Biking Across America (6 page)

Danny took a look. To his incredulous surprise, a new twenty-six-inch knobby bicycle tire lay in the middle of the truck bed.

“Didn't even remember it was there. Must have picked it up somewhere though,” said the young driver.

“I don't have any money to buy it,” said Danny.

“There's no charge. Take it, it's yours,” said the truck driver. Danny retrieved the tire and the truck sped away. It was an early morning miracle, and he thanked and praised God while he changed the tire.

Sitting there and listening to Danny's story, I was stunned. It was clear that God had used two flat tires that morning to synchronize our days so that we two would meet. How often are we inconvenienced by some unexpected turn, and in our frustration we fail to see that God may be setting up a divine occasion? Had my tire not been flat that morning, I would have missed this encounter with one of the most inspiring folks I have ever met.

After picking up my repaired bicycle, I thanked Danny for his testimony and his story. He had endured more pain and heartache than any one person should be asked to carry, yet he rejoiced in what little he had.

Back home in my sheltered community, we are fortunate and blessed, not only with the lovely landscape that is Holmes County but with good jobs, schools, and churches. I know of no one who is collecting cans for a few meager dollars to pay for their next meal. No one is sleeping under bridges because they are homeless in Amish country. No one I know has been beaten and robbed by meth addicts.

We are blessed because our community was created by ancestors who honored God, and our grandparents and parents passed a godly heritage on to us. Folks by the millions realize there is something compelling about our community. Sure, they come for the scenery, the food, the crafts, and the peaceful lodging. But there is something else drawing them here. I believe it is our people. We have something they desire—a slower lifestyle, a sense of contentment, a peace. Sadly, most will leave without hearing about the peace that passes all understanding.

As I pedaled away from Danny and the bike shop, I was still thinking about the amazing story I had heard that day. The Spirit within had nudged me about many things. I was reminded that God does work for what is best in our lives, and that God's children do not all look exactly like me. This inspiration and instruction came through someone I would probably have avoided if left to my own plan. I was also reminded to be grateful for my home and heritage.

You may be the person who can make a difference in someone else's life. The next time you are having a frustrating day and it seems that nothing is falling into place, be patient and watchful; a divine encounter may be just around the corner. Would I have met Danny if there had been no flat tires? Was everything that day just coincidence? Do encounters like this just randomly happen? What about the improbability of a pickup truck coming by in the early morning with a twenty-six-inch bicycle tire in the back? Might
Danny's benefactor have been an angel? Do you think angels could be driving pickup trucks?

I know what I believe, but I still have some unanswered questions. Of this one thing I am sure, though: God does move in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform.

A
s I planned my journey, I had a general idea of the route I wanted to take—down the West Coast, then inland and east—but I wasn't too concerned about finding my way from one town to another. The reality, however, was quite different. Some roads that led toward my next destination were unwelcoming and even forbidding.

While pedaling into Cloverdale, California, I spotted a sign at the on-ramp prohibiting bicycles on the next stretch of Highway 101. In my room that evening, I researched Route 101 and discovered there were sections that were designated as interstate highways—no biking allowed. I had already pedaled some of those sections, but my law breaking was quite unintentional.

Now, with the knowledge that I would be breaking the law if I continued on the same road, I went in search of more information. At a service station, someone told me about an old road called the Old Redwood Highway. It ran somewhat parallel to 101 and would be my new route in the morning.

In the faint, early morning light, I found my new old highway. I was in Sonoma County and entering wine country. Over 150 wineries dot the landscape. On either side of me stretched long rows of grapevines. Some rows marched straight across the countryside; other rows meandered around slopes and valleys.

I rode through the small communities of Asti, Geyserville, and Healdsburg. The meticulously manicured wineries took me back several years to another time and a memory that still makes me smile.

It was the year before my wife passed away. We were in Napa Valley with my youngest daughter and her husband, and I had been regaling them with stories of my youth and some of my mischievous adventures. My daughter had said wistfully that she didn't have memories of such childhood escapades. I told her that my childhood list of forbidden things had been so long that it actually became a challenge for me to discover and explore as many of those things as I could.

“You didn't have those prohibitions; you had freedoms I didn't have,” I said. What irony! The life that had felt so restrictive to me now seemed appealing to my daughter.

