Biking Across America (21 page)

At six o'clock in the morning, I did a weather check. Large puddles of water were everywhere, but the rain had stopped.

I maneuvered my bicycle around the little ponds and started the final miles of my final day. By six thirty, I was face to face with the Seven Mile Bridge that stretched out across the waters and disappeared into the darkness. To my relief, I had a wide shoulder. The mile markers on Highway 1 counted down the miles to the end of the highway in Key West. Mile by mile, I pedaled across the long bridge, quietly rejoicing as my bike rolled by each mile marker.

I had started across the bridge in darkness; by the time I reached dry land, seven miles later, the morning light was glowing. My passage reminded me of the cross, another bridge from darkness to light.

Once safely across, I turned to view the bridge in daylight. In the eastern sky behind me, a large cumulus cloud billowed upward. Although it hid the rising sun, golden rays burst from all corners of the cloud. I took it as a good morning wish from God and an encouragement to go and finish the task.

That beautiful cloud formation was behind me, but in front were those nasty dark clouds again.
Just hold off the rain for one more morning, God
, I prayed.

My ride across the country had been marked with many signs, some welcome and some disappointing, some amusing, entertaining, or admonishing. But at half past ten o'clock that morning, I spotted the sign that is perhaps my favorite: “WELCOME TO KEY WEST . . . PARADISE USA.”

Only two more miles. Ivan and Fran had brought their bicycles with them and had ridden out to meet me. As we sailed along
those final oceanfront miles, Ivan told me there was yet one more obstacle.

My goal, the end of my journey, was a buoy-shaped concrete block about ten feet tall that marks the southeast corner of our country. On that day, the buoy was barricaded; it was being painted and fencing kept visitors at a distance. I had ridden five thousand miles, and now a barricade would stop me just feet from my final goal.

We rounded a corner and the buoy came into view, with nothing but water beyond. On most days, lettering on its striped surface declares it to be at the southernmost point of the continental USA. On this day, there was no lettering. The black, yellow, and red stripes had just been given a fresh paint job. And around the buoy was a metal fence, keeping all visitors at a safe distance and bearing signs that warned of wet paint.

I coasted up to the barrier separating myself from my goal. A man stood nearby with paintbrush in hand. I explained my five-thousand-mile ride, my goal of reaching that final point of land, my desire to touch the buoy. And I ended with what I hoped was a polite, good-humored, yet unassailable question.

“Sir, can you think of any way you could possibly prevent me from finishing my ride at that buoy?”

I have learned you should never paint everyone with the same brush. Some are kind, while some are mean and rigid. I met a painter that day who recognized the significance of the moment.

“Have your friend lift your bike over the fence, and you can squeeze around the back here. Just be careful not to touch any of the wet paint.”

Ivan lifted my bicycle over the barricade. A curious crowd watched, and he announced to them that this bicycle and rider had just concluded a five-thousand-mile bicycle journey across America. The crowd broke out into a cheer as I opened the bottle of Coca Cola, leaned back against the buoy, and let out a long sigh.

O
h, buoy, what a view! From the tip of land where I stood, I gazed down South Street and heard an echo in my spirit. Memory tugged, and I was pulled back to Dalton, Massachusetts, as Padre the priest and I strolled through town and watched families having good times together. Our conversation that day about families and front porches and finding the soul of America had been the impetus for this bicycle ride.

From the edge of our country, I now looked down a street filled with porches both simple and ornate, comfortable and welcoming. Surely no town in America can boast of more interesting front porches than Key West. Unwittingly, I had chosen to finish my journey in a place with a plethora of porches. The ride was done. I had pedaled through thirteen states, covering 4,951 miles in sixty-nine days. Another thread in my life had been taken up, spun, and woven into the larger framework of my measured time here on earth.

My ride started out as a search for what I called Front Porch America. Although my literal front porch experiences were limited,
I did meet folks from all walks of life in many different situations. I saw the ravages of unemployment and poverty, shared with those who enjoyed an abundance of blessings, and walked the streets of retired America. I encountered people selling cans and bottles for a meager subsistence and homeless people whose respite for the night was the shelter of a bridge. I met those who still believe in hard work and helping others, and I trespassed behind the gates of privilege.

I talked with folks of many different religions and degrees of belief. I was inspired by the faith story of Danny and that of a new Christian whose shoes were too tight. I spoke with some whose hearts were too tight and some who had no hope of anything beyond this life. Choices and decisions, some good and some bad, had determined the path they were now walking. The saddest stories were from people who lamented their bad choices and longed to go back in time and choose more wisely.

Ivan, Fran, and I also sought to go back in time; we wanted to recapture a moment we cherished. We left the buoy and pedaled down Duval Street to Ivan's parked vehicle. After loading the bikes, we went in search of a restaurant. Not just any restaurant, but the Paradise Café.

Years earlier, my wife and I had visited Key West with Ivan and Fran. Ivan and I were both in the restaurant business, and we wanted to sample local food specialties. On foot, the four of us had wandered the side streets until we found a small, out-of-the-way corner café that was noted for serving the best Cuban sandwiches in Key West. At the Paradise Café we had spent a memorable hour, having a good time and creating something of a commotion. Ivan and I, of course, watched with interest the comings and goings of a small mom-and-pop eatery, while the ladies were having their usual fun, laughing and talking about whatever it is that women talk about.

