Biking Across America (18 page)

“What's been your experience with dogs?” My cousin had posed that question to me the night before.

Although I like dogs as family pets and companions, I'm always fearful of canine encounters as I pedal along. A little Chihuahua bark can set me to pedaling furiously. “I've been very fortunate so far,” I told Marv. “Several dogs back in California gave chase, but they didn't catch me. Not much else has happened. Kentucky is supposedly the worst state for dogs on the loose, but none bothered me.”

“I have no fear of dogs, never have,” replied Marv. That didn't surprise me; he had no fear of high cliff edges or barreling eighteen-wheelers. But the very next day, my intrepid companion would be tested.

The morning in rural Alabama was gorgeous. Cattle roamed in green pastures. Lakes reflected clouds in blue sky. The rolling terrain was not too difficult, and I was enjoying the ride.

Then I spotted trouble ahead.

A pack of three dogs was running through the field next to us; their gait and the tilt of their heads told me immediately that they were out looking for trouble. These were not house pets; they were real beasts. One large mixed breed that showed traits of a shepherd was in the lead; two other mongrels followed him.

Marv was several hundred feet behind me.
So, he's not afraid of dogs; might this encounter change his mind?
I thought.

The Fearless One would have to fend for himself. I did a quick mental triangulation, calculating my position, the spot at which
the dogs and my bicycle would probably intersect, and the point farther down the road where I believed I would be safe.

The lead dog spotted me. His beast brain spent no time calculating. An instinct for the chase kicked in; he gave a howl and all three beasts did a turnabout. The race was on.

Man, could those dogs run; but propelling my bike across four-thousand-plus miles had also given me spectacular leg muscles. I pointed to the field and yelled “DOGS!” and pedaled like a madman.

The dogs squeezed and wriggled through the board fence, delayed just long enough that I managed to get ahead of them. Howling with delight, they chased me down the road. The big shepherd led the way while the other two long-eared hounds tore after him. I admired their tenacity, but I had such a head of steam that I outdistanced them.

But what about my cousin?
He's going to be a sitting duck
, I thought. I was convinced he would soon be sacrificing body parts to the marauders.

A bloodcurdling scream nearly rocked me off my bike. The dogs had been concentrating on their prey and had not seen Marv charging them from behind. His scream scared the living daylights out of the pack.

Fear brings two options: fight or flight. While the mongrels were willing to fight with me, the wrath of the shrieking unknown had taken them by surprise and they chose flight. Ears flapping, tails extending straight out behind, the pack fled up the bank and scrambled back through the board fence to the safety of the pasture. The pursuers had become the pursued and turned tail in fear of impending doom.

I have witnessed it with my own eyes . . . and ears. My cousin truly has no fear of dogs.

“What a harmless little bunch of cowards,” he scoffed as we rode on, all body parts intact.

In the middle of the afternoon, we crossed the bridge spanning the Chattahoochee River. Halfway across the bridge, a sign welcomed us to Georgia. Even more exciting was the posting beneath that sign, a notice that we were entering the eastern time zone. I had finally returned to “home” time. I'd pedaled in four time zones in my journey across America and had returned all three hours that had been granted me on my flight to Seattle.

We had covered seventy-three miles when we decided to stop in Columbus. A plenitude of restaurants and motels in the area made that an easy decision. We also needed to plan our route through this next state. Route 431 had taken us through Alabama and then turned into Route 280 as we entered Georgia. Our plan was to pedal through the southwestern corner of Georgia and find a route that would usher us into Florida somewhere east of Tallahassee.

Columbus is home to Fort Benning, and I marveled at the size of this complex. Covering over 182,000 acres, this US Army post supports over 120,000 active and retired military folks and many civilians who also work and live on the base. We passed several exits leading to Fort Benning, and I spotted an enemy army creeping along the outside perimeter of the post. Even the mightiest military in the world was not immune to attack by the menacing kudzu.

All across America I observed crops flourishing in areas where the climate and growing conditions are most ideal for those particular plants. The fragrant lavender fields in Washington, myrtle in Oregon, giant redwoods in the coastal fogs, and even dusty tumbleweeds thrive in settings most conducive to their growth. I suppose we could also include marijuana on that list; that crop also grows where the climate nourishes it.

In Georgia we rode through the countryside in awe of stately pecan trees reaching heights of seventy-five to one hundred feet.
Groves cover thousands of acres, and Georgia is the leading producer of pecans in the United States. Roadside stands selling the produce dot the countryside.

