Pilgrim Spokes Excerpts

It’s one journey, so why two books? A simple answer would be nice, but I don’t think one fits here. The complete answer revolves around things like taking the time for deep and meaningful reflection, transforming the pace of a bicycle ride into a book, and wanting to tell a more complete story.

First, the time thing. Time for reflection was one of the many gifts I discovered on my pilgrimage across America. Reflection on myself, the places I rode through, the people I met, the things I discovered. My sojourn wasn’t about the million- and-a-half pedal strokes it took me to get from one coast to the other, or about the route I took, or about the places I slept at night. It was a wonderful adventure of discovery, and I want the story I share with readers to expose as much of that discovery as possible. I want my reflections to be deep enough for the reader to see the real journey, not just the lines on a map.

Then there’s the pace. Touring on a bicycle brings a different pace to the wandering. Clipping along at 14 mph let me spend a whole lot more time in each of the 3400 miles I found between the Paci c and the Atlantic. On a 777, the trip from coast to coast happens in the time required for a nice long nap—a magazine article version of the trip. In a car, it’s a real passage that lasts several days—an entire book, maybe. But on a bicycle, this is a pilgrimage. Trying to smash all that story into a single book feels like a disservice to both the odyssey and to the reader of the story. Sharing this journey in two books brings the right pace into the story.

And finally, there are the people who became part of the journey. Their stories, and how those stories resonated within me, are something that deserve telling. A beautiful Martin guitar sang to me from the corner of an old house in Missouri. I held it for a few minutes, coaxed a little music from it, and learned a lot about myself from the fella who owned that guitar. I became the steward of the story of the conversation we had, and failing to share that story in a way that does it justice, would feel to me like cheating.

For these reasons and more, I’ve told this story in two volumes. Is it absolutely necessary to read volume one before volume two? Probably not. But honestly, I think it’ll make for a more rich understanding of the journey if you do. 

The rhythm of jostling ice comforts me as I drift through the quintessential rural farmland rolling past on either side of us. The roadside is dotted with picturesque farmsteads that look as though they were put there for Norman Rockwell to paint. The corn’s healthy and tall, the wheat’s been neatly cut, and the kitchen gardens are all trim and well-tended. The drivers give us the entire lane at nearly every opportunity. Folks are as friendly here as they’ve been all the way across Kansas.

I don’t have a good singing voice, but I’m passable at harmonizing with other voices. When I’ve sung with folks in the past, especially when singing accapella, there’s a sweetness that happens when the voices come into tune with one another. It usually doesn’t happen with the first note, but rather it’s a progression that starts with folks struggling to find the right pitch. You steal sideways glances at other singers, and might see a furrowed brow now and again. Folks are leaning away from the other voices to avoid distraction. Then, as the music progresses, you hit a spot here and there where the voices come together nicely. From these little spots of good harmony coming together, smiles start to creep onto faces, wrinkles smooth out of brows, and tension is replaced by relaxation. You start to sing with your ears, your vocal cords and ears connecting unconsciously. Most of the time, this is as far as it gets—a few really wonderful spots where the harmony is just right, surrounded by music that’s close enough to right to sound pleasant. 

But now and again, something happens that feels like a little piece of heaven. The voices come together in a delicious harmony, and they stay there. When this happens, eyes close, and everyone leans together so they can better hear the voice as a whole. Instead of four voices, the sound becomes a single voice. If you’re lucky enough to be part of that when it happens, it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You feel chills all the way to your toes. You never want the singing to stop. When it does stop, you feel a powerful connection to the others in the group. 

There’s a sweet spot a little like this that can happen on a bicycle. It happens when the ride is pleasant, you feel good, the surroundings are nice, the weather is just right—essentially everything around you and about the ride is good. Then the riding itself starts to find the tune. You slowly crank the effort up to find that spot where lungs and heart and muscles all work hard together, balancing with a pedal cadence that feels right. Everything falls into place perfectly, harmony wraps itself around you, and you never want the ride to end. 

