Biking Across America (11 page)

“Walk to the river,” I heard myself say. Hoping to look upriver and spot the boat and thus get my bearings, I clambered over house-sized boulders. But there was only the edge of a cliff, with the river far below. No boat in sight. In panic, I clambered back up over the same rocks and looked frantically for any faint sign of a trail. Finding a marking that looked as though it might be a trail, I followed it.

Back at the boat, the rest of our group was growing concerned at our long absence. One man offered to walk up the slope to see if we were in sight.

The trail I was following was just an animal trail and did not lead back to our boat. But at a distance, I caught a glimpse of the man looking for us, and at that moment I knew I would be safe.

I reached the boat at last and explained the situation to the rest of the group. The captain and my daughter had stayed with the sick man up in the canyon. Two other men and I hiked back with more water and food, and in the cool of the evening everyone returned to the boat.

Years later, I met the captain again and we talked of that day. He told me he had been very afraid the man would die in the heat. It had been, he said, the most frightening day of the twenty years he spent as a guide in Grand Canyon.

The day was burned in my memory as the hottest, driest day I'd ever experienced. Added to that was the desperation of being lost, not being able to find my way. That must be something of what hell would be like.

And now here I was, just miles east of that same canyon, trying to travel in utter darkness, lonely and cold. Here again I was given a glimpse of what it would be like to be eternally lost in hell. But this horrible misery was one night; the morning light would change everything. What would it be like to be forever in such a hell?

I shuddered as I contemplated that. Yet many folks will pass on from this life and be faced with just that destiny. Many who hear the call to salvation but delay their decision will wake up someday to an awful, terrible shock. I cannot comprehend what it means to be forever lost.

Forever
and
eternal
are words the human mind cannot quantify. We think in terms of time. In this life, we measure time in hours, days, months, and years. Our minds want defined beginnings and endings. We are in this short period of measured time, and our years are just a speck between eternity past and eternity future. Millions of years from now, you will be somewhere in eternity future. You may have made a lot of bad choices in your life, but this can all be remedied by one good choice. The question is: Where will you spend eternity?

This is a story of a bicycle trip across America. You might wonder why I need to discuss such subjects now. I can only surmise that God had me right where he wanted me that night, and was reminding me of things I needed to contemplate. And since it is such a very important message and perhaps the very reason I had to ride across America, I also offer this message to you.

After fifty miles of climbing, I was again headed downhill. I could not, however, reach any great speed in the darkness. My light still flickered off and on, unpredictable and unreliable. I had found that if I held the light tightly, a feeble glow fell on the roadway. It was almost like I was squeezing the small beam out of the headlight. One hand clutched the light, one hand was on the handlebar.

Nearing the bottom of the hill, I hit a thermal air pocket and the cold was suddenly intense. I donned my raingear, attempting to stay warm. I was now lonely, sad, depressed,
and
freezing.

Then came another uphill. I was so exhausted that I had no strength to pedal. I pushed. And pushed. And pushed. I pushed my bike for hours. Every now and then, I'd lift the front of the bike, searching with the feeble light, trying to find mile markers.
How much farther?
I knew I was weaving in the road. My mind started to play tricks on me. I remembered stories about truckers being on the road too long and seeing camels and zebras where there were none. I heard voices; friends were yelling at me.
Paul, get on the bike and pedal!

At three in the morning, I collapsed. Whimpering like a baby, I lay down in the ditch at the side of the road, rested my head on a rock, and passed out.

A noise jolted me awake. It was still dark, and a truck was going by on the highway. I struggled to my feet and climbed back on my bike. One by one the miles passed. Within an hour, I spotted several faint lights far off in the distance. I hoped it was Blanding.

In the darkness, I could detect high rock formations beside me; that was all I knew of my surroundings. Soon, mercifully, a glimmer of light appeared behind one of the cliffs. The lights of Blanding came into clearer focus too. Although I was still several hours
from the end of my ride, the darkness was at last gone. A beautiful sunrise greeted me, beams of light spreading in all directions. I could once again see the flowers blooming along the roadside.

At eight o'clock in the morning, I arrived at the outskirts of the town. I had been riding for twenty-five hours. I had witnessed two sunrises and one sunset and traveled 180 miles.

I stumbled through the front door of a motel and collapsed in a chair. The night clerk was still on duty and announced that he was completely full and he could not give me a room before eleven o'clock. Utterly disappointed, I stopped at another motel, only to hear the same thing. At the far end of Blanding, in another motel, I finally met a Good Samaritan. After hearing about my ride, she took pity on me and offered to clean the first vacant room. At ten o'clock, I collapsed into bed, unable to think about what I had just been through.

In the far recesses of my mind—or was it in my heart and soul?—I was aware something significant had happened on the road to Blanding. Whether the revelations from that lonely, dark night were intended only for me or for someone else, I'll probably never know.

I do know that when you are at your lowest point in life, when you are stumbling about in darkness seeking direction, there is help. Seek the light, follow the light; it will lead out of darkness to everlasting day.

