Tuesday,
March 29, Day 0
Less
than 24 hours to Go Time! One more little test of the posting
system via this cool little handheld Pocket PC from Dell (Axim
X30 w/ a Bluetooth collapsible full size keyboard). My entire computer
system, when folded up, is smaller than my copy of The Grapes of Wrath.
Must continue errands to get ready to say farewell at Community Meeting (school
assembly) tomorrow at 10.00 a.m. Whoo-Hoo!
--
PJClements
Wednesday,
March 30, Day 1
43 miles, Peddie to Cinnaminson, NJ.
Well,
this journey has begun. What a great beginning to the trip, and a good start to
the spring term at Peddie, to leave from Community Meeting (our all school
assembly) after addressing the kids and saying goodbye, and having them respond
with a rousing sendoff from the steps of the theatre. Really cool too was a
package of letters from the kids of Western Civ
Studies class ("Read just one each night, Mr. Clements."), and a
special cache of chocolate for the road. All of the kids' gestures were moving,
the work of a rich community.
Special
too was riding from Peddie to Crosswicks with Neal
Hammer, a good friend and the father of two Peddie women, both Principio
students. Neal and Lois Hammer making the time to participate in this little
adventure and affirm again their special character, is humbling. However, what
was most powerful of all was Melanie Clements, just her own self, being lovely,
smiling, and free. Leaving her for all this time is daunting, and will probably
crush me some depressed day down the road. But today her total gracious
coolness felt like enough power for a couple thousand miles.
I
had a terrific experience in the Burlington County Bike Center on Charleston Road in Willingboro. I pulled in because my headset was
a bit loose (and my butt a bit sore), and owner Susan Nece
and John, wrench extraordinaire, fixed me up in a flash with good bike repair,
a nifty bike map of the Philly region, and some good conversation. I'll post
their photo for sure!
Tomorrow
I cross over into Philly and head toward Lancaster, following as much as I can the old
Lancaster
Road /Philadelphia Pike as traffic permits. I'll not post this
first report until Thursday, maybe from some coffee joint near U. Penn.
Peddie
people: thank you. You inspire me. Melanie: thanks beyond words. Friends and
other family: everything's looking good. More later,
folks, from further on down the road.
--PJClements
Thursday,
March 31, Day 2
68 miles from Cinnaminson, NJ to Kinser, PA.
Easy
up and out from the nameless motel smack up against busy Route 130, a beneath
brow joint where I had to ask for hot water for the shower but the porno was
furnished on Channel 2 unbidden. Pedaled down the old River Road through industrial riverside NJ,
further on into Camden, down State Street far enough to ask directions and be
glad it was morning. Pushed the bike up to the pedestrian crossing on the Ben Franklin Bridge, and enjoyed Philadelphia unfolding itself from high in the
air at walking speed. Down into town, chatting with George Washington for a bit
at Independence Hall, then across Walnut Street through town and on to UPenn.
I
passed West Philadelphia High School on Walnut, and Overbrook High on Lancaster Avenue, spectacular statements both.
Lancaster Avenue took me past Villanova University, Haverford School, where
baseball and lacrosse team were warming up, and on past old wealth, some newer
victories, commerce always, slowly out of the city and on to towns further on
down the old road, Paoli, Malvern, Downington,
Coatesville, Sadsbury.
Stayed the night at the Roamers' Retreat Campground,
hurrying to beat dropping temperatures and the threat of rain. $27 for the tent
site (steep but worth it) and $4.59 for dinner. Can't
beat that. Off in the morning to Lancaster, York, Gettysburg, and wherever else I manage.
--
PJClements
Friday,
April 1, Day 3
Kinser -> Gettysburg PA (77 miles / 188 total)
A
sweet day, especially since I feared rain in the night. Woke up to 42 degrees,
toasty in the tent, and got ready to roll. Pedaled through Paradise on the way to Lancaster along Highway 30. Lancaster is a handsome town, and quaint, yet
a hub of explosive trucking activity. I stopped to watch police halt traffic to
allow a wave of women to cross the highway for a quilters
convention, 53 footers rumbling patiently, waiting to resume their missions.
Highway
30 gave way to 462 through York, then finally to a smaller road,
116 to Hanover and Gettysburg. The land has been rolling,
sometimes quilted up by Amish, frequently smoothed by dairy farming. The land
always seems hustled in some way: "Buy Here, Pay Here" used car places;
old 18th c. Stone houses and milking barns along the road; farms and paper
factories; row houses in towns. As I slide along, the scenes unfold at
contemplative speed, appearing long enough to focus on and wonder, but then
being replaced by something intriguing enough to change my focus. When I get
off the old main roads, or when the density of "stuff" relaxes and
the population declines, I'll wonder differently, and longer. Nonetheless, today included a bright morning redolent of both Amish
farms and diesel power, and it ended in the gray rain of the battlegrounds at Gettysburg.
I
looked up Grant Acker '01 at Gettysburg College, knowing that it was Friday evening
of a senior's spring term. We met outside a fraternity house on the college
main street, and caught up with our lives, families and friends. He's still
Grant Acker, but older, bigger, stubbled, and with
things to do before a May 15 graduation.
The
campground where I had planned to stay refused me admission, saying I'd be
flooded out by morning. I'm thus staying at a budget motel (killing my budget
but much nicer than that place in Cinnaminson), and will figure out how far I can
manage Saturday, and how. The weatherheads are
talking about 2" of rain, temperatures in the 40s, and a slow storm. Maybe Blue Ridge Summit?
--
PJClements
Saturday,
April 2, Day 4
Gettysburg -> Blue Ridge Summit (23 miles /
211 total)
Woke up in a hotel to rain, heavy rain, continued minute to
minute worry about the Pope, and Weather Channel images of terrible, awful,
flooding rain. I
sat and wondered whether I should stay in G'burg, or
head out. After the second round of weather channel reports, I realized that
only disaster lurks on TV. Between radar images of regional rain, the weatherhead showed clips of flooding in Wayne, NJ and then a 1963 film of a Dallas tornado, F3, as a lead to a report
that Tornado Alley is quiet. Forty year old black and white film
("Terrific film quality," he said.) of unspeakable destruction to
inform us that everything is OK. With that, I checked out.
Rain
was sluicing down the gutters up into Gettysburg town, and it didn't let up. In just
a few minutes I was very wet, in a half hour I was soaked. The creeks were
flooded and in low sections of 116 I had to move to the middle of the road to avoid
rising water. Two cherubs in an empty fruit stand promised a place to eat ahead
in Fairfield. Mid day meal at the "Book and
Table" diner, where I had a long gabble with proprietor Shelly Kellogg,
and he 20 year old son Matt Fletcher and 25 daughter
Sara Fletcher, both helping out Mom on Saturday in the diner. Good stories;
more later.
Onward into Carroll Valley, and then up
Route 16 to Blue Ridge Summit, a memorable climb. Lee led a retreating army up this
road, and years later Chavon Sutton flopped on the
ground at the top and exploded into tears, having pedaled to the top, the
hardest things she'd ever done. I smiled at the memory. We ate whole pies with
our fingers there. And Fernando got a haircut there too.
Warmed
up and dried out at the laundromat while washing all
I had. Talked with Rich De Luna across the street about his
history in the area. Called Susie Miller Lloyd and
secured permission to ride up to the "Mountain House." I
camped on the porch of the lovely old retreat house, my tent stakes duct-taped
to the porch deck, the wind howling up from the valley, snow swirling in the
morning. Not a lot of miles today, but it was a full day nonetheless.
I
carved a message to the Lloyd girls, leaving it inside the shutters of the
porch window. Their gift of "Monster Dude," a snarling green plastic
dinosaur toy, rides on my rear rack, facing backwards, guarding my rear. He's
been doing a great job.
Sunday
should be Waynesboro, Hagerstown, and then on down old Route 11 as
far into Virginia as I can go. The wind and the cold may be influential
today.
--
PJClements
Sunday,
April 3, Day 5
Blue
Ridge Summit -> Martinsburg WV (42 miles / 253 total)
Woke up on the porch, glad not to have been blown away by
the gale howling up from Waynesboro. 35 degrees and snow squalls as I
packed and headed down the mountain to Rousersville
and the valley. The wind was so strong I pedaled the downhills.
Grrrr.
Had a bite to eat out of the wind in a motel dining room, sharing it with a
stream of wedding guests saying goodbye and heading off on a compass of trips
home. The bride and groom took their time visiting once again with aunts and
cousins and friends from the past.
Headed south towards Hagerstown trying to hide
from the south wind, cold and grey. Maryland appeared and the winds didn't
change. Just outside Hagerstown I hooked up with Route 11, my road
for the next several hundred miles. I stopped for some celebratory coffee, and
was chatted up by an old lady at the next table. "If you're headed west,
don't go to Frostburg. It's much colder there." Thanks, I'll follow 11 south and avoid Frostburg. "I was born in Frostburg and
not until I went to work in Baltimore, during the war, did I realize how
cold it is in Frostburg. Where are you from." New Jersey. "It's much warmer there. Where you headed." I'm heading south down 11.
"Well don't go to Frostburg. It's much colder there."
I headed
south and crossed into West Virginia. The wind was just too brutal, so
my goal of hitting Virginia and riding in four states in one
day disappeared. A cheapo motel appeared outside Martinsburg, and I dived in
out of the cold and wind, far away from Frostburg.
--
PJClements
Monday
April 4, Day 6
Martinsburg WV -> Edinburg VA (60 miles / 313 total)
42 and windy, but clearing and sunny.
Rolling
down 11 it was clear I was still on a road of commerce, but the land was
softening up and some of the farms were larger and had been once more
substantial and prosperous. The road also sprouted Civil War battle signs,
markers just too wordy to read while pedaling, but neatly placed just often
enough to let me unsaddle myself for a moment. Winchester appeared,
a town that switched hands some dozen times during the War, and breakfast
beckoned. A county town, Winchester had several diners surrounding the
courthouse and lawyers' row. I joined the conversation at the Piccadilly Grill
(corner of Piccadilly and Cameron), a fifteen stool storefront breakfast joint.