For me, 8:00 is pretty late for breakfast as it is, and this undetermined time for a delayed breakfast has me feeling uneasy. 

So I pace a bit, watching as George ambles into the kitchen. He’s focused on the coffee pot, emitting a distinct don’t bother me vibe. 

George doesn’t appear to be happy with the morning, wincing at any loud noise that invades his space. He’s a creature of late-night fun, who clearly struggles to find much good about the early morning. Yet, here we are, guests of his bed and breakfast, done with bed and waiting for the breakfast. With great deliberation, he begins his work. 

George strikes me as a man seeking deep Zen harmony as he begins to orchestrate the components of what will become our breakfast. Ingredients from the garden and the refrigerator come together on the countertops like tributaries flowing toward a rich river. Magic is in the air around the kitchen at Concord Hill, which only stokes my hunger. 

I pace, grabbing some fruit when I can. George is like a bear guarding his den as he moves around his sanctuary, clearly not happy that I’m encroaching, scavenging scraps while he tries to cook. George has the advantage of sharp kitchen utensils within easy reach, but I have the advantage of a well-rested body with quick reflexes. There are a couple of close calls accompanied by growls and grunts, the bear chasing the scavenger off his territory, the scavenger reaching in for a quick bite now and then. 

Maggie finally convinces me to go outside to enjoy the beautiful autumn morning while we patiently anticipate breakfast, assuring me that it will be worth the wait. Humph. Patience my ass. It’s past breakfast time, and I’m hungry. 

The tension evaporates around 10:00 as we sit down to what can only be described as an orgy of breakfast delight. My gushing praise of the food (when people can understand my garbled speech around mouthfuls of heaven) seems to ease George’s bad temper, and we eventually find peace in relative proportion to my consumption of breakfast and George’s consumption of strong coffee. 

Riding a bicycle on the highway in the rain is miserable. I’m pretty sure that if I looked up the word “miserable” in Wikipedia, it would say something like this: 

(of a situation or environment) causing someone to feel wretchedly unhappy or uncomfortable. “The miserable gray sky dripped cold water all along the highway, soaking the cyclist as he pedaled hard to try to stay warm. Each passing car or truck drenched him with grimy mist, sometimes dumping large quantities of splashed water from their tires when they passed too closely.” 

synonyms: tragic, gloomy, pathetic, sad, wretched, dreary, dismal, drab, depressing, grim, cheerless, bleak, desolate, poor, shabby, squalid, seedy, dilapidated, un-pleasant, disagreeable, depressing, wet, rainy, stormy 

antonyms: luxurious, glorious, lovely, dry, wonderful, warm 

This sucks. The world closes in around me. My focus sharpens and narrows. Every ounce of me goes into staying warm and safe. While part of me would like to stop, the hard pedaling keeps the furnace burning inside me, warming me inside my soaked clothes. There’s world around me on both sides, but all I can see is the pavement right in front of me. I don’t want my wheels on the white line because it’s so slick in the rain, and I need to watch out for wheel-eating holes in the pavement that could be hidden by puddles. 

A wet highway is a very lonely place on a bicycle. 

These are midwesterners passing me in the cars, which means they’re just a little nicer than folks in other regions of the country might be. They might be feeling sorry for the soak-ing wet guy shivering on the bike as they pass, or they might be giving me room because they wonder what kind of idiot doesn’t know any better than to get in out of the rain. 

In either case, they seem to give me just a little more space as they pass, and for this I’m grateful. 

Waddling into a diner once I reach Greenville, water squishing from me with every step, I notice that folks give me a wide berth as I pass. I can only imagine what a lugubrious sight I must be. (A tip of the hat to Carl Hiaasen about here . . . ) One hot burger later, I’m feeling much more human and loved, despite the continued excommunication I feel from the other patrons in the diner. 

Walking out of the diner, I look up into a sky that has brightened slightly, having apparently decided it’s dropped enough water for the day. I mount up and make my way to the B&B where I’ll stay tonight, where Nancy (the innkeeper) happens to be standing at the door to welcome me. My mood has brightened in direct (and inverse) proportion to the moisture falling from the sky, and Nancy’s southern hospitality warms my spirit even further. 