We had already visited several other wineries when we approached the Robert Mondavi Winery. I recognized the name and decided to make this our final tour. While my family browsed the gift shop, I noticed a door leading to a small garden. Being somewhat allergic to gift shops, I decided to check out the surroundings.

Beyond a terraced garden was a large, ornate doorway posted with a sign prohibiting visitors. “Private area, no visitors beyond this point,” it read. However, the message relayed to my brain was “Proceed at your own risk.” There had to be something special back there, and I was curious what it might be. I decided that asking for forgiveness later rather than permission now was the proper way to proceed.

The doorway led to a building with private wine-tasting rooms. Long and elaborately carved wooden tables graced these rooms, and locked glass cabinets held rare wines. This was obviously where the rich and famous met to sample expensive wines and convince each other of their importance. What caught my eye, though, was a familiar figure walking toward me. I recognized her as Maria Shriver, the niece of President Kennedy and the wife of the then-governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger. And I surmised that if Maria was here, the governor might be present also.

My daughter would want to be a part of this adventure. I hurried back to the gift shop and reminded her of our conversation that morning.

“Here's your chance for an adventure. Follow me,” I told her. She and her husband both followed me out through the garden. Then she spotted that obnoxious sign.

“It says no one's allowed back here,” she said, with some hesitation.

“It means nothing. Keep following.”

We rounded a corner and came face-to-face with the governor of California, his wife, and their family. Granted, several burly security guards were also in attendance. But before the guards could deter me, I asked the governor if he had ever met an Amish man from Ohio. Okay, I might have misrepresented myself a little, but I'm sure he knew that I did not look like an Amish man. My question was enough to get his attention though.

“Ahh, Cuhlumbus,” he said with his Austrian accent. “That's one of my favorite cities; and Ohio is my second favorite state, next to California.” He had one of his sons take a picture as he posed with me and my daughter and son-in-law. The governor seemed genuinely happy to talk with us. I offered to show him around Amish country the next time he came to Ohio.

I am still waiting for him to call.

Pedaling through wine country and thinking about those good memories from not so long ago reminded me again how quickly life can change. Today, your family is intact and all is well; but that can all change in a heartbeat. We must cherish each day we have with each other. We really only have today to tell our loved ones how much they mean to us. Treasure those memories you make with your families. Someday you too may be on a journey where those good memories will sustain you.

My trip down memory lane took me to Santa Rosa, where I looked for the Petaluma Hill Road. This side road took me to Petaluma, but in that town I encountered a dilemma. My destination for day's end was Novato, where I'd take some time off to rest at Joy and Alan's house. A stretch of six miles of interstate highway led from Petaluma to Novato.

There was no other choice, no side roads, no Plan B. I was forced to make a dash down the interstate highway. The sign prohibiting bikers flashed past me as I zoomed down the on-ramp. The traffic was heavy, but the shoulder was wide. I pedaled as fast as I could.

I saw the problem in the distance, a long bridge with no shoulder. I pulled to the side of the road and watched the traffic, waiting for a gap between vehicles that would be big enough for me to dart into the traffic flow and onto the bridge. At last a small opening appeared, and with a quick prayer for safety I entered the fray.

Horns blasting all around me confirmed I was unwelcome and in unfriendly territory. The ride was harrowing. I pedaled furiously and arrived on the other side, safe but shaken. I rode several more miles at breakneck speed, until the divided highway merged and I knew I was riding legally again.

By midafternoon I reached the outskirts of Novato. I still needed to maneuver through merging traffic at eight exit ramps before I reached the exit for Joy and Alan's house and a much-needed rest.

At my friends' home, I enjoyed a hot shower, a Coke, chocolate cake, steak, and potatoes. And more, I relished the company and conversation with friends. Loneliness had begun to shadow me as I pedaled alone every day.

I was still thirty miles from San Francisco. The traffic would only get worse as I approached the city, and I wanted to find an alternate, safer route to the Golden Gate Bridge. My dream of biking across that magnificent edifice was one of the reasons I had included San Francisco in my trip plan.

The next morning, Alan, Joy, and I spent several hours driving through small communities, charting a route to San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge.

