Biking Across America (20 page)

We left High Springs, pedaling through an early morning mist. My eyes weren't watching the road as much as they were admiring
the front porches of this small slice of America. At this early hour the porches were empty, but I could imagine good conversations and neighborly visits and cold lemonades on these hospitable portals.

Our route ran alongside large horse farms. A low-hanging fog shrouded trees draped with moss. We pedaled silently through a dreamlike landscape.

This was our third day in Florida; this was the final state of my long journey. What I had so longed for during those lonely nights in Nevada and Utah would soon be reality. Another adventure was drawing to a close.

It's exciting to dream and chart such quests, but the end of the journey eventually comes and the dream is no longer a dream but an achievement. The endings have always been too sudden for me, too much like death itself. In a blink the dream is done. It's over.

My body was in the best shape it had seen in years. My legs kept churning out the miles. I had once again settled into a routine. And the dream would soon end.

At least I was no longer lonely. A riding companion completely changed the dynamics of my bike ride. It was good to know someone was nearby. My bike journey had turned from a solo ride to a duo ride—and now it was going to swell into a parade.

In Sarasota, the Stoltzfus clan had been keeping tabs on my ride. Would I mind if they joined me for several days in central Florida? Marvin, Todd, Ethan, and Elliot were father, son, and grandsons. They were all experienced bikers and would be followed by an RV. The temperature in Florida was over a hundred degrees, and being followed by a ready supply of cold Gatorade and an air-conditioned break room sounded great. We'd be able to escape the hot Florida sun and lounge in comfort. We agreed to have the family meet us
at our motel the following morning in a place called The Villages, our destination for the night.

The Villages is a carefully planned grid of neighborhoods that declares itself to be America's most popular retirement community. With a population that had grown in the previous ten years from eight thousand to eighty thousand and neighborhoods that offer every activity and recreation imaginable, this place is anything but retiring. I saw a mass of humanity taking another go-around at life in a place that someone tried to build and sell as the perfect world. To my eyes, it looked like one last attempt to achieve the ideal life before moving on to the next.

Walking about this fabricated world was more dangerous than bicycling Georgia's highways. The good citizens of these communities buzz everywhere on golf carts, and they whooshed by us as we explored the modern town square with its shops and restaurants. The restaurants were overpriced but busy; apparently the recession gripping the rest of the country had bypassed this community.

Early the next morning, the Stoltzfuses and their RV arrived. Introductions were made, and I became the Pied Piper of Florida. The temperature soared, and it was a joy to relax in air-conditioned comfort during our breaks. The RV was well-stocked with all the essentials—cold beverages and chocolate snacks.

After being alone on the road for so long, I enjoyed riding with a group. It's easy to become set in our ways and focus so exclusively on our goals that we don't allow others to take part in our journeys. On the day I took my first step on the Appalachian Trail, I had decided to be open to anyone God chose to put in my path. I carried that same decision into my bike journey across America. God chose to send me four new friends and an air-conditioned RV.

The RV had been on a scouting mission, searching for a restaurant. Now it passed us, and the grandson riding shotgun made exaggerated motions toward his wrist. But his gyrations meant nothing until we pulled into the restaurant they had chosen.

“What were you trying to tell us?” I inquired.

“I was pointing to my wristwatch,” he explained.

Then I saw the sign at the restaurant. The name of the eatery was Clock. What a name for a restaurant. My mind clicked into restaurant-management mode and went spinning through the advertising opportunities such a name would offer. There was the obvious, “It's time to eat,” and the bizarre, “Hour food served within minutes,” and “You are welcome to seconds.” Perhaps I need to get back into food service; all my advertising talent is going to waste.

At Lake Placid, within sight of the concrete block tower that claims to be the tallest in the world, I said good-bye to my new friends and the parade disbanded. My cousin Marv joined the other Marv and his family in their RV and returned to Sarasota. Whew! He had survived.

I would go on alone. It had been marvelous riding with a group, but it was fitting that I finish this journey just as I started it: alone.

A strange thing happens as you near the finish of a lifetime goal—the going gets extremely tough. It feels as if all heaven and earth conspire against you and say,
How badly do you really want this?
I'd experienced that on my Appalachian Trail hike, and now my bike journey would turn more agonizing and frightening than anything I had yet experienced on the road across America.

W
ith mixed feelings I pedaled out of Lake Placid the following morning. The tall tower of concrete blocks appeared faintly through the mist. I'd grown accustomed to the companionship of my cousin on this ride, and I had enjoyed the brief time with new friends from Sarasota and the luxury of the RV. But now I was alone again. Finishing this last stretch by myself was the right thing to do, I knew, but I felt a loss when I started out that morning and there was no one in my mirror.

I rode seventy-six miles to South Port, past large orange groves and sugarcane fields, watching many birds and dodging dead frogs. Gurgling springs created a waterway alongside the highway and this was home to thousands of frogs. Many had become curious about what lay outside their safe aquatic world. But forays up to the broad road had led many to destruction. Flattened frog carcasses littered the road, where each wanderer had given a final croak before falling victim to the Michelin Man. It truly had not been a Goodyear.