A hot shower completes my transformation back into a cheerful human being, and I make my way downstairs to visit with Nancy a bit. She’s a southern lady through and through, who clearly loves the chance to share her southern roots and hospitality with guests at her inn. My spirit warms further as I listen to her story, sipping tea, snacking on a dish of something sweet she’s set on the table for me. 

There’s something magical in an old covered bridge. The Houck Bridge and the Oakalla/Shoppell Bridge both cross the Big Walnut Creek, and I’m pulled into a little moment of enchantment as I explore first one then the other. My mind appreciates the engineering that’s apparent in the structures, but the mellow strength of the old structures plays to my heart. The quiet of the remote countryside, broken only by the trickle of the creek below, intoxicates me and holds my soul close. 

The bridges speak of a culture that cared about doing things well, about doing things in a way that lasts. Even the design concept—covering a bridge to be sure the creek can be crossed even in deep snow and ice—speaks of a culture bound and determined to live life fully day and night, every day of the year. 

These bridges cross a small creek deep in rural Indiana, and to say traffic is light would be an understatement. I see two cars in the hour or so I spend poking around these old pearls. I’m grateful for the solitude on such a lovely day in an enchanting setting. 

Leaning out to watch the creek flowing gently below me, the Japanese phrase wabi-sabi comes to mind. The phrase has evolved in meaning over the centuries—as words or phrases often do—today coming to represent a complex harmony between simplicity, humility, imperfection, and the caress of time on all things. The phrase speaks to me as I feel the solid planks under my feet, hear the simple voice of practicality in the design, and feel the age in the ancient worn wood. Simple, clean, strong, worn. Loved. Cared-for. 

A beautiful fall day drifts around me. The tranquility of the moment captures me. I’d like to take a nap and spend the rest of the day here. But I need to be in Indy this evening at a decent hour to share supper with an old friend. That balance again. Giving myself to the enjoyment of the moment while acknowledging the little planning gnomes and schedule trolls that are clearly part of me. 

Marriage isn’t a private union between two people. It’s a public thing. It’s shared equity in the complex web of human tribal glue. Often, it’s the key and primary glue. When a marriage unwinds, it takes with it threads that reach deep into the many layers of friendships, family, and other relationships that make up our life and define our tribe. 

I know that in some ways, our selfish 20th-century culture cheapened marriage with easy divorce. There are lots of folks who’d like to ignore the complexity of the situation by labeling this cheapening with some moniker that’s two syllables or less and will attract voters. I know many folks who want to throw around words like “sanctity” and “sacredness,” who want marriage to be a really simple thing that matches their own bias. 

Marriage is a sacred thing, but not in the way politicians like to throw around. It’s not a religious thing in general, though it may be to some individuals. To our culture as a whole, it’s sacred because it’s a key cement that holds the tribe together. When two people choose to intertwine their lives together in the public declaration of a marriage union, the tribe is strengthened by the glue the union brings. 

It doesn’t matter who the two people are, or what color their skin is, or what altar they worship at. It doesn’t matter what gender they are, or what political party they belong to. What matters is the public declaration of love and union. It’s tribal equity. Unwinding the union is a loss to the tribe—to everybody around the couple, not just to the couple themselves. 

I think back to my conversations with Cathy and Ann over the past couple of days, and on my reflections on my failures at relationships. I suppose a relationship isn’t much different from any other living thing. Some plants are annuals, exploding with color and show, madly spreading seeds from which future plants can sprout, then dying after only one season. Other plants are perennial, returning each year from roots that survive the winter. Still others are woody plants that survive year after year above ground, weathering each winter in progression, slowly putting on solid growth in the spring, storing nutrients each summer to prepare for the following winter. 