The second morning at my friends' home, I climbed back on my bike and headed toward the famous bridge. San Francisco is built on a series of hills, and I meandered up and down narrow roads leading through quaint little clusters of homes. Houses seem to be stacked on the hillsides; down on the bay, people live in little houseboats.

My plan was to bike across the Golden Gate Bridge, and then Alan and Joy would pick me up and return me to their home for one more night. Another night in a nice house, another rest in a soft bed, more good food, and more time in the company of friends was more than I could resist.

The ride across the Golden Gate did not disappoint. Although I detest riding across bridges, this one has a large, enclosed sidewalk for bikers and pedestrians. I was filled with awe at the giant orange structure. Fog enveloped the tops of the towers that hold the giant cables. I could see Alcatraz out in the bay, the famous prison perched atop the rocky island.

I dodged gawking tourists and arrived safely on the south side of the bridge. From a parking lot there, a street curves down and
under the end of the span. I looped through the area under the bridge, acquainting myself with the streets. The next morning I would be dropped off here, and I wanted to make certain I started my ride at the precise spot I had ended it after crossing the bridge.

Back at Alan and Joy's house, I emptied my panniers and chose items to send home. Anything that was not absolutely essential would go. I gave up my plan to camp and boxed up all of my camping supplies. I had been carrying thirty pounds and was able to lighten my load by twelve.

At a local bike shop, I inquired about a less miserable seat. The shop owner sold me an expensive model he had used himself. He'd ridden over five thousand miles with no discomfort, he insisted. But judging by my ensuing experience with that seat, he had stretched the truth by 4,995 miles.

That evening, Alan warned me that I might have a problem leaving San Francisco the following morning. The San Francisco marathon was scheduled that day, and twenty-four thousand runners would be stampeding along the same route I would take from the Golden Gate Bridge to the San Francisco ferry terminal at Pier 41. I planned to cross San Francisco Bay on the ferry, a one-hour ride to Vallejo, California.

Early the following morning, we drove across the bridge again and Alan dropped me and my bike at the opposite end. I said good-bye to my friend, jumped on my bike, and coasted down the street that curved beneath the bridge.

My coast ended and I leaned into the pedals. But something was amiss. The pedals would not move. While the bicycle was lying in the back of Alan's van, the chain had dropped off the front gear and was now wedged tightly between the gear and the frame. I tugged and pulled to no avail. I needed a tool to pry my chain loose.

“The screwdriver!” I very nearly yelled. It rescued me from my predicament in the bowels of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Arriving at the spot where I had concluded my ride the previous day, I encountered the runners, thousands of them. The first six miles along Fisherman's Wharf was closed to vehicle traffic. It was the route I wanted to take to the ferry terminal, and I explained my dilemma to a policeman standing guard. He allowed me to proceed, but warned me to be very cautious. For the next hour, I was a salmon going upstream as I faced those twenty-four thousand runners. It was quite a task avoiding both the runners and the discarded water cups littering the street.

Just past Fisherman's Wharf, I saw Pier 39, where my family had departed on a visit to Alcatraz Island the day after our visit with the governor. But that was then and this was now, and I needed to get to Pier 41 for my ride. With just ten minutes to spare, I bought my ticket and arrived in Vallejo an hour later.

There my journey took on a new direction, a direction that filled me with joy. I was now pedaling east, riding in the direction of home. My route from Vallejo took me inland through farming country toward my goal for the evening, Sacramento, ninety miles away.

I was riding parallel to I-680 on Lopes Road. As if getting tangled up in a marathon wasn't enough excitement for one day, I now rode into a bicycle race! My intended route was filled with racing bikes of all kinds and descriptions. Fancy wheels flashed as riders bent into the wind, their colorful outfits all tagged with racing numbers. Tents and booths set up along the route catered to the needs of the racers, and folks lined the streets, cheering on their favorites.

With a warning from an official to be very cautious, I joined the fray. In the midst of this group of gazelles lumbered one biker encumbered by two loaded panniers. “What number are you?” spectators yelled at me. I held up my index finger and declared I was number one, slightly exaggerating my importance.

As I progressed inland, headed toward Sacramento and the mountain pass to Nevada, I rode alongside miles of avocado groves. Those gave way to fields of tomatoes and other vegetables.