Biking Across America (4 page)

“It keeps the flies from flying through the opening,” she said.

“You mean that actually works?” I asked in disbelief.

Apparently the flies are attracted to the bag of water and bump into it, and thus are deterred from entering. For twenty-five years in the restaurant business, I had spent a small fortune on sprays, granules, and other strategies of fly destruction. Could it really be true that all I needed was a bag of water over the front entrance?

My enchantment with the fly repellent system was interrupted by Andy's arrival. After spending several minutes getting reacquainted, we loaded the bike and its burdens into his car and headed inland.

Oregon offers many different terrains. Our route back to Andy's house seemed to consist primarily of hills and curves. Andy attacked these curves with vigor. Had my sense of motion been altered by riding the highway at 10 mph, or was he really screaming around those curves too fast?

I'd been invited to stay at Andy's house for the night. Happily, this included a delicious meal cooked by Andy's wife, Lois. Since it was Wednesday and a church night, I joined them for an evening service at the Brownsville Mennonite Church.

Along the way, we passed numerous seed farms scattered throughout Willamette Valley. Grass seed farming is big business here, with over 430,000 acres dedicated to this crop. The grass seed is harvested and taken to a mill, dried, cleaned, and packed for distribution. Huge bales of the straw left behind after the harvest were scattered all over the fields, awaiting transport to a local compactor, where they would be compacted to half their original size and shipped overseas for animal bedding.

At one time, the seed farmers burned off their fields as part of the agricultural cycle. That burning is essential for some types of grass to produce well; burning also controls diseases and pests. But the environmental folks took offense to the smoke and banned burning on all but 15,000 acres. As a result, many seed farmers
must now use more pesticides and chemicals on their fields. That was quite a trade-off—several days of smoke traded for a lifetime of contaminated water.

After a nourishing breakfast the following morning, Andy took me on a tour through the seed processing plant where he was employed. That afternoon, as we headed back to Newport, he kindly offered to drive me and my bike several miles beyond the city so that I would not have to tangle with the traffic. I declined, telling him how important it was for me to continue my ride from the point where he had picked me up, the precise spot where my bike had stopped rolling the day before at the Red Door Café. I knew that even skipping a small section would come back to haunt me.

Over the next several days in Oregon, I rode through small coastal towns, parallel to long stretches of beaches, and past miles and miles of large sand dunes piled high by the elements over the ages.

On a big downhill, I hit my maximum speed for the entire trip, 43 mph. I also hit a bump in the road that scared some sense into me. That speed was not safe, especially with loaded panniers. I decided that a speed of 35 would be the maximum I'd allow the bike to coast; anything faster than that would jeopardize my survival if I had a fall. I found that I had to use my brakes on many downhills after that, and there was always the temptation to just let the bike fly—but that would have been irresponsible.

Approaching North Bend, I saw another monstrous bridge in the distance. This one was the Conde B. McCullough Memorial Bridge, a 5,300-foot truss design built in 1936 that crossed Coos Bay. Cyclists are advised to walk their bikes across this mile-long bridge; the two lanes are narrow with no shoulder, traffic is heavy, and the winds are strong.

The bridge did have a sidewalk, but it was just wide enough for one pedestrian; squeezing both my bike and myself onto the
walkway was difficult. I dropped the bike onto the roadway, and I stayed on the sidewalk. The walkway was almost a foot higher than the road surface, and pushing the bike was awkward. The wind howled furiously. I struggled to keep myself and the bike upright. Were those drivers honking as they passed because they were aggravated at my slow progress or were they tooting encouragement in my wrestling match with bike and wind?

Things got even worse when I topped the highest portion of the bridge and saw that construction had closed the sidewalk. I was forced to ride on the roadway for the remainder of the crossing. I hoped those passing drivers who hurled invectives at me were not the Coos Bay welcoming committee.