Each relationship we have as we travel our path is different. If we’re really lucky, we’ll have a few in this life that grow into solid oaks, showing weather and age, but thriving, surviving, and improving because of not in spite of age and adversity. I was blessed with a 30-year marriage that thrived and grew before withering. While there’s sadness in this that those little gremlins will always be happy to remind me of, there’s also great goodness that I should remember and be grateful for. 

In the other bed, Dave reaches over and clicks off the lamp on the table beside him. I lay awake, watching lights from outside the partially closed curtain playing across the ceiling. I’m a lucky man to have the solid oak planking of a friendship with Dave in my life. I’m a lucky man to have been part of a marriage that lasted 30 years. I hope to be wise enough to recognize and appreciate the wise and imperfect people I will cross paths with as I continue down this road I’m on.

Nobody along the back roads has any big point A or point B they’re moving from or to, and you pick that up from the drivers as they pass, from the stops along the way. It’s all local traffic—folks going to a neighbor’s, or to the grocery, or to complete a chore. Mom bringing lunch to Dad out in the field as he rakes that last cutting of hay for the season. 

Folks along the back roads are living right here, in this little piece of the universe. You feel that in the world as you pedal through it. You feel them sharing their slice of the universe with you. They’re hosting you on the road that winds its way through their lives. There are more smiles, more waves. More moms with groceries in their arms wondering where you’ve been and where you’re going. 

I think this must be what we felt back in the middle of the country, so welcome and safe as we rode across Kansas along US 160. Nobody was using that highway to get from A to B. There were too many other options for moving west to east. Folks along that road lived there, and we were guests in their home as we rode.

Her email was short, sweet, and to the point. All she said was, “Hurry.” 

Hurry. How much of my judgment tonight is impaired by that word? I watch, feeling almost like a bystander, as two normally reasonable men plummet toward unreasonable decisions. Nothing good ever starts with two men sharing a beer, saying things like “watch this.”

Watch this. 

The warmth of good beer bolsters our cockiness, suppressing objectivity and prudence, greasing the skids as we creep along the precipice of irrationality, preparing for our plunge into the abyss of dumb and dumber. 

Dave starts the tumble by asking, “So, how many miles would it save us to just stay on US 40 and skip the GAP trail?” 

“I can’t remember for sure. Maybe 20 or 30?” 

After a pause, Dave continues. “Really, the hills haven’t been that bad. I’ve actually enjoyed them.” 

“I agree. Today was one of the prettiest days of riding we’ve seen across the whole country. Are you wondering if maybe we should just stay on US 40 all the way to Cumberland?” 

“Well, yeah, I guess I am. What are your thoughts?” 

“There were three big reasons for avoiding US 40: Traffic, lack of shoulder, and hills. Tomorrow is Sunday, so traffic should be low, reducing the impact of the first two factors. If we’re okay with the hills, then really, I don’t see any reason not to stay on the highway.” 

Well, other than the fact that this was the most adamant advice I got from every single person I talked to ahead of time—to avoid this section of US 40. But see how this goes? It’s so easy for two relatively rational and intelligent men to talk themselves into really stupid things when they just had a great day of riding, which surely raises testosterone levels. Add a couple of beers, and stir the whole thing up with the unavoidable “mine’s bigger than yours” thing that happens when a couple of guys start bantering back and forth, challenging each other in the most subtle and implicit ways. 

“Right,” Dave continues, “and we can avoid a day of riding on that crushed rock.” 

“Yeah, the riding on it isn’t so bad, but the dust just gunks up the chain. And the hills haven’t been bad at all. I can’t imagine they’ll change much tomorrow.” 

Notice the subtle bravado? Me a man. Me not afraid of little hill. Me eat hills for lunch! 

Let’s talk about hills, and about climbing hills on a bike. Being from Colorado, I love to climb mountain roads on my bike. Few things are as satisfying as a nice five- or ten-mile climb, your body finding a delectable harmony of work, a rhythm of muscles and heart and lungs, climaxing with a summit from which you can see for miles. I like to stop for just a minute at the summit, enjoying the view while I consume calories that will soak into my body during the descent. 

The descent. That wonderful reward for the hard work of climbing. Screaming downhill, bending into corners, wrapped in the wind. Delicious recompense. 