Taking a seat out of the banter, I watched "Chuck," Phyllis Pyne (waitress), and Gary Reedy (short order cook, owner,
and Phyllis's brother) sass back and forth, first about Chuck's order and why
he couldn't make up his mind, or speak up, and why Gary's hearing was not what
it once was. After these stylized preliminaries, Gary asked whether Chuck's church had
done anything Sunday in honor of the Pope. There followed a half hour of back
and forth about priests who smoke cigarettes and drink beer, what a holy man
the Pope was no matter what religion, points on Catholics' worship Mary, the
cost of the Pentecostal church we just bought, wonder that the Pope was Polish,
a couple of theological clarifications, and then more religious argument. Had I
not known what old friends these folks were, and how comfortable they were
letting a stranger into the fray, I'd have thought they were at odds. "But
that's your right to believe that!" "It sure is, thank God."
Chuck, a pentecostal
"holy roller" was rightfully proud of his church community, growing
from 60 members a few years ago to 176 this week. Gary, both a Baptist and Catholic (try
that in NYC), was a terrific gentle needler, and a
kind man. "Chuck" declined to have his picture taken (I later learned
he's in the security business) with his partner in argument, but picked up my
check quietly on his way out. More on this exchange later.
South
of Strasburg, Route 11, The Valley Pike, turned great. Rolling through rich
farmland, the Blue Ridge knifes along on my left, the next ridge further to the
west on my right, both clearly focusing me and the road up the valley.
The
wind picked up again in the afternoon, and I was tuckered out as the sun fell.
In Edinburg, far short of any campgrounds I had
on my maps, there appeared a "Creekside
Camping" sign. I was saved. Hilda Arnaud welcomed me to a lovely campsite,
just upstream from "The Hatch, a B & B for Fly Fishermen." This 77 year old
woman with an explosion of curly grey hair has her own story. More on her later. I'm off on Tuesday, aiming through New
Markey, Harrisonburg, and Staunton, a good ride up the "Valley of
the Shadow."
--
PJClements
Tuesday
April 5, Day 7
Edinburg VA -> Mint Springs VA (71 miles / 385 total)
Today
was a day of riding. The sun came out and the air was still in the morning, and
the riding was sometimes sublime. Through New Market the Massanutten
mountains were a steady ridge edge on my left. Soon
the valley opened up wider and the quiet special road was lost to greater
commerce. Harrisonburg and later Staunton were important regional towns full
of people and manufacture. In some ways they were much like Lancaster and Chambersburg, important valley towns. No
surprise that Ted Ayers at U.Va. matched
Chambersburg and Staunton for his Valley of the Shadow
project on 1850s America.
But back to Hilda Arnaud from the Creekside
Campground in the lovely town of Edinburg. What follows is a reconstruction,
but I think it's fair. After first conversations and pleasantries and questions
about her family, I asked her about her dream of America. In a steady stream she said,
"My husband Joe, he has diabetes but moves around well, getting the
exercise he needs -- he'll be up early turning off the lights if you want to
talk to him in the morning -- he and I are the camp hosts here. He's from an
island off Normandy (?--PJC), and his people there go
way back. We married, both second timers. I'm 77, but
six months older. Before he and I married I'd only ever been to other counties
here in Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, but now we've traveled in that RV
and I've been in all 50 states now, Hawaii and Alaska on a cruise. Wherever we went we
always visited the historicals. We have two sons.
John is a cheft over in Luray. He's doing real well.
Has a bakery, only bakery in Luray, and he's doing just fine. Was a lighting
designer before that, worked for Marie Osmond and (PJC forgets name), you know,
traveling and making them look beautiful on stage. But he was tired of the road
and always loved to cook, so he became a cheft. Our
other son, Chuck, he got the calling to be a minister, and he's doing just fine
too, has a church over in ????? Kentucky, and also another smaller one in ????? too. We sold the big farm
and bought a smaller place, and this RV, Joe and I, and we said, "Here's
your inheritance!" So John went to cooking school, Chuck took to
ministering and started his church, and we traveled to all the states. So there
you are. That's our story and my answer to your question about America."
--PJClements
Wednesday
April 6, Day 8
Mint Springs VA -> Natural Bridge Station (52 miles / 437 total)
The
valley started to narrow up again, the rich Virginia land rolled by. The big highway
over the Blue Ridge from Charlottesville joined the valley, and I smiled as I
saw the turnoff Peter Clements and I made five years ago coming north on 11 as
we went over the mountain at Stuart's Draft. Greenville and Steeles
Tavern and Fairfield and Bustleburg
rolled by, towns named by hope or function. Lexington soon arose, and I poked around the
juxtaposition of the VMI fortress and the classically columned W&L campus.
The Valley Pike (Route 11) is know here as Lee-Jackson highway, two heroes
joined yet again, but how odd that Jackson's name resonates at VMI with one
look, and Lee in the chapel at W&L, a couple hundred yards apart.
At
the Black Dog Café in Lexington I met and chatted with Greg and
Ginny, new proprietors of this terrific new enterprise (great gumbo,
comfortable conversation, free wireless). Married 27
years, they lived for the past couple of decades in Dallas, working as a telecom engineer and
schoolteacher. With both children out of the house and onto college and lives
beyond, "our responsibilities for the children were over and it was time
to move on to our dreams. We started to look about for what else to do in life.
We had always talked of having our own business, and we wanted to live in a
small city... So here we are. Our dream of America? It's happening right here. We worry
about if we have enough money to pay the bills. That's all. Not whether we have
enough for a fancy new car. And we are able to take time and have these
interactions, to speak with people who come in off the street. Just yesterday
there was a family from England here, visiting the college, and we
talked with them. And this (pointing to me, suggesting
today's new story that walked in off the street). Making a living is
important, but we've done our bit for our family. My personal dream isn't
national in scope, but I would wish that everyone had the time to be able
to meet and know other people, even if they don't see them again."
--
PJClements
Thursday
April 7, Day 9
Natural
Bridge Station -> Salem (57 miles / 493 total)
Yesterday
was supposed to be my rest day, but the weather was too fine to lie about. This
morning broke nice too, and I still have hopes of making it all the way down
the valley to get to Hiltons VA by Saturday night, and listen to the music at
the A.P. Carter Family.
A
three mile climb loomed from the campground back up to US 11 at Natural Bridge. Halfway up from my James River campsite I stopped at the
Rockbridge General Store to rest and find some coffee. There was no coffee for
sale, but owner Larry Herndon greeted me and then swept me back into his office
for a cup from his own pot. We sat and talked about his life while sitting in
easy chairs, next to a winter stove, Larry's big easy chair before a wall of
carefully collected baseball caps. A baseball and football player in high
school, he left northern Virginia to head to Blacksburg, foregoing a call from the Orioles
to go to college, playing football instead at Virginia Tech. After work in the
family cattle business, and some government work near Washington, Larry and his wife left the
suburban life before their kids hit school to head to where they were more in
control of their lives. "My wife went back to school and now teaches. I've
worked in both the cattle and construction business, and then jumped at the
opportunity to buy this place. We have a good community here that supports the store,
and we're part of the community. There is a difference between making a living
and making a life."
Rain
began to fall in the afternoon, and what started as a lovely day turned into
work. The valley kept climbing, and the Lee Highway rolled on and up into Buchanan and
on to Roanoke. Just before the Hollins College campus Tinker Creek crosses the
highway, and I enjoyed remembering Annie Dillard's book and some of the Principiates' fine experience with it. Just three days
before Megan James alluded to it in a weblog message.
By Roanoke the rain was getting nasty and
dangerous, so I jumped into a $40 motel, and watched film from the Vatican on the Pope's funeral. Lovely
though the coverage is, you'd thought we lived in a
Catholic country with cultural ministry running the networks. Steroids one week; Shiavo the next; now
the Pope. Next week something else new for the moment.
Tomorrow, a rest day for sure.
--PJClements
Friday
April 8, Day 10
Salem -> Dublin VA (41.05 miles / 540 total)
My goal
today was rest, and I got some, but now how I planned.
I
dawdled and stretched in the morning, feeling worn a bit but evenly fatigued
all over my body, a good sign. If one part was more sore
than another, or if there were hotspots in my hands, or left foot, or on my
butt, I'd be in big trouble. But not so. The morning
was grim, and my first goal was to get out, spin myself loose and fined the
first campsite to spend the day and rest.
Christiansburg
looked like a good goal, ten miles or so, and a place for food, rest, and maybe
a wireless zone. I had forgotten Christiansburg lies atop a rise in the whole
valley, a "big climb" that cross country riders on the Transamerica
Trail all discuss. I'd been down that hill five years ago with Peter Clements,
but it's easy to forget downhills. This was a three
mile climb and I was halfway up before I realized that this was
"that" hill. So up I spun, slowly moving but pedaling fast and loose.
I exploded in sweat but felt great at the top. I was loose and warm, and happy
too, climbing a challenge that wasn't the challenge I feared, for I was just
smoothing along in the moment.
Found
a café in Radnor and talked with a MFA student in poetry at Hollins,
discussing the missing Tinker Creek signs. She had named her dog for Annie
Dillard's husband.
I
got some bad directions to the Claytor Lake State Park, directions that added some ten
miles to my day but introduced me to the "The Wilderness Road" a day
early, a great delight. Getting a taste of the oldest of the old roads was
terrific. No traffic, built for muscle powered traffic and thus swervy and rolling amongst these hills, a guarded by some
proud dogs.
