaly in the rim which could cause future problems and fixed that. Then they sold me much stronger inner tubes. And while they were at it, I had them adjust the shifter cables, which had stretched, as new ones always do.
I set out for Port Jervis, hoping to get a little beyond there before stopping for the night.
Jason had been going to Oakland for a job interview and was to return to Port Jervis, to his in-laws' home, and lo and behold, he overtook me on the long and very steep climb up High Mountain towards the lookout point. So he stopped and we talked some more. He said he’d have a beer waiting if I rode past where he was staying, and told me about the long downhill I was going to enjoy. Which I did.
I stopped at a very small grassy park, at the foot of another very steep but shorter hill, at the far end of town, and lay on the grass for 10 minutes or so. Jason showed up (again!). He remembered the long hill I was now facing and suggested I take the shore road, beside the Delaware River, which rejoins the route later on and avoids the climb. Wow, what a nice guy! He was dead on. But I never did see him on the porch of any homes I passed and lost out on the cold beer.
I did stay at a motel where the roads rejoined. A dump, but clean and reasonable. It had a shower, and the A/C worked. That’s enough for me.
Not only was Jason pleasant and outgoing and generous with his time, but both he and Lindsay were a very handsome couple indeed. I hope his future works out well for him.
PS: This was Day 2 of 95 degree heat, 95% humidity, bright sun, zero clouds, zero wind. I remember thinking that if my heart could take this kind of punishment, I WAS in good shape and the rest of the trip was not going to be a problem.
PPS: I spoke to Nicolas after the ride, when I got back to NJ. What a sweet man. Michael says his Dad often helps people he comes across on the highway. That's a lucky boy, who has a wonderful role model!!
Obese, Obeser & Obeserer
You may recall a movie title: Dumb and Dumber, and its sequel: Dumber & Dumberer.
After impossible-not-to-realize observances, I title this:
Obese, Obeser & Obeserer.
I had thought that the national obesity plague was more of an urban/suburban thing. We have fast food 24/7, spend long hours sitting … at work, on public transportation, in front of the tube (being too tired and getting home too late to do more), and eating take-out or order-in.
I also thought it was mostly a US thing.
Then I rode into the hinterlands and across Ontario … hence this essay. I could not believe my eyes. I am not coming from: “Well, I lost a lot of weight so how come these people haven’t/don’t?” Since I grew up “chunky” and managed to exceed the more pleasant euphemisms more than a few times, I look out from these eyes with the internal mindset of a fat person, even though I have not been all that heavy for many years.
As a kid, my parents would take me to the old Barney’s, where they sold suit pants and jackets separately so they could find a set that would fit me. There are family album photos of the 4-year old me, bundled up and standing outside our home in winter. My arms were as close to my sides as they could get and were at a 45 degree angle to my body.
I remember an Air Force sergeant telling me (at ROTC summer camp) that I was so fat that if they told me to shag ass, it would take me two trips.
At my biggest, and in my mid-twenties, I weighed 225 pounds. Though I yo-yo’ed, I got to maybe 212 when my son Gregg was born, in '71. I came down steadily and consistently after that through diet modification ... I found healthier substitutes for all the things I loved and wound up finding things I loved as much (but it wasn’t easy and took a lot of searching around).
My oldest son had a revelatory comment: "So many people buy SUV’s because they don’t fit into smaller vehicles."
I would have thought work was harder ... more physical ... in the hinterland. That there was more leisure to get into other activities (time not spent commuting).
So wherefore this grossness? Why is it rampant in the non-urban set? We can all guess. I haven’t spent much time trying to analyze this, but aside from the other most significant observations on the trip (laughter, friendliness and generosity), this was so painfully obvious that I had to register it with the telling.
North American people are dreadfully obese, obeser and obeserer!
After impossible-not-to-realize observances, I title this:
Obese, Obeser & Obeserer.
I had thought that the national obesity plague was more of an urban/suburban thing. We have fast food 24/7, spend long hours sitting … at work, on public transportation, in front of the tube (being too tired and getting home too late to do more), and eating take-out or order-in.
I also thought it was mostly a US thing.
Then I rode into the hinterlands and across Ontario … hence this essay. I could not believe my eyes. I am not coming from: “Well, I lost a lot of weight so how come these people haven’t/don’t?” Since I grew up “chunky” and managed to exceed the more pleasant euphemisms more than a few times, I look out from these eyes with the internal mindset of a fat person, even though I have not been all that heavy for many years.
As a kid, my parents would take me to the old Barney’s, where they sold suit pants and jackets separately so they could find a set that would fit me. There are family album photos of the 4-year old me, bundled up and standing outside our home in winter. My arms were as close to my sides as they could get and were at a 45 degree angle to my body.
I remember an Air Force sergeant telling me (at ROTC summer camp) that I was so fat that if they told me to shag ass, it would take me two trips.
At my biggest, and in my mid-twenties, I weighed 225 pounds. Though I yo-yo’ed, I got to maybe 212 when my son Gregg was born, in '71. I came down steadily and consistently after that through diet modification ... I found healthier substitutes for all the things I loved and wound up finding things I loved as much (but it wasn’t easy and took a lot of searching around).
My oldest son had a revelatory comment: "So many people buy SUV’s because they don’t fit into smaller vehicles."
I would have thought work was harder ... more physical ... in the hinterland. That there was more leisure to get into other activities (time not spent commuting).
So wherefore this grossness? Why is it rampant in the non-urban set? We can all guess. I haven’t spent much time trying to analyze this, but aside from the other most significant observations on the trip (laughter, friendliness and generosity), this was so painfully obvious that I had to register it with the telling.
North American people are dreadfully obese, obeser and obeserer!
Laughter
Among the several overpowering impressions that marked my soul on the bike ride was that of laughter. It was more plentiful in the East, Mid-West, and West than New Mexico, Arizona and eastern California, where the population was sparse. It hits you when in sit-in eateries of all sorts: little cafes in tiny farming towns, some chain places, and places that qualify as cities by the locals (we congested Easterners would quibble with that categorization). Some towns had populations of 774 or 432 (I remember those two specifically).
There was a lot of laughter. Families, working people having lunch together, knitting circles, church-based men-who-lunch-together once a week, even truckers swapping stories and advice … whatever. They seemed to find many things to say to generate laughter throughout their dining experience. I never did overhear anything specific, except for one group that good-naturedly poked fun at first one, then another of their group, with everyone enjoying the banter.
What a pleasant thing to become conscious of after it has insinuated itself into your awareness!
It was clear that, often, these were people of very modest means. Homes were simple, or ramshackle, or often trailers. Cultural amenities seemed to be severely limited or non-existent. But folks were happy – if such easy, frequent laughter is a guide.
Maybe I am imputing a false relationship, opposing the non-urban with the push-push of densely populated areas with their preponderance of non-farming related professions, and the rush-rush atmosphere that resists relaxation. But it seems an almost inescapable conclusion that leisure has something to do with it.
Does anyone care to reflect on this and contribute their thoughts to a discussion?
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?
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