These hills in western Pennsylvania are nothing at all like the mountains of Colorado. They’re short and steep, with no time to enjoy either the going up or the coming down. The coming down lasts only seconds, and when I hit the bottom, the turn back up is so abrupt that I feel like I must have hit a runaway truck ramp. Momentum carries me about 23 inches up the other side before I’m pushing the cranks again. 

When I start pushing the cranks, I’ve lost any rhythm I was developing on the last uphill section, and find myself standing up on the pedals trying to find a little shred of that climbing euphoria that’s so nice to feel. The muscles in my legs ache with the constant on-again, off-again pressure I’m putting on them, and my heart is very confused by the whole thing, clearly rebelling against my fickle demands.

We make our way to our room and call the local pizza parlor to order delivery of the biggest pizza they make, covered in every form of meat they can find. Dave’s still in the shower when our pizza debauchery arrives, and I don’t wait for him before tearing into it like a hyena over a gazelle on the plains of Africa. I don’t think I even wait for the door to close on the pizza delivery guy. 

My Garmin tells me I burned 8400 calories today. To put that into perspective, I think the average male my age needs to try to take in something like 2000 calories a day to be healthy. Less than that and most of us will lose weight. Back in my “olden days,” when I would backpack a lot, I would pack my food to give me 3000 to 3500 calories a day, which was the recommended intake for a very active male. I suppose it’s possible to take in 8400 calories in a day, but it would involve a lot of eating. 

Which helps to explain the whole hyena over a gazelle on the plains of Africa behavior, as well as the unnaturally good taste the pizza seems to have. 

A long hot shower later, with a belly stuffed with meat and pizza, I drift off to sleep. I’m struck by the joy I feel at tiny comforts. This cheap little hotel room, smelling of pizza, with the heat turned way up, feels like a little slice of heaven. 

Once again, it comes into focus. Our lives are so easy, comfortable, and consistent. We live in the middle of comfort, the lap of luxury by global standards. We’re only able to appreciate the comfort and luxury that surrounds us each day if we allow ourselves to ride along the edge of discomfort for a while. 

Gandhi’s observation that some folks are so hungry that they can only see God in the form of bread comes to mind, reminding me again that hunger can sometimes help bring life into better focus. Darkness, indeed, helps us see the glory of light. 

Hereafter, Dave and I will refer to this day as our day from hell on our trip across the nation. I suppose with all the heaven we’ve been treated to on this journey, a little taste of hell now and then isn’t such a bad thing.

But stuff happens. We’re not perfect. We did a good job of preparing for this ride, and we’ve been able to handle most of what has come up. It could always be better, but then again, it could always be worse. 

Finishing up the repair, wiping the grease off my fingers as best I can in the grass along the side of the road, I feel myself going through the mental recalibration, redefining where we are and what we do next. Highest in my recalibration efforts is a recognition of the goodness of our current situation. A beautiful day, a wonderful ride, a good friend with whom to share the tribulation of a broken chain.

We mount up and head down the road, Dave riding carefully on his wounded chain. I can feel his anguish, and I wish I could take some of it away from him. He feels guilty, like he failed at preparing well enough. Every mile he spends feeling guilty keeps him from enjoying this delightful autumn day. 

How much of life do we miss when we wallow in our regrets? How much wonder am I missing day to day when I sink into anguish for the stupid things I’ve done? What’s the trick to learning to let go of our failings, and embrace the goodness of the moment we’re in? It’s simple to say, but not at all easy to do. 

The early autumn day around me swallows me in splendor as I pedal along on good road with light traffic. At an age where I’m easing through a doorway into the autumn of my life, I realize that too much of me is consumed by disappointment at my failings, grief over sorrows I’ve been part of. I need to learn to pedal along, and give myself to the joy of this moment, not regrets for moments that aren’t here. Every fragment of life I spend on wishing for a moment other than the one I’m in is a fragment of life I miss. 

Pedal, breathe, smile, and enjoy.