In May 1992, after delaying my bachelors degree for several years, I finished my sentence, and was free to get that graduation present that I had promised myself -- my first bicycle in over 20 years. I wandered over to what has become my favorite bike store City Bikes and got a blue Miyata QuckCross. The bike was only a means to an end. The REAL present and reason for the bike was a three-month trip from Washington, DC, to Eugene, Oregon.
My plan was to see the U.S. at a human pace. I don't drive (I have a license but have never owned a car) and I don't race. The idea was to do 50 miles a day, and then sleep in comfort almost every night. I planned to have a tent and sleeping bag, but for the most part I wanted to do a "credit card" tour. I wasn't setting out to prove how macho I was.
First, I had to train. Unfortunately, two weeks after purchasing the bike, I had a nasty accident -- lacerations up and down my right side, a broken left elbow, a concussion and stitches under the right eye. And I have no memory of the event whatsoever. For a bizarre story see The Accident). Suffice it to say that this delayed my training somewhat.
In April of 1993, I set out. Or rather, I told myself I'd leave on the 15th. The day came and went... I said to myself "Well, as long as I leave by May 15..." May 15 came and went. I don't know which scared me more -- the thought of making the trip, or the thought of NOT making the trip. Finally, on May 19th at 3:00 p.m. in the middle of a downpour I locked my apartment door behind me.
Within two days I was lost. So much for shortcuts. I seriously over-estimated my strength and endurance. I ended up spending the night on the runway of a private little airstrip in rural Virginia.
Soon after that, I encountered the Blue Ridge Mountains. Beautiful but exhausting. I really started considering my gear to be ballast to be jetisoned at the first opportunity. But rumor had it that there was a woman known as the "Cookie Lady" somewhere along the trip thru the Blue Ridge. Halfway up a rather long mountain, there was an ancient, beat-up wreck of a bicycle, strapped to a pump with a sign saying "Water for Bicyclists". While my head cleared, I noticed a smaller sign saying "Home of the Cookie Lady". The Cookike Lady, it turns out, is June Curry, a retiree living halfway up Afton Mountain who opens her place as a flop house for bicyclists on the Trans-America Trail. She stocks the place with cookies, and has the walls and ceilings of several rooms plastered with bike stories, postcards from bikers, letters, newspaper articles, and bike memorobilia -- some of it a bit bizarre, like the socks that were rock solid, the blown out inner tubes, etc.
I wasn't expecting tornados until Kansas... Instead, I ended up biking thru one while still in Virginia. As I recall, it was in the Jefferson National Forest. The park policeman that happened to see me told me I should strap myself and my bicycle to a tree. (He offered me a ride, but I wouldn't leave the bike behind and he had no room for it.) I ended up staying at a bed and breakfast at the top of a hill. Unfortunately, the water and electricity were both out. However, the proprietors did light a fire in the fireplace, where I spent a great deal of time drying everything off. The next morning, I watched as a herd of sheep were "shepherded" by a horse. Apparently, the sheep and horse graze at the top of this hill every morning.
In Damascus, VA I stayed at a hostel that was at the crossroads of the Trans-America Bike Trail and the Appalachian Hiking Trail. Talk about a perpetual party! Everyone had tales to tell and most had plenty of beer or other mind-altering substances to share.
After all that excitement, Kentucky was dull by comparison. The Alice Lloyd College? of Pippa Passes, Kentucky provided an amusing few days where all the streets are named: Charity Way, Inspiration Lane, Devotion Avenue, etc. I shared several laughs with a guy who happened to be staying at the youth hostel there at the same time.
Berea, Kentucky was the highlight of my stay. An oasis of liberal, artsy folks in a sea of rural conservativism.
As I was moving towards Illinois, I began to hear reports that Davenport, Iowa was under water, and that anyone south of there should move as far from the Mississippi River as possible. I crossed the Mississippi about four days ahead of the flood waters.
