Biking Across America (12 page)

The next fifteen miles into Salida were a gradual downhill, made even easier by a tailwind that pushed me along. I leaned out over my aero bars and soaked in the scenery. I was a human feather floating along, held aloft by a mountain breeze.

I left Salida the following morning, propelled by great anticipation. The scenery was stunning, with the Arkansas River flowing peacefully on my left and mountain ranges in all directions. By noon I had reached Canon City, and signs everywhere extolled the
wonders of Royal Gorge and the Royal Gorge Bridge, America's highest suspension bridge. On any other trip, I would have taken that side road. But now I wanted to reach Pueblo, Colorado, as soon as possible. In Pueblo, I would meet a friend.

In my previous life, I worked for a company that owned a number of restaurants, inns, and gift shops. Three of its Ohio restaurants were large in size and volume. My friend Mike managed one restaurant in Plain City; another friend, Ivan, directed the one in Walnut Creek; I was responsible for the third, in Sugarcreek. We were the big three. Whether at restaurant shows, business meetings, or in our private lives, we were friends and comrades. Since our businesses were all similar, we shared thoughts and ideas, frustrations and successes.

Mike was the first one to break from the triumvirate. He had contracted Colorado fever, and the prescription for that malady was a relocation. Seeking fame and fortune, he moved his family to the Boulder area, where fortune was achieved and fame was still being sought.

In Pueblo, I checked into a Super Eight just ahead of a storm that had been building for the past hour. Soon a call from the front desk informed me that a Mike wished to see me. How wonderful it was to reminisce with a friend over a juicy steak dinner. We laughed as we recalled stories of our days in food service. Mike even picked up the tab for my dinner, confirming that he had indeed been blessed with fortune.

Back in my room, I received another surprise. My friend Ivan was calling. Ivan had been the second member of our trio to leave for greener pastures. His pilgrimage took him to Sarasota, Florida. He had already assembled his fortune, so he was seeking sunshine and new challenges.

I was the last of the three to throw in the towel. On the very day I left my office at the restaurant and closed the door behind me for
the last time, I left to hike the Appalachian Trail, seeking solace after losing my wife to cancer. I sought neither fame nor fortune; I had found my fortune in the friendship of these two men.

Now, just back from a reunion dinner with Mike, I was taking a call from Ivan. He and his wife, Fran, were planning a trip to Kansas. Their son was on the staff of a church in Hutchinson, and he and his wife had just given Ivan and Fran a new granddaughter.

“When will you be riding through Hutchinson?” Ivan wanted to know. The baby had arrived earlier than expected, and now my friends would be in Kansas just as I was riding through that state. It was a great gift to be biking five thousand miles and have the chance to meet with both men that had been so helpful in my own career.

Leaving Pueblo was like playing Dodge-'Em. I had rejoined Route 50 back in Montrose, but it was no longer the loneliest road in America. I wove delicately through heavy city traffic and around on- and off-ramps. Finally, after thirty exits, I reached open country again.

By now I considered myself an expert on road conditions, and what I saw ahead was not pleasant. The surface was a brown and red mixture from which little stones rose, creating an uneven surface. I suppose the roughness offers some traction in winter weather, but it seemed to me as if I were riding across the top of a large pecan pie.

A few more miles, and road construction brought traffic to a halt. The crew was laying new asphalt, using an aggregate perfect for a smooth bicycle ride. I coasted up to the man who was directing traffic, fearful that he might not let a two-wheeled vehicle through the construction site. To my surprise, he only warned me to be careful and then he proceeded to radio ahead and stop traffic in all directions so this one lone bike rider could sail along the perfectly paved surface.

Once beyond all the construction, I had a racetrack. Beautiful, black, freshly laid asphalt with no loose stones or bumps was
bicycling bliss. Long stretches with no traffic added to my enjoyment. The incredibly smooth ride was enhanced further by the enjoyable landscape. Here again were those fields of vegetables, extending for miles. Farmers were in the hay fields; the large bales sitting side-by-side looked like loaves of home-baked bread fresh out of the oven.