Long
downhill and detour to the Claytor Lake State Park
Campsite, but a fine site. A family setting up a full tilt camper site, complete with monster campfire, comfy dog, and ten
year old boy, asked me over the share the fire's heat. After the usual
explanation of my journey, the boy's first response was "You'll meet some
fine people on your trip. The nicest will be in Kansas." I disappointed him for a
moment with the news that I'd probably not hit Kansas. "Then Oklahoma. If you ride through Oklahoman,
you'll meet the nicest people there." I thanked him for his prediction,
not sure how it could be.
--
PJClements
Saturday
April 9, Day 11
Dublin VA -> Marion VA (70.80 miles / 611 total)
A crisp, clear and terrific morning. I broke camp, found some truckstop coffee at an I-81 interchange, and spun off on
the "New Bern Road," the local name for the
Wilderness Trail. In New Bern I stopped at the Wilderness Road Regional Museum, but they weren't open that early.
I'd been there before, so it was nice to wander the old houses on this old
section of road. The whole village is 18th and 19th c. Log and frame houses,
and it's just there along the road, left alone by the Wilderness Road being replaced by the Lee Highway, Route 11, and recently I-81. An
ancient red-haired dog wandered across the road to say hello, three legs
working fine, the fourth a bit iffy. His delight in visitors was not iffy, for
after an obligatory circle and smell, he flopped down next to the road for a
belly rub and nap. He was still there snoozing in the morning sun when I later
rolled out of his town.
A
few more miles on the Wilderness Road and on Adventure Cycling's original
"Transamerica Trail," laid out and first ridden in 1976 as part of
the "Bikecentennial," and I was headed for
Marion, Virginia, home of the "Hungry Mother State Park" and
campground, a memory for Peter Clements and me, and for everyone on 2004's
"Trail of Tears" bicycle trip. Joe Clark's flip flop is still lost on
the creek bottom there. Camping there was a treat. Virginia's State Parks are said to be the nation's best, and I can't disagree, and this is the best of
the four or five I've visited. Built in 1936 as part of FDR's CCC works
program, it is set in a spectacular creek valley, with a knife edge of
mountains at its back. It was quiet and just right cold on the top of a ridge
there, the night quiet except for the long distant and echoing midnight train whistles from a couple
valleys over.
However,
the evening was powered by a long visit with the Condra
family, of Marion, who had come out to camp for the weekend. David and Lisa had
the car camping operation down, unloading all the gear they needed for
themselves and their two daughters, Elisabeth (3rd grade) and Hayley (four years old). They love the outdoor life, and
escape even the four miles from home to the park every chance they get.
Elisabeth has been camping "since I can remember," even doing
primitive camping along the trail with her folks when she was much smaller.
Outdoorsmen all, Elisabeth has even helped skin deer, spending some time
explaining anatomy to me, focusing on the esophagus. I was very impressed. David
and Lisa left Virginia Beach to move to Marion, where David's mother, recently
widowed and ill, lives, when Elisabeth came home one day "talking about
what 9 year olds shouldn't know about." David left a higher paying job to
come to Marion, but wouldn't trade it for the world. They head out on
weekends, see the kids' grandma, and pick off pieces of the Appalachian Trail when they can. Their gear was
grizzled and worn with good use, and David's hospitality included a cold drink.
"You got a cooler with you on that bike, or can I offer you something
cold?" was his opening. Mmmmm. The girls ran off to play with the dogs of another
campers, a couple who'd come to hike and tire out their hounds, and I accepted
the Condras' hospitality and sat a while and talked our of our lives and families. Lovely
people and a lovely evening.
As I
left I left early Sunday morning, David had a fire going and a pot of camp
coffee steaming. As the sun broke into the trees and began to warm the frost,
and as his girls slept on, David poured me some strong coffee, flavored with
grounds and smoke and all the fires that had boiled that pot before, a solid
morning.
--PJClements
Sunday
April 10 , Day 12
Marion
VA -> Bristol TN (57.88 m / 669 total)
Old
11 from Marion to Chilhowie was a quiet treat on
a Sunday morning, though there was a flurry of traffic just before 10 a.m. and services down the road. I
stopped to eat and do laundry in Chilhowie (laundromats
do the trick, Harry Holcombe, and keep me clothed just fine.) One woman doing chores
in the laundromat: "I came here from Cincinnati, divorced. My brothers said it was
much better place for kids than Ohio. When they were little it was true.
But now I don't know. It's hard for kids everywhere, not just here, what with
all the troubles. Round here the meth labs are real
trouble. Not much to do, 'cept sit and try to make a
few dollars, or whatever, with meth or drugs. Not
much for young people to do. More jobs going out than coming in,
and not much work anyway. Want to read some of this newspaper? Not much news,
not that's good anyway."
The
road south took me through my favorite town so far, Abingdon, Virginia. The old part of town has kept its
strength steadily. Early settlement evidence remains (let's not forget pioneer
settlement, the French and Indian Wars, folks. The Civil War was not the first
fighting down most of this valley), and all the early 19th c. buildings remain
in good repair, and some later good luck still works, like Mary Washington
College, now an Inn, and the Barter Theatre.
Outside
of town I broke down and pulled in for a DQ malt and met a couple of veteran
teachers from Marion, sneaking down the highway for a DQ
and a TCBY frozen yogurt. These two lovely women, one retired from 4th grade
and the other with two years left before she retired from teaching 2nd grade,
and I chatted for a while about teaching, the often insuperable challenges,
environmental and parental, some kids face, and their desire to travel more. Australia beckons for one, as soon as her
next two years conclude, and dreams of more travel lingers for the other,
though recently widowed, she struggled to imagine big trips alone. "Wait
two years, and we'll go to Australia together,
and maybe New Zealand too!" Sounds like a plan.
A
few miles left to Bristol and a cheap room (no camping
anywhere near). From Bristol I leave the arterial Valley Pike / Wilderness Road / Lee Highway / Route 11 / I-81 overlay and head
straight west, just above the Tennessee border, heading to Gate City (The A.P. Carter Museum) and then
the Cumberland
Gap. One hundred miles across the ridges now. I'll be out of
wireless range for a while I suspect. Ciao!
--
PJClements
Monday
April 11 , Day 13
Bristol
VA/TN -> Duffield VA (48 mi / 717 total)
What
was I thinking? Rip off plenty of 50 plus mile days, usually 75 or so when the
weather was good and conditions fine, and schmooze around America chatting?
These mountains just kicked my butt. I have no brains. What was I thinking?
Today started off as lovely as can be. For the past couple of hundred
miles I've been following the major artery down Virginia. Today, I changed course, heading
due west, knowing I'd need to cross some of the ridges I'd been paralleling
since Blue Ridge Summit, PA. Crossing I-81 and leaving behind all the interchange
commerce and cell phone towers of the highway, I headed west on Route 58 toward
Gate City. The road was hilly, and every half
hour or so I'd struggle up and over a ridge, but in lovely sunlight, exploding
spring, and every lovely country delight a cyclist enjoys: only the local
traffic of farm pickups, one hand greetings from the top of the steering wheel,
periodic sweeping downhills on the backsides of
ridges, nonchalant cows to chat with. From Bristol to Gate City on 58 was a cyclist's dream, challenging,
but terrific.
After
passing through the Moccasin Gap in Gate City, all hell broke loose. Joining 58
from the south, squeezed through the gap to join me, was heavy duty industrial
traffic headed north on Route 23 out of Kingsport. The ridges had focused all motion
onto one highway, and the land tightened the focus into a four lane road
without shoulders. The old wilderness road had not
been paralleled with a new highway. There was no room. There was one road, a
modern artery. With 53 footers ripping by, I road the next 25 miles toward Duffield on the three inch edge of the road, listening and
watching for the pulses of vehicles clusters coming up behind. The highway
climbed and then descended (scarier!) three major ridges between Weber City and Duffield,
and on the climbs I spent
most of my time in the gravel shoulder, doing 7 or 8 milers and
hour. The drivers were all great, but there's no arguing physics with loaded
trucks, either as they fly to carry momentum into the rising climb, or as they
try and manage their mass on the twisting descents. The sign for Natural Tunnel State Park could not have appeared fast
enough. I busted it all day, and made just 45 miles down the road.
For
all the load, dangerous, and fretful work of the afternoon, the evening, like
the morning, was idyllic. My campsite was atop a peak in a convoluted maze of
limestone capped hilltops and severe creek chasms. I pushed my bike a couple of
hundred feet above the Natural Tunnel of this region, a tunnel that still
carried coal train traffic. and camped alone at the
top of the State Park. Distant dogs echoed up a valley on one side, and twice
in the night the train whistles worked their way down a valley on the other
side. In the morning I could see in the distance the long ridge of the Cumberlands.
--
PJClements
Wednesday
April 13, Day 15
Jonesville VA -> Cumberland Cap TN (41 mi / 786 total)
Again,
the day had no single character, but two distinct parts. The morning ride was stunning
and lovely. The Daniel Boone Wilderness Trail was no longer buried beneath
heavy truck traffic, and the next 30 miles were old road lovely. The sun
eventually took the wet sharpness out of the air, and the quiet country road
was terrific. From Jonesville I traveled County roads 662, 661, 885, and 667,
the original Wilderness Trail in this long final valley, and enjoyed the rich
farmland along the Powell River. On one smaller ridge climb, just
beyond the remains of the 1775 "Priest's Fort," an outpost on the
edge of the wilderness, I met a woman walking along the road, a Norwegian lady
who lived in the valley with her long retired husband. She asked me if I'd
talked to any of "the originals," aiming me to the Sunoco station in
the next town of Rose Hill. "That's where the originals
sit and drink coffee and talk about whatever they talk about. They're sometimes
hard to understand." Originals.
The
old Road and the new highway again converged and then melted together, but in
this final valley there was room for a nice shoulder, and little traffic. For
ten more miles the cliffs of the Cumberland Mountain escarpment rose on my right, a six
hundred miles long wall topped with gathering rain clouds in the afternoon. The
valley floor I was riding began a long, steady climb, as did the Cumberland
Mountain wall, but it felt as though the ridges, walls, and valleys were all
tightening, focusing together.