At four in the afternoon, I entered Del Norte County and was in California. I was in my third state geographically but in a sad state physically. Although my muscles were acclimating to pedaling many miles, my body was aching from the hours perched on the bicycle seat. As I rode into Crescent City, California, I could think of only two things: I needed a tub to soak in, and I needed to find a way to get to the bottom of my bike seat issue.

I spotted an America's Best Motel with a reasonable rate. After checking into the motel, I carried my bicycle up a flight of stairs, already dreaming about the relief of a hot soak.

From that night forward, I would always ask before checking in, “Do you have a tub?” This room did not. I was greeted by a bathroom with a small shower unit in the corner. Completely distraught, I threw my clothes back on and marched to the front desk to request a room with a tub. To my dismay, I discovered the reason this place had the best prices in town: none of the rooms had a tub.

I returned to my room and surveyed the situation. The shower unit had a raised front panel. Perhaps I could turn the shower into a tub of desperation. The drain was recessed, and a plastic water cup from my room plugged that. Next I wedged my aching body
into a U-shape with legs and feet firmly planted against one side and shoulders and head on the other. Holding the shower curtain against the unit's raised front and the side walls, I created a container that held the hot water running over me. Slowly the water level rose, climbing considerably above what I thought possible, contained by a simple shower curtain.

I remembered my mom's days of canning meats and vegetables, and I could still hear the packed Mason jars rattling in the boiling water as the canner hissed and steamed on the stove. I felt like one of those ingredients in a canning jar, wedged into a tight spot, cooking in hot water. Although I didn't hear the little popping sound a jar makes when properly sealed, I knew I was finished when I could no longer move any body parts. I was packed so tightly into the shower that I had to roll out sideways, and I flopped out onto the tile floor along with a considerable amount of water. I slowly unfurled my misshapen body and guessed that the room below me might soon be reporting a plumbing leak somewhere above them.

Quite proud of my ingenuity, I cleaned up and went in search of food, my aching body relieved of its suffering—at least for a few hours.

E
very night I fell into bed bone-tired, thinking,
There is no way this body will have the energy to ride tomorrow
. But somehow a small miracle happened during the night, and my muscles and sinews came together, shared nutrients, and agreed to work for another day. A night of rest, a new morning, and I would again be caught up in anticipation of my adventure into the unknown.

After my first night of rest in California, I dressed quickly, eager to start the day's route that would take me through Redwood National Park. When I entered California the day before, Oregon's forests had given way to irrigated fields of vegetables. I was back in farming country and saw many herds of beef and dairy cattle. And just before arriving in Crescent City, I rode through Smith River, proclaimed the Easter Lily Capital of the World. But now I was headed toward the giant redwoods, something I had never seen but often tried to imagine.

Leaving Crescent City, I found the Redwood Highway and followed it along the coastline for several hours. Traffic was light and a damp mist blew in from the Pacific Ocean. I was riding through a forest shrouded with fog when an indistinct shape up ahead took my breath away.

The dark giant soared skyward through the gray mist, a sight more incredible than I had ever imagined. The God of creation had certainly worked his majesty here. Words of exclamation failed me as I met my first California redwood tree. I stood in awe and worshiped God that Sunday morning, singing with exhilarated spirit, “Majesty,” “How Great Is Our God,” and “How Great Thou Art.” For a long time I stood at the base of that tree and contemplated the wonder of the worlds his hands had made.

Throughout the morning other stands of trees captured my attention, but the largest trees were yet to come on the following day, when I would leave the Redwood Highway and ride down the Avenue of the Giants. These magnificent trees, many over three hundred feet tall, grow to such heights due to the constant and abundant moisture drifting in from the ocean. The fog enveloping the redwoods not only waters the trees but also reduces the loss of water through evaporation. These moist conditions allow the redwoods to grow for several thousand years.

That day was filled with incredible natural beauty. It was also a day of constantly changing weather. In the morning, I rode through fog and mist and felt the chill soak into my body. The afternoon brought sunshine and favorable wind conditions. A gust of wind traveling in my direction allowed me to catch a free ride. A tailwind was my best friend on some days of this journey.

