Biking Across America Page 2

  “How about one-fifty?” I offered.

  “I really shouldn’t, and my boss will be unhappy if he finds out I let it go so cheap. But I suppose you can have it for that.”

  The deal was done, and I wheeled my bicycle down the hallway in anticipation of this spectacular suite.

  The Bella suite was designated as such by a piece of paper taped to the outside of the door. I opened the door and stepped into my extravagant luxury. Even through my exhaustion I saw the obvious—a sixty-nine-dollar room had been turned into a two-hundred-dollar suite. A tray with a bottle of grape juice and several pieces of chocolate candy greeted me. As much as a dollar might have been spent on red and black ribbons draped around the room. The look was topped off by red and black sheets and blankets and thirteen pillows—I only needed one. Oh, well; the soak in the tub was worth almost a hundred dollars to me.

  I decided to cross the street and look for much-needed nourishment at the store where “Bella” once worked. As I was leaving the motel, the front desk clerk rounded a corner and headed up toward the second floor. He gave me a sheepish grin. He was carrying a tray with chocolate pieces and a bottle of juice that looked very similar to the tray in my room. Something about that silly grin doesn’t quite make sense, I thought.

  On my return from Bella’s place of employment, I investigated what I already suspected. The scoundrel did indeed have sixty-nine-dollar rooms left but was turning them into two-hundred-dollar suites. Two more rooms had just been appointed as suites and marked as such by new sheets of paper stuck to the doors. If someone called for a room, he would have one room left; and when a sucker bit, a room would quickly be transformed into a suite.

  I resisted the urge to go to the front desk and dispense some Mennonite justice. I sort of admired the rascal’s business acumen. I comforted myself with the belief that someday the Dew Drop Inn would become an all-suite inn with many rooms featuring characters from my own books. Imagine the money this fellow could command for a room where both the author of the Twilight series and the author of this book had slept.

  The following morning I was rested and ready for a full day of riding. At the edge of Forks stood a road sign telling me it was one hundred and five miles to Aberdeen, Washington. Wow, I thought, that’s a century. Can I pull that off? A biker who does a “century” rides one hundred miles in one day. I had always dreamed of riding a hundred-mile day but had never succeeded. Well, okay, I’d never even attempted it before.

  Let’s go for it, a corner of my brain said. Are you crazy? my body replied. This is only the second day of a long journey; let’s use some common sense here.

  But the sane part of me was overruled. It was a beautiful Sunday and as I rode the miles flew by, miles of forest, wildflowers, and sheer beauty. There were occasional sections of clear-cutting where posted signs indicated when each section had been cut and when it was due to be harvested again. Sometimes the forest broke to give me views out over the hilly terrain. The road had its ups and downs, but nothing steep enough to require enormous exertion.

  Enveloped in mist, I reached the coast at a stretch of beach where thousands of logs had washed ashore. The wind remained favorable and the temperature perfect for my longest ride ever. I reached the seventy-mile mark in relatively good shape—but at mile eighty I was gasping and wheezing, and a hundred miles looked impossible. Only twenty-five more miles. You can do it, said my brain to my body. It became an endurance contest, a test to see if my stubbornness and persistence could keep my body going long after it wanted to quit.

  At five o’clock I reached the hundred-mile mark. No town was in sight. I was totally alone, but I slammed on the brakes and celebrated my first century with a loud “Yippee!” Then I quickly finished my ride to Aberdeen. On only my second day out, I had already met one goal.

  My goal the following day would be to reach the town of Astoria, Oregon, eighty-two miles south.

  The air was damp and cold as I meandered three miles through the streets of Aberdeen the next morning. I had already learned how fast that cold Pacific mist could soak my clothes, so I wore my rain jacket. I stayed dry, but I wasn’t warm. Three hours of pedaling brought me to the town of Raymond, where a corner café cleverly named Corner Café enticed me in from the cold for a bowl of hot soup. I frittered away an hour while observing the comings and goings of the small town eatery.