Following the south shore of Lake Okeechobee from Clewiston, I arrived in South Bay at two in the afternoon. At lunch, I had stopped in Moore Haven and had more vitamin K. My body had enough energy to keep riding, but there was nothing between South Bay and Homestead except ninety miles of swamp and sugarcane fields. I decided to go to bed early and leave before daylight the following day.

At five the next morning, I was pedaling through South Bay in the dark. At the southern edge of town I met with extreme disappointment. A grooved shoulder! Had they actually hired someone from Georgia to destroy Highway 27? The road surface was fine, but I shared that with many semi trucks also getting an early start. For the next two hours, I kept one eye on the road ahead and one eye on my mirror, watching for lights coming out of the darkness behind me. Whenever a semi appeared, I'd dodge off the road to the shoulder and tolerate a short but violent shock treatment. This course of action worked; the first shock disassembled my bones, and the second reassembled them.

Another challenge of driving in darkness is the difficulty of seeing and avoiding tire carcasses. Many truckers repair their tires with retreads. A retread tire is much like a snake in that it will shed its skin. These rubber tire clumps littering the highway are a major cause of flats for bikers. Sharp steel bands in the retreads lie in wait like silent porcupines, armed to puncture any bicycle tire.

I'd been fortunate, avoiding most of these obstacles for the last forty-eight-hundred miles; but that morning I bounced over several large, unfurled retreads that I had not seen in the darkness. After each of those encounters, I spent several minutes listening intently, fearing a telltale hiss of air.

With the morning light came a wonderful sight: a sign welcoming me to Broward County. And beyond the sign, new asphalt edged with a smooth, clean shoulder stretched as far as I could
see. The highway ran through open areas of swamps, saw grass, and sugarcane fields. It was hard to imagine that just east of me were the metropolitan areas of Boca Raton, Fort Lauderdale, and Miami.

The Seminole Indians have six reservations in Florida, five of which are in the southern half of the state. My ride had started on an Indian reservation in the opposite corner of America. Somehow, Native Americans have been pushed to the edges of our country.

Just beyond the junction where I-75 ends and becomes I-595, running to Fort Lauderdale, I stopped at a fueling station to refill my water bottle. As I rested outside, a young lady approached and inquired about my bike ride. She seemed nervous and troubled, and as we talked she told me her best friend had been her father and he had recently committed suicide.

Dear God, what do I tell her?
Many folks carry whatever feelings they have about their relationship with their earthly father over to their thoughts about God, the heavenly Father. This girl felt her father had abandoned her by his suicide, and she believed God had also abandoned her. I assured her that was not the case. As best as possible, I explained about a loving God that does care and wants a relationship with her. The very being of God is love, and he will never desert anyone who trusts in him.

Ten miles later, I left Route 27 and entered the most harrowing stretch of my entire journey thus far. Highway 997 was a narrow, two-lane highway. Not only was it extremely busy, but it had absolutely no shoulder. I was forced to merge into the stream of speeding trucks and other lesser but equally deadly vehicles. The ride was gut-wrenching and nerve-racking. Truck horns blasted and occasionally an oncoming car passed another vehicle and swerved over into my lane. I came within inches of succumbing to the fate
of the flattened frogs. This was indeed the valley of the shadow of death. Although I did not fear evil, I feared.

I had no time to think about anything other than the traffic, but here came another unwelcome sight. Storm clouds: dark, swirling, and approaching fast. I'd been fortunate in avoiding storms and traffic for most of my trip; now here I was, faced with the worst of both. I needed shelter and I needed it quickly.

In the distance, a huge edifice loomed against the dark sky. I could not determine what it was, perhaps a mine building, a factory, or a huge office complex. I made a mad dash for what I hoped was sanctuary.

As I drew closer, I saw the large, flashing sign. This was a casino. At the intersection of Routes 41 and 997, the Miccosukee Indian casino towered over the landscape. I dashed under the large overhang at the front entrance just as the sky opened and a deluge of rain fell.

I stood outside the glass doors of that casino for one hour, waiting for the rain to abate. Gazing into the bowels of the casino, I observed hundreds of people donating money to Indian causes. It was quite amazing; the white man had taken most of the land from the Native Americans in years gone by, and now the white man was willingly paying them back. No guns, bows, or arrows were needed. Just the slight possibility of a jackpot kept folks interested in feeding the mechanical bandits in front of them.

While waiting for the downpour to end, I called my friend Ina in Ohio. She immediately detected that my spirits were lower than the bank accounts of the casino patrons inside.

“I'm so nearly done, but I've hit a wall mentally and emotionally,” I complained. “This road I'm now on is terrifying.”

“Just calm down, and let's pray about it,” she replied. Then and there she prayed safety and protection on me. “Send him sunshine and a safe road shoulder,” she implored.