On other occasions though, that friend became contrary and turned to meet me face-to-face. My speed would drop, and all I could do was doggedly pedal through those rough times. But like most good friends, the wind usually worked in my favor.

The favorable wind that day carried me twelve miles past the place I had planned to stop, bringing me to Arcata, California, for the night. This was typical of many days; although I would plan my ride each day, I could never be certain I would end up exactly where I had planned. When I decided to take this ride across America, I knew that God had folks for me to meet and appointments he wanted me to keep. I had no doubt that Arcata was exactly where God intended me to be that night.

At a restaurant that evening, the fellow in the booth next to mine caught my attention. Something about his demeanor struck a chord within me. Some may call it intuition, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit that prompted the conversation we two had that night. The man had led a rough life and had found love and contentment only in the most recent years. But not too long before I met him, his wife of several years had been thrown off a horse and killed instantly. In his grief, he was trying to make sense of the tragedy.

Our conversation reminded me once again that we too often take our loved ones for granted. Cherish your time with your loved ones. If you knew you only had a limited number of days to say or do what needs to be said or done, would you change anything about how you live this day?

I will say it for you: your time is limited and the moments are trickling away.

The next morning started with a ride around the cloverleaf entrance to Route 101. I joined hundreds of cars and trucks, just another person on the highway of life starting a new day. I knew another day of redwoods was ahead of me and the town of Eureka was my morning destination, but I was pedaling into another day of unknown adventure.

Just outside of Eureka I pulled off the road, amazed at the vast amount of lumber stacked around the California Redwood Lumber Company. Over thirty types of redwood boards are stocked there, sorted by grade and durability.

In downtown Eureka, I passed folks carrying full garbage bags over their shoulders. A casual observer might note the unkempt appearance of many of these people and characterize them as undesirable, and I didn't sense a story until after I had passed a recycling building and realized that was where these folks were going with their loaded bags. Curiosity got the better of me. I wheeled my bicycle around.

A car had pulled to the side of the street. The interior was filled with rubbish, and a couple worked at emptying the trunk of bottles and cans. The man's long black hair hung down over his face as he stooped over the sidewalk, filling garbage bags with the empty cans. I propped my bicycle against the wall of the building.

“Hey, man, can I help you with those?” I asked.

He looked at me skeptically. “Why would you want to?”

I explained that I was on a cross-country bike ride and was just curious about the goings-on here. He introduced himself as Joey.

“Folks collect cans over the weekend and bring them here for some money. As you can probably tell, most of them are addicts who need drug money. My wife and I are unemployed and homeless and have lived the past three years in a local campground, but this morning the cops came and chased all of us out.”

He went on to tell me that some drug activity had been going on at the campground, and so every squatter living there had been expelled. He and his wife had gathered all the bottles and cans they could find and brought them here for some cash.

“How much will you get for this carload?” I asked. He estimated a payment of thirty-five dollars. “What will you do now?” I wanted to know.

“We'll park the car somewhere for a couple days, then try to sneak back into the campground.”

I helped Joey carry his bounty into the processing center where the bottles and cans were weighed and separated. As I left, I thought about how fortunate we are in Amish country. People who find themselves destitute and homeless might be in those circumstances because of their own bad decisions or circumstances beyond their control. But whatever the reasons for their sad situation, it looked to me as though Joey and his wife had no support system whatsoever. In Amish country we have roots. We have several generations of family who care about us. We have churches that want to help. Granted, folks in small towns probably know more about you than you really want them to know—but isn't that better than having no one who cares?

I had just settled back into pedaling rhythm when I was stopped again, this time by an aroma that carried me back to boyhood. It was the aroma of food. But this was not people food; instead, it was a familiar smell floating from the huge Nilsen Company feed mill on my right. Before I started my career of feeding hungry humans, my dad had already worked for forty years feeding livestock. He worked in a grain mill, and I spent many days as a young lad roaming about the Mount Hope Elevator where he was employed. I'd ride with Dad as he made his rounds picking up and delivering grain at the Amish farms. While dad shoveled grain, I was off admiring the vast beams or the large sandstone foundations of the Amish barns.