Three
miles before the Gap itself, The Cumberland Gap National Historic Park
campground entrance appeared, and as I pulled in, the rains began again. I
pulled hard up the long hill to an empty campground, found a site with good
drainage, and set up camp fast. At four in the afternoon, I finally scrambled
into my tiny tent, soaked in the heavy rain, and did not emerge until the
morning. I eventually dried myself warm, and fell asleep excited that tomorrow
I would somehow cross the Cumberland Gap into Kentucky.
However,
I'd learned that the only road to the other side is modern Highway 25E, which
follows a tunnel beneath the Gap. No wonder I'd not read about other cyclists
crossing this Gap. But I'd come all this way, the entire path
settlers came, all under my own power. No way I
would cross the Gap through a tunnel, or in a pickup truck.
--
PJClements
Thursday
April 14 , Day 16
Cumberland Gap TN -> Middlesboro KY (15 mi / 800 total)
Today
turned out to be an extraordinary day, ridiculously full of happy and
unexpected turns, all improbable because it began so lousy.
I
pulled myself from a warm and dry cocoon into the wet chill of 40 degrees on
the mountaintop campsite, stowed a soaked tent, put on soggy shoes, and began
the day to cross the Cumberland Gap. After a chilling downhill to the highway, and then
a busting climb out of the fog into the sun of a warming mountain day, I headed
vaguely toward the tunnel. However, I veered back down and into the village of Cumberland Gap to dry out, find a place to do
laundry, and see if there was some way to pedal over the gap and avoid the
tunnel. And I was hungry.
In
Sue Webb's Country Kitchen I found more than what I sought. I had a long talk
about the region, town, and hopes with Joe Webb (long time resident of Cumberland Gap) and waitresses Patsy Johnson
(originally from Kentucky) and Lorraine Nieto (14 years here
since California). They filled orders, wrote up tickets, and talked with
everyone on the run while I sat at the counter resuming the conversations when
they returned. Fearful of a growing police state ("Did you know that right
here in Tennessee, Kentucky, and Virginia, the police can run roadblocks and
searches, for no reason? Six dollar an hour police troopers with no insurance
and guns. I've been all over the world in the service, and there's less freedom
here sometimes."), they nonetheless love their land and their freedoms.
They want less stupid interference. They want jobs that include health
insurance. They hope gas prices come down. They wish, or rather Joe wishes,
that the state hadn't ruined the local fishing by adding Rockfish to the
reservoir. "Rockfish, they're terrible fish, schooling and all the good
fish you fish for in the first place. Rockfish, They're
terrorist fish." Lorraine disagreed on loss of freedom:
"We have more freedom here than anywhere. I love American, but everyone
needs to get along."
A
half hour later, while I was outside on a bench warming in the sun like some
cycling reptile, Patsy ran out to find me and say that "We all thought you
could use the laundry in the back of the building, since you're still here. You'll
save seventy-five cents too." She led me to the back steps that led to
apartments upstairs, opened the washroom, offered up a Styrofoam cup full of
Tide, and apologized that she didn't have didn't have any softener to share.
Warm,
fed, clean, and gratified by unexpected kindness, I headed up to the trailhead
where hikers can take the Wilderness Trail over the mountain. There I met Park
Ranger Scott Teodorski. I told him my story, and
asked if I could cross. He said I could, but not with the bike. After talking a
bit longer, he offered to drive my bike over to the Kentucky side, provided I hike myself over
alone. "I see that crossing the Gap is important to you. Will this help
you do what you want? If that's ok, I'll hold your bike for you at the Visitor Center on the other side, which you might
enjoy with its interpretive center, and a collection of maps that might be
helpful." Twice of a morning, people are inventing ways to be helpful.
The
climb over the Gap snuck up on me emotionally. The trail begins with good NPS
details: footprints and hoof prints embedded in the walkway at the entrance,
signage with images of pioneers with wagons, babies, and that faithful hound.
Not one easily taken by data, I was stunned by the note that between 1775 and
1810, between 200 and 300,000 pioneers passed over this Gap into Kentucky,
Tennessee, Ohio, a staggering number. This was a just a wide footpath, gentle
here, much steeper just ahead, streams popping out of the rocks on my right
every fifty feet, each crossing the trail and then falling into the valley on
my left. For a mile and a half I wound upward, leaning into my steps, startled
at the rising grade. How to do this with everything I owned, unsure of what lay
ahead? And a quarter of a million people, in a small, new country!
The
last few hundred yards must have been rough for the draft animals, for the
pitch rose quickly in the last two twists up to the saddle of the gap, but I
grew excited as the breeze changed its sound as I neared the top. I then
stepped up into the gap and into the sharp wind from the west and looked across
a new valley to distance equal ridges, and I stopped to rest. The air was
sharp, the wind steady, and I felt like I'd accomplished something, climbing to
and through this narrow pass, just as had hundreds of thousands heading off to
homes and lives unknown. Feeling rather Frederick Jackson Turner-ish and seeing the continent unfold before me, I then had a second reaction, equally powerful: fine,
fine, fine, big deal, but move on, boy, you've got a long ways yet to go.
So I
headed down.
An
hour after I began to hike up I met Ranger Scott down at the Visitor Center. After checking out books, maps,
and a film on Daniel Boone, I headed to Middlesboro. There my good fortune
continued. Midway down the Gap on the Kentucky side I had met an afternoon
walker headed up, Rob Arch, who directed me to the only wireless spot in town
he was sure of, the offices of World Wide Gap, the local telecomm provider. I
pedaled to their offices, walked in, met owner Larry Grandey
and his son, was warmly greeted, and immediately provided a room to work in,
wireless internet access for my Pocket PC, a killer laptop too in case I needed
more juice, and an invitation to stay as long as I needed. A reporter from the
Middlesboro Daily News, Natasha Douglas, showed up to write about my story.
People were pausing in their work, doing everything imaginable, effortlessly,
to make me feel welcome, comfortable, and provided for.
On
my way to a cheap hotel, I stopped and watched a T-ball game for a bit, just to
top off my tank with some more goodness in America.
--
PJClements
Friday
April 15 , Day 17
Middlesboro KY -> Jellico, TN (58 mi / 858 total)
Well,
the good things kept on rolling. In Middlesboro, KY, I was prepared to head
west on one of two roads, but Larry Grandey suggested
a third, a route without coal trucks, and a route up over Pine Mountain that
was absolutely lovely. I headed north from Middleboro through "The
Narrows," The secondary pass that opened up Kentucky to Boone and other
settlers, then headed west over Pine Mountain gently (relatively), and through
several lovely high valleys. I passed out of Kentucky and into Tennessee, ground up one more "overhill" before rifling down along a strong river to
Jellico Tennessee. The distinction between "hill" and "overhill" is that local folks shake their heads when
they explain the overhill ahead. "It's a good
pull, a real good pull." I packed it in at the Indian Mound State Park in Jellico.
--
PJClements
Saturday
April 16 , Day 18
Jellico TN -> Jamestown TN (71 mi / 929 total)
From
Jellico in Northeast
Tennessee,
at the intersection of the Kentucky/Tennessee border and I-75, there is no
southwest route toward Nashville, now my focus. I headed south down
long valleys, climbing and plunging interior ridges as forks of creeks split,
then headed west over larger ridges to the next river. The loveliest valley of
the trip was an hour in running the length of Elk Valley, in Campbell County, a modest valley with good bottom
land, steep and well forested ridges, and New Canaan Baptist Church at its western, coved end. I
stopped there to repair a slow leak, one I had tried to fix the day before.
That first time, back on Pine Mountain in Kentucky, I had pulled into a church parking
lot, eaten a snack, and dried out in the warm sun. Then, as I was stripping out
the front tire's tube, a handsome woman in a shiny new car pulled into the lot,
circled round, and then asked if I was ok or if needed help. I told her that I
was fine, just taking a break, enjoying the lovely stream by the church, and
fixing a leaky tire. She smiled, then reached into the backseat, grabbed a trio
of bananas and handed them to me. "I just came from the store. You might
like these," she said. "There's a nice Bible college up the hill
where my husband studies, with waterfalls and lovely grounds. Feel free to walk
around," she said, and drove off. My concentration broken, I bungled the
tire repair, missing the cause of the slow leak. This time, though, here in Fox Valley, I'd take my time and find whatever
tiny sliver was slowing me down. Sitting a second time a church parking lot, I
examined my tire carefully, found the tiny wire that was the culprit, and put
things right. As I was putting the tire back on, two men emerged from behind
the church, carrying styrofoam
food containers. The walked to me said hello, and the offered me lunch,
"You probably work up a good appetite on that thing. The chili's mighty
spicy, so y'all be careful." This was my
introduction to Maynard Crabtree, Deacon of the church. I later joined him and
a growing group of folks in the hall behind the church, where they were selling
lunches and used clothes and bric-a-brac, raising money to finish the roof on
the hall. After scoring some powerful peanut butter candy, I sat and listened
to Maynard, a woman helping with the sale, and a handsome young man with a
terrific voice and a brand new mandolin, sit down near the used clothes, tune
their instruments, and begin making music. On a sunny Saturday morning in Elk Valley Tennessee I listened to some folks sing
"Down by the Stream," "The Sweet By and By,"
and a couple other tunes. They tried to convince some others to become their
fourth voice, but it sounded might fine to me. Maynard sang bass, an
unwavering, trustworthy bottom to the songs. The young man's tenor was sweet
and strong, just pure goodness at ten in the morning.
I
was headed west towards Jamestown, Alvin York's hometown, the town in
which John Clemens, trying to establish himself, lived
with his family before starting over yet again in Hannibal, Missouri, where Samuel L. Clements was born
soon after their arrival. Seems Mark Twain was conceived here in Jamestown.