Later, I checked my map. I had no concept of the country I had ridden through during that long night, and I was curious what landmarks I had passed in the darkness. I outlined the stretch I'd done through the wilderness, in black loneliness where no one could help me and where I felt as if I were surely in hell, a stretch that put all of time and eternity in perspective for me.

On those dark miles of my journey, I had crossed a place called Salvation Knoll.

I
awoke in two states, the state of Utah and the state of confusion. It was late afternoon and I had no idea where I was. Several moments passed before the fog in my head lifted. Had I really biked 180 miles through heat and cold, mountains and desert? I sat on the edge of the bed, reflecting on the how and why of my marathon ride.

I'd made a poor choice when I decided to push for Blanding. But the motivation behind that decision was quite simple. I was tired of these empty and desolate stretches. I wanted to pedal as hard and fast as I could, and leave the loneliness far behind. Although I enjoy my own company, there comes a time when conversations with self are not sufficient and other human discourse is needed.

My thoughts had kept me company and helped me through the night. On extended alone times, whether hiking through the wilderness or biking in the desert, I usually played mind games. I'd pick questions or issues and carry on internal debates.

Great thoughts and debates both serious and silly had occupied my mind until the loneliness bugaboo attacked. Then sadness
turned my thoughts in a different direction, eastward and homeward. I think our minds seek a place of happiness and safety when confronted by sadness. I followed a wave of memories back to my childhood.

I was again in Mom and Dad's house, playing games with my sisters, sitting around the supper table. Just as memorable were the drives we took in our '56 Pontiac. Every year we took a much-anticipated trip to the zoo. For several months before the trip, we'd squirrel away candy for that special day. On the morning of our outing, Mom would send me to the garden to harvest a cabbage, which she would slice up as a snack for the trip. On the road to Blanding, my taste buds had recalled the sharp tang held in that smooth ball of tightly packed leaves.

A strange series of debates, thoughts, and recollections accompanied me through the darkness, but my mind had a lot of time and space through which to wander.

Once I was awake and again had my wits about me, a yearning for the taste of cabbage led me to a restaurant with a salad bar. It's amazing how a delicious hot meal can improve one's disposition. The food was excellent, and yes, the salad bar offered coleslaw. Coleslaw is either very good or very bad; there is no middle ground. Good coleslaw is crunchy and bursting with flavor. Bad coleslaw has the texture of a wet, abandoned bird's nest. The slaw that night brought a smile to my mouth. The cabbage was crisp and sharp, full of flavors that spoke of a summer spent in the sun.

In my years in food service, we often spoke of comfort food. Give customers food that remind them of their childhood, and you will have repeat customers. That coleslaw was comfort food for me that night. But I would not be a repeat customer; Colorado beckoned in the morning.

I went back to my motel room and slept the night away.

“Welcome to Colorful Colorado,” the sign said. I was traveling on a high plateau, surrounded by color. Fields of yellow sunflowers stretched in all directions, and large grain silos rose from the verdant landscape. Where the soil was exposed, it showed a dark red coloration.

My enjoyment of Colorado's hues was darkened somewhat by the storm clouds overhead. The wind had picked up, attacking me broadside and making it impossible to ride in a straight line. I could see the dust storm approaching. A Jeep pulled over and the driver offered me a ride to the next town. I explained about my cross-country ride and that I could not skip any miles. He was kind enough to stop and give me sanctuary, and we sat in the Jeep and talked as the dust storm reduced visibility to almost zero.

The man had retired from a thirty-year career in the Army. His last assignment had been in Iraq, where he worked on a project to protect soldiers from roadside bombs. Now he was beginning his retirement with a trip across the country, visiting national parks. (I had noticed a bike on a rack at the back of the Jeep.) He admired my stubbornness, and asserted that if he were doing such a ride he would not skip any miles either. Our conversation touched on politics, war, peace, and the character of the people we had both met in our travels. The dust swirled around us as I took the opportunity to tell him about Jesus, my shelter in times of storm.

I spent the rest of my eighty-two-mile day dodging storm clouds. Just before reaching Dolores, my goal that day, I passed a farmers' market on the main street, and all the fruits and vegetables triggered another summertime craving. After checking into my room at the Dolores Mountain Inn, I immediately headed back to the market with one thing in mind. The watermelon was far too much for one person to eat, so I offered half to the front desk clerk. Back in my room, my half of the watermelon filled the sink and my feasting began.

Outside, the rain clouds that had chased me all day converged over Dolores and water poured down all evening and all night. But morning brought a promise of sunshine, even though dark clouds still scurried across the sky.

After the long, dark night in Utah, fields of flowers, clover, and vegetables had gladdened my spirit on my first day in Colorado. This second day was filled with mountain passes and spectacular scenery. Craggy peaks soared into a blue sky as I first followed the Dolores River for several miles then began the climb toward the mountain town of Rico.

At a small café, I refueled with a delicious pasta meal then continued my ascent to Lizard Head Pass. At 10,222 feet, a volcanic rock formation juts four hundred feet above the mountain, its shape supposedly resembling a lizard's head. If your vision is blurred or your imagination vivid, you might see a lizard. In my view, the formation could just as easily be a horse, an elephant, or an automobile.