I could not resist. I wandered around the mill, exploring sights and aromas, listening to the familiar hum of machinery, transported back to another time and place.

Earlier that morning, Eureka had been just a name on the map. Now it was images of drug addicts and homeless people scrounging for a few dollars contrasting with smells and sounds that took me back to my safe and innocent childhood.

Shortly past the town of Rio Dell, I exited onto the Avenue of the Giants. This section of road is the old Highway 101 and parallels Route 101 for thirty-one miles. The road is very narrow and giant redwoods crowd in on both sides.

Several hours later, I reached Garberville, a throwback to the hippie '60s era. Many long-haired folks roamed the main street. I was in an area known as the Emerald Triangle. The three counties of Humboldt, Mendocino, and Trinity are the largest producers of marijuana in the United States. Over a thousand growers have patches of cannabis scattered about the three counties, and it appeared that many consumers of this product had stationed themselves in Garberville.

I had observed that almost everything necessary for survival was available in the department store on the shoulder of America's highways. My bike had dodged coats and shoes, unopened cans of fruit, tools, gloves, flashlights, even the back end of a deer decoy. I occasionally stopped pedaling to pick up coins, and I had stashed away an almost-new screwdriver, thinking it might be useful. Here in the Emerald Triangle, hundreds of hypodermic needles lay scattered along the highway.

My most immediate need in Garberville was my daily soak, then I would search for food. From my motel window, I spotted a nearby Italian restaurant and made that my dining choice.

No one seemed to mind that there was no service. While I waited for a server, I did my daily journaling. I finally walked to the front desk and inquired about the possibility of service. The manager explained that he had several employees call off and was in a hopeless meltdown mode. He advised me to leave and go to another restaurant down the street. Since I had been on his side of several restaurant meltdowns myself, I had great sympathy for the man and did take my leave.

The second restaurant had no service either, but this one did not have a manager willing to tell me they didn't have service. I
finally joined the long line of folks at a nearby Subway and awaited my meal.

I have been told I lack patience, and the one thing all the dreadlocked youth around me seemed to have was patience. Perhaps patience is a side effect of that wild weed growing all over this area. California has passed a law legalizing the growth of medical marijuana. With a doctor's signature, you can legally raise and use the product. Could a person with an acute case of impatience get a prescription? In California, the answer is probably yes.

Back in my room, I savored my sandwich and made a call to my friends Joy and Alan in Novato, California. Joy is a friend from many years ago, and she had invited me to stop at their home near San Francisco. She is also the owner of the Berlin Natural Bakery in Amish country, running that business from her home on the West Coast. I planned to take a day off and get reacquainted with Joy and Alan.

The next day, I stopped and toured the famous One-Log House. In the 1940s, a man felled a giant redwood that was supposedly 2,100 years old. Over eight months' time, he carved a bedroom, kitchen, and living room out of a thirty-two-foot section of the tree trunk. Another enterprising fellow had purchased the one-log house and wheeled it about to fairs and festivals, charging a small admission to see the wonder. It now has a permanent home at a gift shop, where, for a dollar donation, I was allowed to walk through the cozy interior. It does give a new meaning to the term tree house.

Three miles short of Piercy, California, I needed a break. I gave in to curiosity and pulled over at Confusion Hill, a tourist trap promoting a house that defied gravity.

A small, ramshackle structure had been built into the hillside at a point where water supposedly ran uphill, down was up, and the laws of gravity were somehow suspended or even reversed. I knew I was about to become another gullible sucker, but I parted
with five dollars to satisfy my curiosity. The admission was $4.99 more than the sight was worth; I immediately realized that the odd angles of the shoddy construction gave it the appearance of defying gravity. I was sorry to have been separated from my five-dollar bill, but grudgingly admired the hucksterism it took to pull folks in off the highway for something so outlandish.