At the retail and gift shop of one large distributor, I was lured in by a sign boasting of the best pecan pie in the world. I purchased a hot dog and root beer for my main course and a small pecan pie for dessert, then took my treats to one of the inviting chairs on the long front porch. A number of workers also sat there, obviously on break. I was curious, and in answer to my questions they explained, in a deep southern drawl, the pecan harvesting and shipping process. This was a large distributor, and the fruit was shipped out by semi loads. (Yes, the pecan is technically a fruit.)

They, in turn, were curious about my ride. “How far are you riding?” one asked.

“All the way to Key West, Florida,” I replied. Exclamations of incredulity came from the crowd.

“That's over five hundred miles away!” exclaimed one worker. “You've got to be crazy.” What I welcomed as only a short ride to my destination seemed like an impossible distance to them.

“I've ridden from the northwest corner of Washington state, over four thousand miles, to get here. Key West is just around the corner.”

“Are you out of your mind? Are you nuts?” shouted my audience.

“Wait a minute, guys. You all work in a pecan warehouse, and you're calling me nuts?”

Our break was soon over. Even being generous, I could give the pecan pie only an average rating. I should have told my new friends to visit Amish country if they wanted great pecan pie.

“Well, fellows, I'd better head for Key West.”

As Marv and I pedaled out of the gravel lot, I heard laughter from the porch and snippets of comments about my sanity. “He's crazy.” “He's out of his mind.”

Out on the highway, we went from groves to grooves. The Georgia Department of Highways apparently was obsessed with its shoulder grinder. I had ridden before through areas where the road shoulders were mutilated by grooving. This practice is meant as a safety measure, to wake up drifting drivers and signal that a correction is needed immediately.

For a bicycle rider, though, these stretches turn hostile and tortuous. Shallow grooves can sometimes be tolerated; they might, perhaps, even provide a gentle massage for a tired body. But a deeply grooved shoulder sends jolts reverberating like an electric shock through every muscle. Our route through Dawson, Albany, and Thomasville was filled with this Georgia roadside insanity. I was convinced that each operator working the grinder had used his own discretion on depth and length of the irritating obstacles, and it seemed obvious that most of those same operators must have been hired from the coalfields and believed they were strip-mining the shoulders in search of minerals.

In some areas, the machine operator had been generous and left eight inches of shoulder unmarred. I threaded my bike along this small area, but Marv insisted he could not contain his rig to such a small piece of real estate. His riding sphere included every inch of the three feet of highway he claimed. Miraculously, we managed sixty-five miles in spite of Georgia giving us the cold shoulder.

When we arrived in Thomasville and checked in at the Day's Inn Motel, the clerk was of Indian descent and my curiosity finally got the better of me. All across America I had found this to be the case; most of the places where I'd found lodging, and many Subways and Dunkin' Donuts, were owned by immigrants from India.

I asked the young clerk for confirmation of my observations, and he freely shared his family's story. His father had immigrated years ago; he had little money but was determined to pursue the American dream of business ownership. The young man told me
about the network of Indian families who help each other realize this dream. “We believe it's possible for anyone in America to succeed if they really try,” he said.

It was good to hear that there are still folks who believe in the American spirit of hard work and success. While many Americans lament the lack of jobs, folks from other countries who have experienced a true dearth of opportunity are able to see potential all across this land.

The jarring road conditions were not the only thing troubling me. All day I had been thinking about an anniversary. We often measure time by the number of years that have passed since a certain event. Anniversaries gauge progress in our lives.

That day in Georgia was the fourth anniversary of my wife's death. My life had changed in so many ways since that sad evening four years ago. I saw a church sign in Alabama that advised, “When life knocks you to your knees, you are in the perfect position to pray.” Only those who have lost a spouse or a child can understand the harshness, the abruptness of such a separation. After such a loss, the only place to start the healing process is on your knees.

On the night of Mary's funeral service, after everyone had gone and I was alone, I did just that; I fell on my knees by my bedside and, between sobs, prayed for guidance. A familiar verse (thanks, Dad) kept coming to me: “In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:6 KJV). I chose to believe this, and my faith in that promise completely changed my life. I was led to retire from a great job I enjoyed and take a 2,176-mile hike through the wilderness. My bicycle ride across America was also a result of my trust in God's direction. Anyone who thinks that following God is boring and restrictive is missing out on a fulfilling life; it's a great adventure.