Then, off to the right I saw a large field filled with an abundance of just what I had been craving lately—cabbage. The field was absolutely bursting with cabbage heads. A pickup jolted from the field and onto the highway several hundred feet ahead of me. Behind it lurched a wagon heaped full of freshly picked cabbages. Just ahead of me was a tantalizing green mound of exactly what I had been craving.

As the truck picked up speed, a minor miracle unfolded. The wind pulled off outer layers of the cabbages and those leaves spiraled away from the wagon and floated to the ground. The faster the truck moved, the deeper the wind dug, peeling off even more layers and littering the highway with the broad leaves.

Thank you, Lord, for this bounty you have provided
. I munched on cabbage for many miles, each mile bringing increasingly tender leaves and the sharp taste evoking precious memories of a wonderful home. It was manna from heaven.

I coasted into Lamar, Colorado, at five o'clock in the evening, 123 miles closer to Key West. The mountains were behind me, and ahead would be long stretches of flatlands. The morrow would put me in Kansas, one state closer to home.

H
ey, buddy, how far am I from the Kansas line?”

I had just checked into a hotel and directed my question to the owner. Local folks were usually my best source of information about landmarks, roads, and places to eat and stay. This fellow was clearly underworked and overfed. While his wife seemed to be doing all the heavy lifting, he was strutting about, chomping on an unlit cigar.

“Cross the railroad tracks at the end of town. Several more blocks, and you'll be in Kansas,” he said. Good. I would soon have another state behind me.

Like the bread crumbs dropped by Hansel and Gretel, a trail of onions blazed my route down the highway the next morning. Every now and then a ripe red tomato added a bright splash of color or an occasional pepper appeared in the vegetable mix. My roadside hardware store had been transformed into a produce market. Why was I craving pizza this early in the morning?

My peripheral vision caught the sight of a thousand groundhogs observing some morning ritual, sitting on their haunches, in precise rows. Once I focused my vision on the field, I realized this was not an international gathering of woodchucks, but hundreds of burlap bags filled with onions. The only similarity between the onions and the critters was that they both dwelled underground. A huge mechanical monster dug up the onions, bagged them, and placed the bundles in long neat rows. In the little settlement of Granada, Colorado, I watched in amazement as open trailers piled high with bulk onions were tipped to the side, the onions cascading onto a conveyor belt, and workers sorted and boxed the produce according to size.

The portly, cigar-chewing fellow at the motel had assured me Kansas was only a few blocks away. His definition of a block differed considerably from mine. The railroad tracks were thirty-four miles behind me before I crossed the border into Kansas. Perhaps one block equals one hour out on the prairie. After two hours of pedaling, I rolled into the flat, hot, and windy Sunflower State.

My goal for the day was Garden City, but I soon realized that was too aggressive. I stopped for information at a small grocery store in Kendall. A lady advised me that Lakin was twenty-five miles closer than Garden City and the only town she knew of that had a motel. I placed a call to the Ken-Ark Motel; the room would cost me thirty-five dollars, and no reservation was necessary.

The same sign that told me I was in Kearny County also advised that central time started here. This was a good time to take a short break. I skidded to a stop, right on time. There are many time zones around the world; I was straddling two of them. My back tire was one hour behind my front tire. I rolled forward into Kearny County and lost an hour. They say you can't go back in time, but I stepped
back into Hamilton County and went back to the hour I'd just passed. Step back, step forward. Hamilton, Kearny, credit, debit.

I wondered what time it was in heaven. No time zones or clocks measure eternity. It's always now.

My thoughts were more somber as I pedaled forward at last, losing an hour of time, and reflecting on how often we are so busy working for a living that we have no time left to really live. Dale Carnegie once said, “One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses that are growing outside our windows today.”
*

I want to come as close as possible to living in the now.