The
Mark Twain connection is played out just a bit in Jamestown. There's a small park with a well
from which the Clemens family drew their water. The park is well tended by the
local garden club, but the well was dry when I was there. I had heard of a Mark
Twain Inn, but was told by a man back in Rugby that it had closed down years ago.
After 70 miles and with the sun about to set, I was too tired to ride another
12 miles to the local state park, so I figured I'd stop in the police station
and ask directions to the nearest motel. On my way, I wandered up to the Mark
Twain Inn, across the street from the Fentress County Courthouse, a storefront
now among county lawyers' offices, regretting the news I had heard earlier. A
small handwritten note on the door read "Rooms Available," but it
looked old and unreliable.
But
I pulled on the door, it opened, and I fell into a huge new treat. I found
another note, "Office upstairs, Room 16." There is discovered Judy Ipock Blair, a 76 year old fifth generation Fentress County
woman who ran this little hotel, a rooming house I guess, "Because I need
something to do. You know, you just can't be idle. My daughter lives here in
town, and my son-in-law is a lawyer, right downstairs, so I keep myself busy
right here. New Jersey? Back in the war I dated a boy from
New
Jersey. There was a German P.O.W. camp here in Jamestown, and he was a guard there. Eddie Rantuccio, he was handsome, and such a good dancer. But
that was long ago. Will this room be ok?" Ms. Blair and I had a great
conversation later that night.
-PJClements
Sunday,
April 17, Day 19
Jamestown, TN -> Allons, TN (44/973)
From
Jamestown I kept heading west and couth,
aiming toward Nashville, still a couple of days away.
Heading west from Jamestown was a very long and twisting
descent, for this was the edge of the Cumberland Plateau, the beginning of the end of
eastern Tennessee. I was psyched to be leaving the mountains, for I had had
enough climbing. Unfortunately, leaving the mountains didn't put an end to
nasty climbs, for each old descent into a tight gorge in the limestone land
still sliced by relentless streams meant a tight grind up the other sides. Two
miles climbs were now merely cut in half. My right knee was making audible
noises, and a had developed a saddle sore, either
potentially debilitating. I pulled in some sail, and slowly made my way to the
next campground, Standing Stone State Park near Allons TN. As I was taking a break by the side
of the road after my descent from Jamestown, a vehicle pulled off near me, and
Stephen Walker Johnson came out a greeted me, a fellow cyclist who had seen me
the day before back in Historic Rugby. A veteran of the Natchez Trace and a
couple of RAGBRAI and other state rides, he thought he'd track me down, ask if
I needed anything, and just shoot the breeze for a bit.
The
state park was empty on a Sunday night, and I rested and tried to heal.
-PJClements
Monday,
April 18, Day 20
Allons, TN -> Lebanon, TN (74/1047)
There
was nothing remarkable today, other than the steady beauty of the day, the
gradual relaxation of the hills, and the distance I needed to cover. I put on
my shorts inside out to protect my saddle sore; I raised the saddle to ease
both my butt and my knees; and I aimed for Cedars of Lebanon State Park (know
to the Trail of Tears veterans) south of Lebanon and north of Murfreesboro.
Seventy-one miles later, I ran out of sunlight in Lebanon town. No Mark Twain Inn this time,
so I stayed at the "Economy Inn," the least expensive American motel
I've used recently: thirty bucks cash. I kept the TV on most of the night,
white noise. I answered two phone calls to my room, one at 11 pm, the second at 4.30 am. Both were women asking for
"Wild Man." I sighed, and said I wasn't him.
--
PJClements
Tuesday,
April 19, Day 21
Lebanon TN -> Nashville TN (40/1087)
Today
I was focused on Nashville, only 40 miles off, and getting to Montgomery Bell Academy by day's end, when I would meet
history teacher Clay Bailey and spend two night with
his family, and visit MBA Wednesday. The Lebanon-Nashville Pike has grown into
the busy truck route 70N, so I was merely riding, putting in the miles until Nashville's skyline emerged. Down off
Broadway were a dozens of shops, T-shirt joints, Ernest Tubb's
Record Store, the Ryman Auditorium, and a couple of blocks of open door
taverns, the next great stars singing live all afternoon. Too focused on
getting to Clay Bailey's school and a day of rest, I missed the opportunity to
shop for a memento for friend Harry Holcombe. Perhaps his belt buckle
collection will survive without a Nashville addition.
After
passing through center city and heading out West End Drive, past The Parthenon ("Nashville, Athens of the South") and Vanderbilt University, I came to MBA, a stunningly
handsome school. I explored the campus as Clay finished with the JV tennis
boys. I rode to his house, just a mile or so away, and was swept into his home
and family with lovely grace and hardly a break in the action. Clay and his
wife Sally, their children Bridget, Ferris, and Charlie, and Clay's parents,
Mr. and Mrs. Clay Bailey, Sr., were all gracious in greeting this traveler and
treating me as though I were kin. More on my stay with the
Baileys, and on my equally warm welcome by the teachers and students of Montgomery Bell Academy in the next
posting.
--
PJClements
Wednesday,
April 20, Day 22
Nashville TN -- Rest day, @ Montgomery Bell Academy and Bailey Family
Clay
and Sally Bailey were wonderful hosts, welcoming this stranger and last minute
caller as though I'd been part of their world forever, making no fuss,
continuing their world of teaching, tutoring, doing homework, playing with the
dog, moving laundry forward, and hustling dinner together -- all as though it were
another day in their lives, which, of course, is the most gracious welcome I
can imagine. I also met Clay's folks, who live nearby, and in their home I
stayed the night, for they don't have three youngsters who need to get ready
for school. Nashvilleans for several generations, out
evening conversation was full of literary echoes. Clay and his father are both
graduates of the University of the South in Sewanee, and as a boy Clay spent
time there in the summer. Quickly the conversation turned to Allan Tate, John
Crowe Ransom, Robert Penn Warren, Peter Taylor, and summer cocktails and gossip
in Sewanee. Kenyon and Sewanee had made another connection long after the age
of the Fugitives. Talking with Mr. and Mrs. Bailey, Sr. was a sharp and lively
pleasure, for they are deep readers and great conversationalists.
After
Clay and I dropped off Bridget at Harpeth Hall School, we headed to Montgomery Bell Academy, where I visited some classes and
enjoyed a dose of school energy. United State History with Clay,
and a focus on domestic social pressures that WWII increased, and then English
classes with Haywood Moxley and Michael Kelly's
junior sections, and with Emmitt Russell's 7th
graders. Interested, and engaged boys all. It was a pleasure to be welcomed
into the school with great warmth, with even Headmaster Brad Goia taking a break in his
schedule to greet me. Everyone at MBA should be proud of their fine
community.
The
next morning I headed out with Sally as she dropped the boys off at their
school, and I headed out of Nashville, grateful for the hospitality and
warm welcome from everyone. And my body was awfully grateful for a day off the
saddle. Energized in spirit and in the flesh, I hit the road again.
--
PJClements
Thursday
April 21, Day 23
Nashville TN -> Clarksville TN (61/1148)
I
headed up out of Nashville along Route 41, making fair time
after I crossed the Cumberland River. A few miles up the road I discovered the Old Clarksville
Pike, and I was thrumming again with a good old road, quiet, and full of the
roll of original roads, sweeping sideways along contours to climb out of
creeks, leaving flat bottomland alone, the road bed rarely cut but rather just
laid down along the trail that ran above the rivers and beneath the ridge tops,
its natural placement. Clarksville was some thirty plus miles down the
road, a handsome town that serves not only the region but also Austin Peay University and the nearby Fort Campbell. A coffee house visit and a
fruitless search for a working wireless connection set me back a bit, so late
in the afternoon I headed north toward the interstate and a campground for the
night. Unfortunately, the campground was defunct, and I didn't have enough
light to make it to the next one, so I backtracked to Exit 4 on I-24, home of the
most extensive collection of franchises I've ever seen. Three miles of primary
color plastic signs, and a choice of everything franchiseable
in the USA. Rain and cold approached, so I
wasn't unhappy. However, it was a ride without conversation. That however, soon
changed.
--
PJClements
Friday
April 22, Day 24
Clarksville TN -> Crofton KY (40/1183)
Thunderstorms
last night and the threat of more today. Today began windy and with a chill.
Waffle Houses, however, are a cure for all that.
I
headed north in Route 79 toward old Route 41, where there were several Trail of
Tears sites, especially and old road house that supplied the many detachments
as they camped nearby on their way northeast to Hopkinsville.
On a
lark, I turned south on 41 for a mile to head to the small town of Guthrie KY,
home of Robert Penn Warren. As the highway bent a bit to reveal the town, I saw
that some event was in progress. A large crowd was milling about a giant red,
white, and blue tent behind the post office. I snuck in the back to discover I
had joined the conclusion of the official introduction of the Robert Penn
Warren stamp, and local dignitaries, stamp enthusiasts, and Warren's children
(professors both, I think) were there. The connection to conversation at the
Bailey house was startling. I recalled hearing Robert Penn Warren speak at
Kenyon, where he was introduced by the ancient John Crowe Ransom, who made his
farewell appearance at the college that night. Introduced by the college
president to introduce Warren, the Poet Laureate of the United States and only writer to win the Pulitzer
Prize for both poetry and fiction, Ransom slowly shuffled to the podium, and in
his soft Tennessee voice slowly said, "Welcome to Kenyon, Red... I hear
you've made a name for yourself... telling stories." Stunned by the
understatement, everyone assembled in old Rosse Hall,
and it was packed to overflowing, were then treated to something unexpected.
After another long pause, Ransom said, "I'd like to read a poem." The
air still and college perfectly quiet, he began: "I'm a gentleman... in a
dustcoat ..." (pause, as we noticed his grey suit) "...triiiiine to make you hea-ah."
We all knew in that moment that Ransom had just transformed his "Piazza
Piece" from some new Italian sonnet about love no longer young to a
powerful exposition about poetry, about writers and readers, and, in this
electric moment, a farewell to the college by a ninety year old critic,
teacher, and poet.