Now my friends and I agreed that the Paradise Café would be the perfect place to celebrate the conclusion of my bike ride. We drove the back streets, trying to recall familiar landmarks, jubilant when at last we found the eatery.

But something was amiss. No sign designated this place as the Paradise Café, and no cars were parked out front; the place had clearly shut down. We stood on the front porch and peered into the deserted interior.

The café was gone, and so was that time we had wanted to recapture. We can never go back and repeat first or wonderful events. Even if the eatery had been open, our time now would not have matched the memories we wanted to re-create. We four had had a wonderful time at the Paradise Café years ago; but sadly, it had done what many restaurants do, failed to survive. Even sadder, my wife failed to survive the disease she fought, and she passed away and left me behind. This journey through life is in one direction—forward. As badly as we would like to go back in time, we cannot.

Time is an incredible concept that seems so simple, yet scientists, theologians, and philosophers spend entire lifetimes attempting to understand exactly what time is. For all our differences in this country of ours, time is one of the few things we all have in common. Time measures, regulates, and rules our lives and gives structure to all our thinking.

Christians believe that we exist in a small amount of measured time but God exists forever, before and after our dimension. Believers talk about eternity and a world without time. But our thinking here in this world is saturated with the idea of time as a measurement. Even folks that deny God and his creation of the earth need to discover a beginning. They are compelled to come up with theories such as the big bang, evolution, and other explanations for the birth of time, space, and mankind. For unbelievers, talking
about a God who has existed forever and an eternity that never ends is foolishness.

Even for believers, the concept of forever is hard to comprehend. How can we live forever? How can a person not age? We have no way to grasp this, no way to understand, because we are so rooted in time.

As I pedaled along, I spent a lot of time pondering time. That dark night in Utah had seemed endless (another word attempting to describe something outside time) and reminded me of the endless separation from God that a person will experience in hell. Time. Forever. Eternity. Those words had looped through my mind continuously as I struggled through the long night, and that was the closest thing to hell I have ever experienced.

I know God has a reason for what he does in my life and a message for both myself and my readers. I'm convinced the message God gave me that night was:
It's about time to prepare for a place where it's no longer about time
.

We drove back to Sarasota with the rain drumming against the windshield.

Rain had dampened the very first mile of my Appalachian Trail hike. Through fourteen states and more than four months, I was often caught in thunderstorms. I hated walking in rain; it would have been no surprise had I found myself sprouting mushrooms. Rain fell on me every day of the last two weeks of my hike; as I neared my final goal, I was always cold and miserably wet.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons I pedaled like a madman to outrun any storm clouds that appeared as I biked across America. I had been fortunate in avoiding most rainstorms that might have soaked me. In southern Florida, I had dodged afternoon showers, imploring God to allow me to stay dry yet one more day.

As we left Key West, the rain started. It continued all afternoon and evening. It was as if God had held back the rain for one solitary bike rider but was now allowing it to fall freely once again.

On January 4, 2011, a news flash came over the Associated Press wires. Sometime over the weekend, vandals in Nevada had cut down a seventy-foot cottonwood tree known at the Shoe Tree. The cottonwood was filled with hundreds of pairs of shoes tossed there by passing motorists. The owner of nearby Middlegate Station scheduled a memorial for the tree on February 13. One news site described the attack on the tree as having been committed by “dastardly vandals.” The few residents of Middlegate Station were shocked and angered at the destruction of the famous tree.

I remembered the vivid colors of the evening when I had biked to that same tree. The sun was setting, and brilliant red and gold rays emanated from behind the distant mountains. The tree was a wonder: shoes hung from every branch and thousands of pairs lay heaped around the base of the tree. How many years had folks been throwing up their sacrifices of footwear, observing this ritual of the Shoe Tree?

I thought about all the characters I'd met at Middlegate Station and reflected on the unlikely friendship that had sprung up between liberal politician Cynthia McKinney and this conservative Holmes County Mennonite. Our paths crossed that first evening as I walked across the gravel parking lot; we stood outside and got acquainted as darkness settled in. Our differences of opinion on almost everything were immediately apparent, yet our conversation that evening was sacred.

Weeks after my ride was over, I saw a news article about Cynthia McKinney. The article mentioned that she had ridden across America with a group on bicycles. In the interview, she spoke about
her experiences on her ride. “There is so much hatred in this town,” she was quoted as saying. “We need to start a conversation based on love.”

I was amazed and humbled. God had directed me to that desert parking lot to fulfill an appointment he had scheduled.

One January day while trying to write this tome and confronted with yet another mental block, I abandoned my keyboard and visited a graveyard. Over forty-four years had passed since I'd last stood by my friend's grave. When Ivan was buried, this church had just been built, and he was the first person planted in the new garden of rest. As I walked toward the church, I recalled that cemetery, with one fresh, solitary grave.

Rounding the corner of the church, I was surprised by thirty additional plantings in this sacred place. The garden lay quiet, waiting. Someday, when directed by the keeper of all such gardens, this silent spot will burst into life.

I walked among many memories that day, recognizing most of the names. The lives represented by those headstones had woven threads into the fabric of my own life, some with only a small touch, others playing a much greater role. Everyone we meet adds something to our stories, as we do to theirs.

None in that graveyard, however, had as great an impact on my life as my fourteen-year-old biking partner. Long I stood in silence, remembering that fateful night. Now Ivan was in his forty-fifth year of his first day in heaven.