  As I pedaled through the town of South Bend, I observed a large conveyor belt protruding from a building. What appeared to be oyster shells were carried along the conveyor and dropped into the back of a truck. I pulled off the road and watched the scene for a while. Traveling along the coast, I’d seen numerous fishing vessels putting out into the bay. I guessed this building played some part in oyster harvesting, but I had no idea what process was taking place inside.

  Several miles later, curiosity got the best of me. I stopped at Goose Point Oysters, along Willapa Bay, and asked if they would allow me to tour their oyster processing plant. They were very accommodating, and outfitted me with a hairnet and invited me in. Inside, fifteen workers were hard at work shucking and sorting the disgusting-looking critters.

  They offered me a raw oyster, white, slimy, and gelatinous. Although I had never had the courage to eat one before, I decided to give it a try. I realize some folks think raw oysters are a delicacy, but in my case, it was not to be. I gagged. I knew I’d either have to lose the oyster now or risk losing both the oyster and my Corner Café soup. I rushed out the door and heaved that badly damaged oyster back into the bay.

  While waiting for my throat to stop constricting, I noticed thousands of pounds of shells bagged and stacked nearby. I introduced myself to the barge captain, Hector, and questioned him about the process of raising oysters. From millions of larvae, oyster farmers grow “seed” oysters that are scattered on the mud flats in the bay and left to mature for several years before they are harvested.

  He was preparing to head out to raise the large metal cages containing seed oysters, dump them on the barge, and distribute them evenly in the bay to grow for three more years. “Do you want to go out with us?” he asked.

  I vacillated for a while. Hector said they’d be out on the bay for three hours. It was already two o’clock and Astoria was still four hours away. On the other hand, this trip was about meeting people and seeing new things. This opportunity definitely qualified on both counts.

  As Hector, his three co-workers, and I putt-putted out into the bay, he explained the entire oyster operation to me. It was really just a farm out at sea. They leased six hundred acres, which was their oyster farm. Other farmers leased surrounding waters. Instead of fences marking boundaries, tree branches were stuck in the muddy bottom to designate territories. Hector had started years before, shucking oysters himself, and had worked his way up to be captain of his own boat. I inquired about compensation for the men I’d seen furiously shucking the oysters. They were paid by the pound. A good oyster shucker could make about thirty dollars an hour.

  In three hours, I learned more about oysters than I ever expected. But it was now five o’clock and I was still forty miles from my destination of Astoria. I explained to Hector that I had wanted to be in Astoria by nightfall, and he offered a shorter route than the one I had planned.

  “When Route 101 turns right, you turn left onto Highway 4. Then take 401 south to the bridge,” he said.

  The bridge Hector was referring to was the Astoria-Megler Bridge. This four-mile bridge crosses the Columbia River at Point Ellice near Megler, Washington.

  I took the route he suggested, and as darkness approached I could see the lights of the bridge far in the distance. Headed downhill, I heard a clatter that sounded as if something had fallen from the bike, but I couldn’t detect what I might have lost. I kept pedaling.

  As I entered the narrow, two-lane bridge, I remembered something I’d read about this bridge. It has almost no shoulder and is quite frightening. Pedestrians are not permitted to walk across the bridge. Bicyclists, however, are welcome to cross. How strange, I had thought at the time. If you wanted to walk across, all you needed to do was purchase a dilapidated bike and push it.

  It was close to nine o’clock, and time to turn on that expensive light I had purchased and installed on the bike. Of course, now I realized what that clattering noise had been several miles back. My headlight was missing. By then, I was halfway across that long, frightening bridge—without a headlight. At least my taillight worked.

  I hugged the right barrier and finished slowly working my way across the bridge. Fortunately, the traffic was not heavy; whenever a car approached, I’d dismount and squeeze myself and my bike tightly against the barrier. The last mile of the crossing was an uphill pedal, climbing the arch of the bridge that allowed huge ships to pass below.