I
left Guthrie, glad for the accidental intersection of literature, my college
learning, and this new adventure, and headed toward Hopkinsville, the day just only partly full of
happy chance.
Up
through Christian County I rode, through Trenton and Pembrooke,
towns the Cherokee walked through, amongst some of the
richest farmland I've ever seen. Near Hopkinsville Route 41 became a bit of a
chore, for the large farm truck traffic was augmented by traffic from some
large rural factories. Fortunately, the Trail of Tears Park soon appeared, and
I ducked in the see the park and the graves of several of the Cherokee chiefs.
Under blue skies but a Weather Channel threat of rain, I met some Chamber of
Commerce people working on the park. After the customary conversation, I went
about exploring the handsome gravesites, memorial plaques, and the log cabin
visitor center. In just a few moments, the school turned purple, and one of the
Chamber people I'd just met drove up in her SUV and hollered, "Patrick,
throw your bike in here. Now!" Working
frantically, I tossed by bags in, then the bike, and Judy Dulin,
and I blasted out onto the highway and raced to her home, outrunning the
hailstorm by just a few moments.
That
night I was treated to the spontaneously offered and warm hospitality of Judy
and Granvel Dulin. Married
41 years, they now live on a large parcel of land on which they've built a
powerful family community. They hand built their house there, and just down the
road are scattered three other homes, housing the families of their children
and all their grandchildren. Having both grown up on farms in Christian County, Judy and Granvel
are hardworking outdoorsmen. Retired from coalmining and farming, Granvel teaches his grandchildren how to hunt. Still busy
teaching work skills to country residents through the local community college,
and working hard as the founder and Board Chair of Heritage Christian Academy
in Hopkinsville, Judy and Gran
live out their values with grace and industry. During the evening, almost every
grandchild stopped by the kitchen, each bursting with some news ("Gran, I saw TWO turkey this morning, down on the other side
of the creek."), all blessed to live out in the country and learn how to
use and care for it.
Our
late evening conversation on Judy and Granvel's
"Dream of America" focused on children and values. "I'm
sometimes really afraid for America. We're turning out carbon copies of
failure. Parents used to want their kids to have a better life. Now, lots of
parents encourage their kids to live in the world, the world they see in TV and
in the media. It's true with some of the people I work with. I was trying to
prepare some students for a job fair, for
interviews, and I was encouraging them that if they want this bad
enough, and work at it, good things can happen," said Judy. "I
remember one just said, 'I don't want it that bad, to work hard at it.' " In a voice that seemed a smooth cousin to Shelby
Foote's, Granvel added "It's a rough row to hoe
now. To change it, looks to me like you've got to start with the young folks,
But have the teachers and leaders gone too far to know how to step back and fix
things with the children? People aren't bad. Just lots of them are on the bad
track." Judy added, "Somehow lots of parents just lost their vision.
My Dream of America is to have parents step up the plate and do what they
should do for our kids."
--PJClements
Saturday
April 23, Day 25
Crofton KY -> Princeton KY (36/1219)
I
headed out from the Dulins' place early, for their
day was very full. After riding past Old Bradley Park where every August 8
Blacks return to celebrate Emancipation, I took some breakfast in Crofton town,
a railroad crossroads. As I headed out of town toward Princeton KY, where the B.B. Cannon journal says
the Cherokee passed, the cell phone rang and a Ms. Patty Michs
called to say that she'd meet me in Princeton to show me the Cherokee spring. Slowed by wind, I
didn't make connections with Ms. Michs, but John
Humphries met me, at the behest of Ms. Michs, through
Judy Dulin I'm sure, and began a fabulous tour of Princeton and Caldwell County. He is working with local and state
government to establish a Trail of Tears Park in Princeton and to gain recognition on the
state level for this under funded and under researched National Trail. I helped
him plant a "Cherokee Rose" at the site of the park, and then he took
me up to the site of the Elkhorn Tavern, now a pile of rubble on the edge of a
farmer's field, a site he'd like to have rebuilt as a stop along the trail. In
the Blue Cemetery just uphill from the old tavern lie Blue family members, some
slaves beneath unmarked stones, and, according to Humphries and other local
folks, Cherokee bodies too, in the just outside the cemetery walls. I'd seen
marked graves earlier in Hopkinsville, but here lay unknown Cherokee,
scattered among the fresh field rows.
--
PJClements
Sunday
April 24, Day 26
Princeton KY -> Joy KY (50/1270)
Leaving
Princeton in the 37 degree chill was hard,
but the son shone and the old road up past the Elkhorn Tavern and Skinframe Road warmed me up. I followed old 91
past Fredonia, through Mexico, and on to Salem, another town we know the Cherokee
passed, all the while aiming for the site on the Ohio River where the Cherokee crossed into Illinois at Golconda. Traffic grew less frequent,
eventually to almost nothing, as I progressed closer to a bend in the Ohio through which no highway passed.
Just
before the river and the end of sunlight I came to Mantle Rock, a natural
bridge on a ridge line above the river, the site of Indian activity for centuries,
the site too where several detachments wintered to wait out the frozen Ohio.
Alone in the shadow of Mantle Rock, I explored its crannies and walked its
creek, wondering how hundreds of sick and hungry Cherokee could survive the
winter here. The Reverend Daniel S. Butrick Journal
(a Christian missionary accompanying one of the large Cherokee groups that
winter) is excruciating. (December 29, 1838:) "It is distressing to reflect
on the situation of the nation. One detachment stopped at the Ohio River
(Mantle Rock), two at the Mississippi, one four miles this side, one 16 miles
this side, one 18 miles, and one 3 miles behind us. In all these detachments,
comprising about 8,000 souls, there is now a vast amount of sickness, and many
deaths. Six have died within a short time, in Maj. Brown's company, and in this
detachment. Of Mr. Taylor's there are more or less affected with sickness in
almost every tent; and yet all are houseless & homeless in a strange land,
and in a cold region exposed to weather almost unknown in their native country.
But they are prisoners. True, their own chiefs have directly hold of their
hands, yet the U. States officers hold their chiefs with an iron grasp, so that
they are obliged to lead the people according to their directions in executing
effectually that Shermerhorn treaty."
On
my way out of Mantle Rock I met Duran McDonald along the road, and he aimed me
to Berry's Ferry, just down the hill, where
I camped the night, just a few feet from the Ohio river, Golconda flickering on the other side. I
felt a little like Huck Finn camping out in fine style by the river, but the
echoes of the Cherokee winter just up the hill gave me shivers in the cold
night.
--PJClements
Monday,
April 25, Day 27
Joy
KY -> Vienna, IL
1270
-> 1305 (35)
45 degrees, bright.
Awoke on the Ohio River at Berry Ferry,
long defunct and now public land and a nice boat ramp. Golconda gleams across the river. Need to
snag a fisherman putting in. Mickey is his name I've heard.
Turns
out Mickey had already put in, while I was waking up on the riverside. I broke
camp and headed for the put in, hoping Mickey wasn't the last fisherman by this
morning. An hour later, happily, Duncan Hughes came by for some crappie
fishing, and was happy to motor me across the Ohio to the Golconda marina, refusing any money for
fuel, "It's a pleasure to carry you across. He'd already been turkey
hunting that morning, "didn't get anything done worthwhile, so this is a
pleasure." From the marina I headed to the eatery Golconda
with the most trucks out front, clealy the
"Dari-Barr" restaurant, which I'd read about in Jerry Ellis's Walking
the Trail . A four calendar diner (see William Least Heat Moon's rating system
in Blue Highways), two table in the back were full of men sitting and chatting
as usual. "It'll take more than a pill to make me a Republican," was
one man's conclusion, as he passed the newspaper to from his table to the next.
Herb seemed to be running the gathering. "Bill, she'll do it, I heard her
say so herself, but only if you let her do it. Now you go home, and let Mary do
it. She might miss a spot or two. But don't you say a word. You might've missed
a spot or two your first time, or today too, if you
could get out there and spray. But let her do it, and don't say a word."
Herb, a retired school administrator in the county, was coaching 80-something
Bill, a modern technique farmer who could no longer drive his tractor. Looks
like his wife, Mary, 80-something too, might be starting a new career on a
tractor. Herman Adkerson and Bill Killingsworth,
were the quiet chiefs of the room, keeping society and helping Golconda operate.
After
a laundry session and some exploration of town, including keeping an eye out
for Ellis's acquaintance Deuteronomy Dan, I headed west. A few miles out of
town a I saw a homemade "Historical Marker"
with an arrow pointing off to a minor road, a clear invitation. A couple of
miles later on a hill on the road to Brownfield I discovered an overgrown
family cemetery marked with a broken wooden sign. Among the tombstones was a
Trail of Tears marker (photo). "Through this cemetery came 9,500 Cherokee
during the winter of 1838-1839. Some are buried on these grounds."
Too
slow and cold to make it to the next campground about twenty miles further, and
facing a night of cold rain, I rode into the modest county town of Vienna, eager to find a place to stay. I
walked into the open door of a law office on the square, and asked for advice.
I must have looked particularly forlorn, for Euel
Sharp, husband of attorney Tambra Cain, greeted me
and then said, "Hold on. I've got an idea." A few phone calls to
ministers and police later, and I ended up in the local motel gratis, thanks to
the Ministerial Alliance of Vienna. "We try to help out people in a bind,
so we're glad to help. We have a little fund just for this." Remarkable. I just asked for directions.
--PJClements
Tuesday,
April 26, Day 28
Vienna IL -> Cape Girardeau MO
1305
-> 1353 (48)
50 degrees and rain. Slow start.