Out on the highway again, I passed the intersection and the road did indeed have a shoulder, and yes, the sun did come out. It was Florida; of course the sun came out.

Although I don't believe Ina's prayer caused a road shoulder to magically appear where before there had been none, I do believe that prayer was what took me across America and brought me home again. Two evenings prior to the start of my bike journey, six of us had gathered in Ina's backyard for a prayer session. While I sat in a chair, the other five laid hands on me and each one prayed safety, peace, and God's blessing on my travels.

While you contemplate the validity of prayer, allow me to give you some facts about my journey. Almost five thousand miles rolled under my wheels. I had one flat tire in California and none from California to Florida. The bike had absolutely no mechanical problems. I never feared theft or personal harm. I parked my bike unsecured anywhere I wished. I met incredible people and found wads of cash on the highway. I submit to you that I am either the luckiest man in the world or all the prayers offered before and during my ride were heard and honored.

If you believe all of that was pure luck, then I missed a great opportunity at that casino. I, however, know I was blessed, not lucky.

I headed for Homestead, Florida, with a new attitude and a lighter spirit. Just beyond Homestead was Florida City, my stopping point for the day. Here Route 997 intersected with Highway 1. This was the road that would take me to the Florida Keys. In two days, I'd arrive at the end of Route 1 in Key West.

From the first days of planning this journey, I had been intrigued by the fact that only one highway led to my final destination. Hundreds of highways crisscross America; I had many choices to make as I rode from Washington to Florida. But in southern Florida, Route 1 was the only road that would take me to Key West, the only route to my final goal.

That is, my friend, a picture of each person's passage through life. Throughout the journey, there are many choices to be made. But in the end, only one Way leads to the ultimate goal of life everlasting.

The next morning I rode into ten miles of major construction on Route 1. Those ten miles were the most terrifying stretch of my entire bike ride.

It was still dark when I left Florida City. I did have a bright red flashing taillight. My little headlight was not really necessary, since the lights of the cars and trucks behind me lit the way. Barriers divided an already narrow roadway, and I had no choice but to take my place in the steady stream of traffic. Horns beeped constantly, letting me know what drivers thought of having to follow a bicycle through the construction. The line of vehicles behind me grew longer every minute. Every now and then I spotted a break in the barriers and room to ride in the opposite lane. I'd jump to the other side of the barriers, riding for a short time in the wrong lane against oncoming traffic. Then approaching traffic or a narrowing of the lane would force me back between my proper boundaries.

I finally rolled free of the construction and found the safety of a good shoulder. Crossing a bridge running from the mainland to the Keys, I entered Key Largo. The Florida Keys are composed of over one hundred islands and forty-two connecting bridges. The longest bridge is called the Seven Mile Bridge, I suspect because it is seven miles long. I'd been dreading that bridge ever since crossing the Astoria Bridge over the Columbia River back in Oregon.

That was a bridge to be crossed tomorrow though, and I had other worries on this day. I had been most concerned about the shoulder, or lack thereof, on Highway 1. Bikers riding to Key West have told horror stories about highway conditions. But I found the conditions were actually better than the day before. What concerned me now were the dark storm clouds approaching. I had dodged
so many rainstorms. Could I avoid this one? I could see the sheet of rain coming my way.

On my left were gated oceanfront mansions. Fortunately, one gate stood open, and I saw that as my salvation. A sign attached to a post warned, “Private Property, No Trespassing.” I was not planning to trespass; I only sought shelter. For thirty minutes, the open garage was my shelter from the passing storm. The owner never discovered the trespasser holed up in his garage. I suspect he might even have been given a few extra blessings that day, and he has no idea why.

At one o'clock, I arrived in Marathon, the last town with lodging before Key West. Another storm was rolling in, and the rain and I reached the Banana Bay Resort simultaneously. I had pedaled seventy-nine miles and was only fifty miles from Key West, but I ended my day. The rain continued all afternoon and evening, confirming my wisdom in stopping in Marathon.

At three o'clock, visitors knocked on my door. My friends from Sarasota, Ivan and Fran, were on their way to Key West to meet me at the finish line and return me to Sarasota. The last time I had seen them was in Hutchinson, Kansas, when they visited their son and his family and I had spent several days relaxing and eating Fran's cooking. They brought meat and cheese, fruits and pastries, and a variety of beverages. Among the bounty was a bottle of Coca Cola that I intended to use in my celebration at the end of my journey. I promised to meet them in Key West the following morning about eleven o'clock.

I intended to finish the next day, even if it meant riding through fifty miles of rainstorms. As the rain pattered on the roof, I contemplated the end of this journey. I could hardly believe that I was so close to finishing my bike ride. Riding from the northwestern corner of Washington State to the far corner of Florida had sounded impossible. Yet, by getting up each day and pedaling down the
road, I was about to make that impossibility a reality. I went to bed nervous and excited—and busting at the seams with all the food I had eaten.