Carbondale, Illinois. Home of another biker legend: The Bike Surgeon, and his Bunker. There's a guy who owns a bike shop and runs a limo service on the side. Like June (The Cookie Lady), Mark provides a flop house for bikers. When I arrived, in town, we went out for a marvelous dinner and he showed me around the town. Then I got my first view of The Bunker. Mark had taken an old, abandoned supermarket and turned it into something that looked more like a World War II fallout shelter -- complete with Nazi soldiers helmets, newspaper articles announcing that Japan had surrendered and that America had won the war, campaign posters and buttons, old Playboy pinups... Strange, very strange. But very comfortable, free lodging.
Missouri was not that memorable for me. I detoured to Rolla to see a friend of a friend, but really all I recall is Springfield, which was a sea of shopping malls and hotels. At least, from my approach, that's how it seemed. That and the fact that my tires survived from DC to mid Missouri before I got my first flat. Then I had three within three days.
In Pittsburg, Kansas, I was interviewed and had my photo taken by a rather attractive co-ed at the local university. By this time, I was being forced to step up my pace, since the towns were so far apart. One day I did 84 miles, and a local cop pulled me over, suggesting that I get out of the sun. He said I was suffering heat exhaustion, at the very least.
Everyone told me that Kansas would be flat and boring. Well by this time, even the slightest incline seemed like an insurmountable mountain to me, and anyone who says Kansas is boring is not looking up often enough. The ground wasn't that interesting to me, but the sky was incredible! Different from minute to minute, it really made me feel that there has to be some master artist using the sky as canvas.
The flood waters did catch up to me in Kansas. The Arkansas River (pronounced "ar-kan-sas" according to folks who live along it) didn't make the national news as much as the Miss' and Missouri, but it was flooding nonetheless. I passed by lakes that had barn roofs in the middle of them, a town where the first floor of every building was destroyed, and streets lined with sandbags. In a rather upscale, major chain hotel in Hutchenson, Kansas, I shared my hotel room with frogs.
At one of those crossroads in the middle of nowhere, about 16 miles from the Colorado border, I heard the locals talking about a tornado that was on its way. Unfortunately, no one seemed to have any idea where I could spend the night. At that point, I made my best time ever. The canvas of sky had become a strange and very animated video game. Fear of being caught outside with no trees or buildings gave me a phenomenal adrenaline burst, and I found myself in Colorado, a half hour later. I still cannot believe that. I had to be carrying over 40 pounds of gear, on a mountain bike (not light in and of itself), and I clocked in at 32 miles per hour.
On August 5, I reached Pueblo, Colorado. I realized that there was no way that I was going to make Oregon in the three months I had alotted to myself. Up until this point I had done the entire trip solo, under my own power. But I finally decided to call it quits. I phoned a friend that had moved to Colorado Springs about 10 years before. When he left DC, I told him I might bike out and see him sometime. That got quite a laugh til I called him:
"Hey Al! I'm in Pueblo"
"Really? Great! You're only an hour away from me!"
"Nope. More like a day, at least."
"A day????"
"Yep. By bicycle..."
"Nooooo! No way! This I GOTTA see!"
So, Al shows up, we strap the bike on his car and we go to Colorado Springs. I have not travelled much. I have never been off the east coast, really. I was completely unprepared for the majestic mountains of Colorado. The Garden of the Gods, and Pike's Peak, in Colorado Springs, and later some of the mountains around Frisco and Breckenridge were breath taking! Sometimes literally. After biking around Colorado Springs for a few days, I rented a car, and visited cousins that I had not seen in 20 years.
At one point, in Dillon, Colorado, I walked up a mountain. I think it was 13,000 feet but I cannot recall, now. At the base, it was sunny and warm. At the top it was snowing, and I got to see a herd of elk. One of my cousins said that in all the time she'd been living out there, she'd never made it to the top of the mountain.
I drove up to Boulder, and for the first time started considering graduate school... I loved the place! It was like stories I had heard about the West Coast! One night I played flute on the streets together with an 11-year-old violinist, the next I was in one of the first "virtual reality parlors" -- really a video game store devoted completely to 3D VR shared-space games, then the new age bookstore, the tattoo and piercing parlor, etc, etc.
Finally, after a brief visit to Fort Collins, I drove down to Denver, dropped of the car, packed up the bike and flew home. All in all, 2350 miles of unforgettable travel.