Snagging
some coffee and waiting for the rain to clear by midday, I met David, a farmer near Vienna, (whose daughter lives in Twin
Rivers!). He spoke of meeting and helping out some broken down cyclists years ago. Seems they needed some welding done to
repair a bike, so he gave them his truck to solve the problem. The police
called David when his red pickup sat at the feed store overnight, worried
something was wrong. The kids left a full tank of gas and two extra quarts of
oil. David explained six types of human connection - eyes, voice, touch, body
language, use of time, use of money - and that how we use them helps frame
relationships.
I
headed west from Vienna to Anna, home of a terrific public
library, built in 1914 by...., student of Frank Lloyd Wright. I left highway
146 to head south and follow Old Cape Road, an exquisite ride through the Shawnee National Forest. I emerged in Reynoldsville and was
in Mississippi Delta land, the first truly flat land I've ridden the whole
trip! The road turned south toward the lovely new bridge at Cape Girardeau. Head down and grinding into a
storm the last miles to the Cape bridge over the Mississippi, the last few straight shot miles
to the river was brutal. Just before the bridge I was met by Allan Maki, father
of Peddie students Elizabeth '03 and Olivia '06, whose greeting helped me up
the bridge and down the gale into Missouri on the other side. I stayed the
night, and the next, at the home of Allan Maki and his son Spenser, a terrific
young musician and luthier. What lovely guitars and
mandolins. Google up "Spenser Maki" and check out
his work.
Crossing
the Mississippi
River was
a struggle, bulling myself into a storm spitting that hard thunderstorm rain
that hurts when it hits. I stopped for a breath at the apex of the bridge for a
moment, just long enough to focus on a four barge riverboat struggle upriver,
the roiling stern of the tug revealing more work than the speed she seemed to
manage. I thought I'd better see if I could unload some gear soon. But that
night, after a terrific dinner, fine conversation, and a look at a few of Allan
Maki's historical documents, including an 1885 hand written note from
"your friend" Sam Clemens to "Becky" explaining that he
could not attend a reunion of his Hannibal childhood friends, I eagerly accepted
the Makis' invitation to spend the next day at rest.
--
PJClements
From
Nashville I headed north to Clarksville TN, Guthrie KY, Hopkinsville, Princeton, Salem and Joy KY. After wandering alone
the mystery of Mantle Rock, where many Cherokee wintered in 1838-39 because the
Ohio was too dangerous to cross, I slept
on the banks of the Ohio at the now abandoned Berry Ferry. crossing
the Ohio to Golconda, Illinois with the help of a fisherman. I
rode west across the southern tip of Illinois, through Vienna and on the Old Cape Road toward the Mississippi. Heading into an advancing storm,
complete with dark tendrils leaking down below swirling, ominous thunderheads,
I crossed the Mississippi into Cape Girardeau. I am staying with the Maki family
here, and will spend the day writing up and posting as much as I can of what's
missing between Nashville and Missouri. In the interim, this must suffice.
1300 plus miles, and a terrific experience.
--
PJClements
Wednesday,
April 27, Day 29
Cape Girardeau MO
1353
(0)
No
cycling today, just some writing, resting, and a trip to a first class bicycle
shop, Cape Bicycles, for some supplies. Dinner with
Allan and Spencer Maki, and we all prepare to leave, me for the road, the Maki
men for New Jersey and then, for Spencer, on to Sweden for adventure, love, and more on
his craft.
--
PJClements
Thursday
April 28. Day 30
Cape Girardeau -> Trail of Tears State Park (Moccasin
Springs).
1353->
1383 (30)
52 degrees and rain. Plan to ride short day to Trail of Tears Parks. Camp
there tonight, and then stretch it out tomorrow up 72 towards Fredericktown and
Farmington, thus making campgrounds on the
Delorme map spread out in reachable intervals.
Breakfast at Hardee's. Waited out the rain & wrote. Headed up to Girardeau's Cape and the cool
overlook of the River. Downriver tugs flew; upriver barges barely making their way.
Left towards TOT SP on old Beg Bend Road. Rear tire exploded at Egypt Mills,
a gunshot. Michael Hahne came to check, offer
services. Boot repair unsuccessful, sidewall total failure. Went
to his farm. Drove me to CG to Cape Bikes, where I bought three new Pasela Tourguard Kevlar, 700x32 w
tubes. Trust.
Mike
Hahne, 8 years retired from P&G and farming. 75 acre farm been in family since 1855. GGF fought in CW,
engineer at Vicksburg and Atlanta. Returned in 1864
to resume farming. Helped save the Union, as did CG, guarding river and huge
arsenal at St. Louis. Absolutely
powerful and gentle man, calm and steady, full of grace and fiber.
Rode to Trail of Tears State Park. Receptionist Jean Bland drove me 5
miles to grocery and back. Park is lovely, TOT visitor center excellent. Slept at riverside, listening to diesel tugs bulling barges against
the current. Deep power.
Speedometer not working. May have died in
tire changes.
Dueling
raccoons battled over my hanging food cache about midnight. After beating the hanging setup
the park provided, they beat each other up as they snagged by hotdog buns, and
the PBJs I'd already made for the morning.
--PJClements
Friday
April 29. Day 31
Trail
of Tears SP -> Frederick, MO
1383
-> (45/1435)
Lovely ride across Route V and Y to Jackson (except section
on 61/55).
Historic Jackson named for Andrew Jackson. I wonder what was
its names in January 1839 when thousands of Cherokee slogged through
town up from Moccasin Creek and their crossings of the Ohio and Mississippi?
Weather
calls for heavy rain and dangerous T-storms. Might take a
cheap motel, write, and fix the bike. I need to change brake pads, or
otherwise the rear rim will wear through and blow catastrophically. I'd really
love to rebuild my wheels. I've got a small hop somewhere, rear I think, though
I am much smoother on these new tires. Now I yearn for first class wheels,
round, true, and super smooth.
Treated myself to a tavern lunch today. I figure the raccoon scarfing all my provisions was a sign to stop into Tractors
Classic American Grill, a terrific tavern right down from the county court
house. Everyone there pretty chipper, especially waitress Candy Wyndham, who
treated me nice, including sliding me some dessert for later down the road.
Took picture of the staff, and they gave me a cool Tractor's t-shirt.
Bad
storms in forecast and ugly radar made seek a place to bail out in Jackson. First motel was full; the second
didn't allow bikes. So, with rain swirling, I headed west on 72. Six miles in rain to the next town, no place to stay, so onward.
Another seven miles, and six more. Finally, at 6.30 pm and 42 miles from Jackson, I stumble out of the rain into the
Madison Inn Lodge. Yippee! I had to play lots of mind games to move onward and
fight the despair of wet, cold, wind and hills.
The
best mind game was the most obvious, though it took me a while to get there. A
February, 1839 newspaper note clipping from Theodore Pease Russell: "There
were about 2,000 Indians in this division. All the others had gone by way of Farmington, but the roads were so bad that
this last division had to come this way along the Fredericktown Road and such a road at that time."
February through the mud on foot, one blanket per person, or
me, clad in fleece and technogear, on a bike, on a
rainy spring day?
Get a life Pat, shut up and ride.
--PJClements
Saturday
April 30. Day 32
Frederick, MO -> Pilot Knob MO
1435
-> 1455
45 degrees and sunny. Overcast today, 15 mph nw wind. Headed NW.
The wind today, and the hills, are rough. Two hours to do the
first leg. Take this one step at a time. Breakfast at lunch
time on courthouse square in Ironton, taking my time to get dry. Wet,
wind, cold, and chill: needs careful management, precluding speed....
Bailed out after laundry and food, spirit drained by wind
and cold and constant chill of being wet. Visited the Fort Davidson Civil War Park and learned of the battle of Pilot
Knob. Lots of regional military significance for the dying
Confederacy and for Missouri politics in 1864. However, the residual image for me
was the long grass covering the south trench reaching out from the fort. After
the battle and the Federals' departure, Confederate soldiers buried the dead
from both sides. In a long trench next to the fort lay the dead - some say
there are as many as 365 - side by side, nameless, the grass over their shared
grave just a little longer than the rest of the meadow, just as a reminder.
Twenty-five years earlier the Cherokee came through Ironton and Pilot Knob,
camping on what is now the country club. No markers there for their burials
either.
--PJClements
Friday
May 6 Day 38
Cady
MO -> [the other side of Springfield]
1669
-> ????
(Day not done, but an update out of order. I am sitting and writing in a Panera in Springfield, Missouri).
I
woke up to the roar of US 60 at Silver Bell Mobile Home and RV Park, on MO 125
and US 60, 8 miles SE of Springfield. I headed into the city to check on a hop
in my rear wheel. This little bump is not very noticeable, but a couple more
thousand miles and like this and I'll lose either my colon or my mind. I also
need to do some more planning on the rest of my time in Missouri. A short day is a probability.
....
What
a GREAT BIKE SHOP! And EVEN BETTER PEOPLE !!!! I
stopped into CYCLES UNLIMITED in Springfield, the closest shop on the map, and I
cannot imagine one better, or nicer (except for Van Delfino
at the Bicycle Rack in Hightstown NJ, my LBS). Here in Springfield, Kelsey Carden
took care of me and my needs way beyond any reasonable expectation. He found
and fixed the hop in my rear wheel, and kept snugging
up and adjusting things as he went, as though he understood that a bike's not
right until it's right. He spotted a dying chain ring,
so I had this and some other future worries taken care of now rather than
later. He and fellow wrench and bike wizard Ashley Burchfield and I chewed the
fat during the morning, talking bikes, trails, SE Missouri, and all things convivial on a
lovely morning. Cycles Unlimited is a magnet for riders, as several riders,
both comrades and customers, came through in the
morning. Terrific service and an even better spirit about a
shared passion. Check them out if you can: www.CyclesUnlimited.net
. Ironically, I ran into another bike shop guy at lunch, Roger Hinson,
who puts in time at A&B Bicycle down the road. We talked routes down the
road, and his gentlemanly advice was terrific.