Misshapen though it might be, I fell in love with the lizard since it stood at the top of my climb, and reaching it meant the next twenty miles would all be downhill into Telluride. With both hands squeezing the brakes, I descended. The ride was euphoric, my senses on full alert as I took in the views. Mountain lakes, forested slopes, and expanses of wildflowers all clamored for my attention.

The first seventeen miles were pure biking joy. The final three miles were not so joyful. The roadway into Telluride was crowded, so I pedaled on a bike path following a spur road into the upscale resort town. The bike path was filled with ruts and was most uncomfortable. By the time I reached the center of town, I was quite grumpy, and Telluride did nothing to dispel that mood or win my affection.

This town caters to the rich and elite. I was neither. Many Hollywood stars own properties here, and groupies mill about, hoping
to catch glimpses of their heroes. I am not enamored with Hollywood stars and have no sympathy for their hangers-on. I was a party of one in a town filled with snobs.

I stopped at one motel to inquire about a room. They had a special—for $250.

“Is there nothing more reasonable?” I queried. The clerk suggested a motel a little farther down the street.

Since the street was crowded and I wasn't traveling far, I rode on the sidewalk. A young man approached, laden with purchases he had made at the expensive tourist shops. With his sweater wrapped around his neck and a jaunty step, he exuded arrogance and self-importance. We did an awkward bob-and-weave on the sidewalk. He moved left; I moved left. He dodged right at the same moment I did. Apologizing profusely for obstructing his path to the nearest store, I finally darted around him. He turned and screamed at me.

“THE ROAD WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA!”

I was extremely tired and grumpy at that moment, and I completely failed this pop quiz in Conflict Resolution 101. I looked back over my shoulder and yelled, “THEN GET OUT ON THE ROAD!”

This upset the privileged one greatly. With packages flailing about, he shook his fists and threatened to inflict bodily injury upon me. Fortunately there was enough distance between us that I didn't think he could catch me. He would also need to separate himself from all the worldly possessions weighing him down.

Before pushing my bike through the front doors of the New Sheridan Hotel on West Colorado Avenue, I paused to take in the spectacular view. Telluride is nestled in a beautiful mountain valley. In the distance, a waterfall cascades snowmelt down an immense mountain cliff. I paid dearly for my room, but that incredible view made it less painful.

I fled the town as the first rays of dawn came over the mountains. Since the masses were all still abed, I used the main road for my
escape. Although I doubted that Package Boy had ever seen that time of the morning, I wanted to be out of town before he was on the streets looking for me.

I headed for Montrose, Colorado, seventy miles away. In Montrose I would again pick up Route 50, which I would take across the remainder of Colorado and most of the way through Kansas. I was already dreading another climb that was still days ahead of me: Monarch Pass and the Continental Divide.

Monarch Pass was the steepest and tallest climb of my entire trip. I did what I could to prepare for it. Just past Montrose, I stopped at the post office in a small settlement called Cimarron. My third purge of unnecessary items resulted in more weight sent home. I even exchanged ten pennies for one dime.

On the morning of the climb, I took on extra fuel. I had one breakfast in Gunnison, then another in the foothills of Monarch Pass, just before entering Gunnison National Forest.

Then the slow, slow climb began. Every time I passed a mile marker, I shouted with joy. Ride several hundred feet, push several hundred feet. Ride, push, ride, push; that was my pattern for hours. One result of this slow progression was increased net worth. My climb up Monarch Pass netted me 86 cents.

Enormous gouges scarred the mountainside, marking sites where rocks had been wrenched out to create space for the highway. The higher I rode, the more grand the view. Mountain peaks rose against a clear blue sky. I caught glimpses of the summit as I rode and pushed, rode and pushed. At last the steep incline leveled off, and a sign announced, “Monarch Pass, Elevation 11,312 feet.”

I was also on top of the Continental Divide. The San Isabel National Forest lay on one side of the mountain and the Gunnison National Forest on the other. Somewhere along my route was the
precise demarcation between two watersheds. A drop of water landing here yells, “Sorry, gotta split,” and then it divides and each half heads off toward its designated ocean. I was happy that I was heading toward the Atlantic Ocean.

I was also comforted by the knowledge that this was the highest climb of my entire trip, and now it was done. The big climbs I had dreaded so much were behind me. Although they were certainly difficult, my worries about them had proven unwarranted. Those climbs had been conquered by just moving forward, a strategy I have found is the secret of accomplishing many dreaded and difficult tasks.

My forward motion was about to accelerate. The ride into Salida was twenty-five miles of downhill, just as steep and thrilling as the uphill had been steep and arduous. First came ten miles of heart-pounding excitement. Safety hung in the balance as the views distracted my attention from the roadway. No one went by me; I was one with the traffic. I briefly considered passing the car in front of me for the sole purpose of catching a shocked look on the driver's face, but better sense prevailed. Around bends and curves my bike and I barreled. It was thrilling, my mind and body electrified by acute sensations. I will admit, though, it was not just the aspen trees that were quaking on the mountainside that afternoon.