  Somewhere on the bridge, as I rode nervously through the darkness, I left the state of Washington. The town of Astoria, Oregon, welcomed me at the other end of the span.

  Astoria is a starting point for many cross-country bikers riding across the northern tier of America. On a directional sign just off the bridge, one arrow pointed left and one arrow pointed right. To the left was US Route 30 East. If I turned in that direction, Route 30 would take me through Wooster, Ohio, and on to Atlantic City, New Jersey, cutting my route by almost two thousand miles. Instead, I turned right onto Route 101, and Route 30 became another road not taken.

  Shortly after nine o’clock, I checked into a motel in Astoria, hungry and exhausted. I was too tired and it was too late to go out for dinner. The young lady at the front desk took pity on me, and while I unpacked my bike, she rummaged through the kitchen and fixed me a plate of breakfast food. I was grateful for such a kind deed. It was just the first of many kindnesses shown a solitary rider as he biked
across America.

  3

  The Road Chosen

  We humans seek routine. Routine holds comfort and safety, and disruptions that throw our routines completely off course can be unsettling and even painful.

  You say you don’t have routines? Or you claim that routine is not important to you? Do you always take one route to work, even though several routes are available? Do your mornings follow the same schedule, day after day? Is there a favorite shirt you often wear? What about that chair that is yours to sit in while you watch television or read the newspaper? Is there a favorite blanket that always must lie on your bed? Do you sit in the same place in church every Sunday?

  Why do we follow such patterns? We settle into routine because it feels safe. Yes, even those of you who think routine is not important have habitual behaviors. We all like the safety of known routines.

  My life had lately been in a state of constant disruption. For over thirty years, my routine consisted of going to work and then returning to the comforts of home and family. Going home after a day of work or play soothed my soul. Going home was all about being safe, wanted, and needed.

  As I pedaled down the Pacific coastline, I headed straight into the unknown. I had no idea what lay ahead of me. My routines of thirty years were gone; in the two years since my return from the Appalachian Trail, I had begun to chisel out a new shape for my life, adopting new habits and daily rituals. Now it would be months before I could go home to the solace of that relatively new life. I needed to establish some routines on the road, something that added a small bit of predictability and consolation to my days. This was important if I wanted to find peace on my new journey.

  And so I got up every day and went to work. My work now was pedaling my bicycle. The assignment for the day might be to reach some town seventy or eighty miles closer to Key West. Rather than the profit and loss statements that had measured my previous life, maps and miles traveled gauged each day’s efforts. (Yes, I take pleasure from the small successes of daily life.)

  Coming home each night was now simply finding a room for my weary body and my bike. The bike stayed with me; all my worldly possessions were in its panniers. Instead of being greeted by spouse and family after a day of work, my reward now was a long soak in a hot bath. That soak became the incentive for me to reach my daily goal. Many times my weary body fell asleep in the tub and I’d awaken much later, looking every bit like a wrinkled newborn. Next came a search for food. And later, I would take out my computer and maps to plan the following day’s journey. My final act would be to complete my daily blog and my personal journal entries.

  Once in my motel room, I’d settle into that evening routine and I was home. Yes, I had a different home every night; but each night four walls and a roof represented safety at the end of another long day. And isn’t that what routines are all about—feeling safe?

  I settled quickly into my biking routine, a routine I hoped would bring me comfort and keep me one step ahead of loneliness and despair.

  Leaving Astoria, I found my way to Lewis and Clark Road, which would lead me to the coast and a day filled with spectacular scenery. Morning mist blew in from the ocean as I pedaled through the coastal towns of Seaside and Cannon Beach.

  The dark mouth of a tunnel loomed ahead of me. As I neared it, I saw huge signs installed on either side of the entrance. Bikers wishing to enter the tunnel were to push a button that would activate flashing lights on the signs. This was a warning to oncoming cars that a biker was in the tunnel. I pushed the button and entered, but there was no shoulder to ride on and it was a nerve-racking ride to reach the daylight at the other end of the dark passageway.