I didn't have roses gracing my pathway that day, but I did have thousands of little yellow sunflowers brightening my journey. Every day of this trip had brought new moments of life and meaning. Scenes of great beauty had inspired me. Fields brimming with fruits and vegetables brought me joy. Even in those dark desert nights, the heavens had held messages for me.

The best lessons, though, were brought to me through the people I met. The morning I rode into Kansas, a man inspired me without saying a word. The encounter left me moved and humbled.

I was miles from any town, complaining to myself about the wind and the heat, when I saw him coming toward me on the opposite shoulder of the highway. He was in a motorized wheelchair, a breathing tube in his throat and an oxygen tank lying across his legs. A brace held his head and neck immobile, and his arms were strapped tightly to the chair. His body appeared locked in paralysis except for the fingers of his left hand, which lay on a toggle switch that operated the chair.

He could not turn his head left or right; yet as we passed, his eyes met and held mine for several seconds, and I knew I had met a hero. How many of us in that situation would be sitting at home, wallowing in self-pity? I had been grumbling about the weather; this man faced far more obstacles, yet here he was, zipping down Route 50. I had no idea why he was trapped in this chair, but I did know how he had reacted to his lot in life.

There was actually another hero on the road that day too. Behind the wheelchair came a rider on a bicycle, a person who was giving of his precious, allotted time to watch over the traveler.

The man in the wheelchair and I exchanged one glance and each caught a glimpse of the other's soul. In that brief instant of measured time, our spirits met and recognized each other. Many things passed across the roadway in that one look, things that have no words, things that I cannot yet define or articulate. I don't know yet what all those things were, but I do know that I will know someday. With the passage of time, I expect to understand everything our spirits shared in that one moment.

Whenever I thought nothing more could surprise me, the road would offer up yet one more amazing thing. That day, I happened upon a stretch of highway decorated with little blue butterflies. Thousands of fluttering blue wings waved gently on the road and its shoulders; thousands more spiraled through the air above. I suspect the butterflies were taking advantage of all the produce littering the highway. I dodged and swerved through the teeming blue mass, but sadly, I collided with some of the fragile creatures in spite of my cautious driving.

In Lakin, I checked into my thirty-five-dollar room. The motel was old and dilapidated, bordering on uninhabitable. My thirty-five dollars did give me a bathtub, a bed, and an air conditioner
that produced both moderately cool air and disagreeable noises. Next door, at Benny's Grill, I had a delicious six-dollar spaghetti dinner and decided I had received satisfactory value for my dollars spent in Lakin. That spaghetti dinner was worth thirty-five dollars and the room was worth six. Things have a way of evening out.

Leaving Benny's, I met a dad with three daughters. The Spirit within often nudges me to speak to someone, although many times I question that prompting. On this evening, the directive was clear:
Talk to that family
. The Spirit must have also opened wide the doors of communication, because once we began speaking the man freely shared that cancer had recently claimed the life of his wife and the children's mother. I spoke to them of my own experience, and assured them that God knows their pain; although it might seem impossible when in the depths of grief, healing does eventually arrive.

Before returning to my luxury suite, I wandered across the parking lot to a truck stop to buy treats and pastries for the following morning. Two Peterbilt semis sat in the parking lot, engines growling. Their gleaming chrome grilles were adorned with hundreds of blue wings. All those fragile splashes of color that I had so carefully avoided had met their demise in a head-on crash with these huge beasts.

You've probably heard people use the phrase “Get out of Dodge” when they are talking about leaving a place, often hurriedly. My goal for the next day was to “Get into Dodge.” Dodge City, the rough town of the Old West, was my next stop.

While no longer the Wild West, this area is still cattle country. The previous day, I had pedaled past vegetable fields and acres of aromatic alfalfa. Now the hay fields were replaced by large stockyards, and the smells heavy on the air were produced by thousands
of cattle corralled in areas where not one blade of grass survived. Hundreds of acres of green had been obliterated by countless hooves. I enjoy a good hamburger or a juicy steak as much as the next fellow, but I was dismayed by the abysmal conditions.