  As I crested hills that morning, I looked out over large fog banks hovering above the Pacific waters. Dark monoliths rose out of the fog like mysterious citadels guarding the shore. By afternoon, the sun had burned off the mist and the full beauty of Oregon’s coastline was unveiled. I followed beaches where ocean waves lapped at the very edges of the road. Waves thundered against the rocky sentinels offshore, the slow but ceaseless erosion sculpting the unusual pillars of stone called sea stacks.

  Although the route could not be described as mountainous, the hills varied from two hundred to eight hundred feet in elevation. Coming down the hill toward Nehalem Bay, my bike was rolling along at speeds of almost 40 mph.

  My goal the next day was the seaside town of Newport, where I was scheduled to meet a friend from long ago. First, though, my route curved inland, through more countryside that looked very much like scenes from the rural areas back home. I reveled in familiar sights and smells. Farms and dairy herds abounded. It was like pedaling past the farms of my youth. Large herds of Holsteins grazed along my route, and I stopped at one feedlot and watched the farmer as he unloaded grain for his cattle.

  In one field, the arms of a large irrigation sprinkler revolved in a slow rhythm. At a certain point in each revolution, the sunlight hit the water at just the right angle and a rainbow shimmered for a moment and then disappeared. I stopped again, watching in fascination as each turn produced a new waterfall of color. So, I mused, this is where rainbows are made.

  My route now veered back toward the coast and took me through the town of Cloverdale, a small hamlet of less than four hundred people. Over Memorial Day weekend, Cloverdale had suffered a devastating fire in the downtown area that spread to a number of structures. Over one hundred firefighters from surrounding towns had been called in for assistance, but they were hindered by explosions and a shortage of readily available water. One charred building caught my attention immediately as I rode through town. The local fire station itself had been gutted by the fire.

  My contemplation of the irony of this tragic circumstance was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. My friend Andy from Talent, Oregon, was calling to see when I expected to arrive in Newport. He lived sixty miles inland but was planning to drive out to the coast to meet me.

  I had not seen Andy since the fateful night, forever etched in my memory, when my idyllic boyhood world was turned upside down and I learned that life was fragile.

  My friend Ivan had biked to my house that evening. Together we would ride to my cousin Marv’s house over at Honey Run for a sleepover. We two were meandering up the road on our bikes when a young man from my church drove up beside us. Andy was several years older than I, and he stopped to ask what we were up to. We chatted awhile, and he drove off. I had not seen Andy since that night, forty-four years ago. And that night was the last time Ivan and I were together on this earth.

  At eleven o’clock, Ivan, Marv, and I were still full of youthful energy and decided to take a night bike ride. We headed out the long gravel driveway that led to the quiet country road. At the end of the drive, we stopped and chatted in the moonlight for several minutes. Then we had to decide which way to turn. The road to the right was level and an easier ride. Going to the left required a climb, but our reward would be an exhilarating downhill flight.

  Most decisions we make in life are insignificant, or so we think. But sometimes a seemingly small choice can have unexpected consequences that change the course of a life. Ivan made the call that night. “Let’s go left,” he said. That decision cost him his life. What might have been different if we had gone right? What if we had stayed home that night, and never got on our bikes?

  We were flying down the long hill, our bike tires humming in the quiet night, when my friend Ivan disappeared. On my left, my cousin still coasted toward the bottom of the hill. But Ivan, on my right, had vanished.

  His bike had veered onto the shoulder, where gravel grabbed the thin tires, and he couldn’t regain control. As we crossed a bridge over a small stream, his bike hurtled down the creek bank and Ivan was launched across the water and struck his head on a wooden retaining wall on the opposite side of the creek. Until the bridge was rebuilt years later, the indentation carved in the boards by Ivan’s glasses remained visible, a painful reminder of the uncertainties of life.