Looks
like a KOA night tonight as I finish Missouri and try and line up a contact with
Ed Pugsley of Bella Vista AR and Charlie Russell down the road in Fayetteville. I may explore the Battlefield park on the SW part of town. The Trail of Tears heads
southwest from there, towards Cassville, then into Arkansas near Pea Ridge, and then on to Fayetteville.
I'll
fill in the holes as I go. Yesterday included a great conversation with three
women about their Dreams of America, and a newspaper interview with the
Marshfield Mail (a weekly, on Wednesdays, Julie...chuckle... And thanks for the
Anna library research. Terrific!).
My
best to all, including, at Peddie, the WCS tribe with Peter and Chip,
Catherine's "babbling" WCS crew, the freshman baseball juggernaut
with David and Jim. Greetings this weekend to my extended
family all over, especially all the mothers out there. A special shout
out to my own mother, Willie Clements. Don't worry, Mom, I'm fine. You can
spread the word at the Friday Night-er!
Most
of all, however, extra special greetings first to Peter Daniel Clements, a fine
young man and son, and, beyond all measure, to Melanie Clements, woman of total
coolness and steadfast love, and the mother of Peter. Sheesh.
More
later, folks.
--
PJClements
Tuesday,
May 10, Day 42
Fayetteville AR -> Tahlequah OK
(1818-1868)
Greetings,
from Westville, Oklahoma! Yikes, this is a long way,
especially mentally. As I approached the "Welcome to Oklahoma" sign
on US 62 just an hour ago, I was struck by how far one can go, pedal turn by
pedal turn, or, as Annie Lamott writes, "Bird by
Bird." Oklahoma. This is "the [Indian]
territories" where Huck said he'd escape at the end of _Huckleberry Finn_.
And just a few more miles down the road is Tahlequah, the capital of the
western band of the Cherokees, the end of the "Trail of Tears." This
is a long way from east coast suburban Hightstown, NJ, a long way from Peddie, but still
our nation. cool.
The
past couple of days have been full of great hospitality, nice surprises on the
road, and improving weather. After riding from Springfield, Missouri, enjoying
"Old Mining Days" in Aurora MO with Jerry and Jason Cline, checking
into a "inexpensive" motel in Monett and having the county sheriff
come pound on my door looking for someone named "Mark Rogers" (some
relative of "Wild Man" from Lebanon TN, perhaps), and then riding to
Cassville and discovering the roadside spring the Cherokee drank from along the
Old Wire Road, crossing into Arkansas at Seligman, and then slogging through
fresh rain and storm to Pea Ridge and the Pea Ridge National Military Park, I
met the astonishing Ed Pugsley, cyclist and
gentleman, who took me to his and Bonnie Puglsey's
home for warmth, food, conversation, a little golf on TV, and a wonderful
visit. Monday morning I met and rode with ten riders of the Bella Vista Village
Cycling Club and together we spun out 21 miles on a lovely morning. Unladen, my bike felt like a racer, nimble and light and
twitchy. Riding with the BVV club, it was inspiring to watch two 80 men get
silly and race each down the valley road, a couple of kids gone grey but still
full of it, infused with the joy of riding a bike.
From
Bella Vista I headed to Fayetteville, the guest of another gentleman,
Charlie Russell, who swept up me and my gear and took me into his and Shirley
Russell's home. We toured Fayetteville, exploring the University, a number
of residential examples of the work of architects Fay Jones and Jim Lambeth, and other elegances in the attractive city of Fayetteville.
Tuesday
morning, Charlie Russell and I were joined by Bentonville cyclist and fencing
instructor Neil Pickett. We left Fayetteville to ride out to Prairie Grove
Battleground west of town. These two fast riders on speed bikes escorting a
slow, heavy RV of a bike, or two blue Trek fighters escorting an dirty green
B-25 out across the Channel. However, it was a terrific collegial sendoff.
Everyone in Arkansas shared his home, family, time, and
best wishes. I wish I could return the favor.
I'm
just a few miles into Oklahoma, and it looks to be about 350 miles
longer to get to Texas. So I'm off....
...
Route 62 to Tahlequah was a fine ride. The long valley road from Westville to Proctor, was quiet and warm. The road edged the bottom of
the ridge, always about ten feet above the valley flatness, meandering the edge
in shade sometimes, or in warm sun when it crossed to the opposite valley edge.
After a long run to the village of Proctor, it was clearly time to leave the
valley and cross an intersecting ridge. Yikes. The mile long climb up a 14%
grade was typically sweat popping. Then there was then
a burst down the other side, a little more valley running and then, once again,
at the lost village/intersection, a grind up out of this new valley at a much
easier 13%, and a final six miles slide to Tahlequah at day's end.
I
didn't talk to others about their dreams of America today, only dreaming by myself of America, and the finality of this section
of the trip, the end of the Trail of Tears. On Wednesday I plan to visit the Cherokee Heritage Center and put some closure to this three
year cycling project along the Cherokee Route. However, as I approached the
Cherokee Nation Capital in Tahlequah, I reflected on the work of all the
"Trail of Tears" riders from Peddie last year, and I was glad to be
their servant today, in absentia, finishing the work they'd begun in June 2004.
Somehow, this was the downhill that completed that numbing climb that they
made, not I, up the astonishing severity of Brayton Mountain Road, up the wall of the Cumberland escarpment.
--
PJClements
Friday,
May 13 -- Henryetta, Oklahoma
A
quick update, undeveloped, so people out there don't get nervous from too long
a weblog silence. Neil Pickett gently chastised me
back in Bella Vista, Arkansas: "Pat, you've got to update
that web report. I keep checking it, and I worry when I don't read anything new
for a few days. You could be by the side of the road somewhere,
or maybe..." His message was clear, for I realize now there are some
readers out there I don't know whose worry I need to keep in mind. Just for the
record, folks, I check in with Melanie at home frequently, and with my mother
down in Pensacola perhaps more frequently (I'm learning that that "worry
gene" doesn't switch off after kids are grown).
After
a quiet evening in Tahlequah, and a morning visit to the Paceline
Bicycle Shop right next to Northeast State University (originally "Cherokee Female
Seminary") I enjoyed a terrific visit and tour at the Cherokee Heritage Museum. Best of all was a long
conversation with Robert Lewis, the man who conducted our tour. More on his "Dream of America" at tour's end. A
kind man with a thousand stories and the quick wit to weave all the visitors
into his narrative of pre-contact Cherokee life, he later grew even more
relaxed and reflective as he described the America he'd like to see. An American whose
mother is Cherokee and father Navajo and Apache, his take came from yet another
perspective. "I saddens me to see that it is so
often tragedies that pull Americans together. Here in Oklahoma City in April 1995, and at 9.11. The
collective sense is powerful then, but the cause is sad. I'd like to see a more
peaceful society, and an end to racism. They gloss over it an awful lot. I'd
like to see equality between the sexes. Women are still considered subordinate,
especially at work, where they are paid less." And then, sitting in
buckskin beneath an arbor sunshade, the ends of his long black hair flickering
in the breeze, he paused. "And I'd like to see more concern for education
in schools."
"More
concern for education in schools." That's a subtle spin on a common
phrase.
Southbound
from Tahlequah, heading toward Tenkiller Lake State Park, I was swept up by Wayne and Joyce
Bradshaw of Sallisaw, whom I had met, along with their houseguest, Diane Nolan
(from Franklin Township in Hunterdon County, NJ!) at the Cherokee Museum. They knew that the route I'd
described would be more torturous than I had anticipated, and they ferried me
to their Lake home for a visit, and then on to
the State Park. People really have been remarkably helpful, just pulling over
at the top of a climb to lend a hand, and then treating you as though you'd
been invited all along!
From
Sallisaw I headed west, following the route the Joad
family took in Steinbeck's _The Grapes of Wrath_. I picked out a farm that
could have been the Joads', followed a dirt road that
felt like the road Tom walked after his hitching his way home from McAlester
prison, and now I'm heading toward Oklahoma City on the same road the entire
family rode, on an old Ford they weren't sure could go the distance.
Yesterday
was a great start -- 70 miles of much flatter land. Along Route 266 west of Warner
I was even singing, for the road there had a good shoulder, new blacktop, and
the wind, at 25 mph, was out of the south and just off my left shoulder. The
alfalfa was really waving, and all the beeves looked up and nodded as I sailed
by singing, though the amber waves were still green and young.
Today
in Henryetta began with storms, so laundry and a stop
in the library have been the order of the morning, and a shorter day will
follow this afternoon. In two days I'll be in Oklahoma City, where I will pause a bit, set
aside the Joad metaphor, and visit the site of the
American terrorists' bombing. Later, however, I hope I can switch out of horror
mode and recall again the Joads' first night on the
road, near Bethany outside OKC, where the already
overloaded Joads swept up into their family the
mourning Wilson family, and helped ferry them out of their misery.
So,
I'm back out on the road at noon, following US62 west toward Okemah, and the crossroads towns of Castle, Prague, Jacktown,
and Harrah on the way to Oklahoma City. The Joads
made good time their first day, and took only six days to reach California. I'll be a bit slower. No posting
for a few days, folks.
--
PJClements 609.290.4864
Saturday,
May 14
Okemah
-> Oklahoma City
1990
-> 2073 (83)
Great talk in Meeker with five folks on sitting on out on
the sidewalk selling household gear. I sat with them in the open rear of an open station wagon,
and chatted. Six more "Dreams of America" in my notes. Plenty of tattoos, rough Oklahoma stories, and comfortable
generosity. As I
was leaving, Amy Taber the ringleader, gave me a neck cooler, one of those
scarves loaded with magic goop that you soak and wrap around your neck,. Mmmmm.
Great riding today. Chatted with two fifth grade boys,
Adrian and Dmitri, two Indians, at the Kickapoo Casino. We were comparing bikes. Theirs
were cooler than mine.
I
thought of Joe Hartzler, Greg Smith, and Rainey
Taylor most of afternoon. I did not stop to find the Oklahoma City bombing
site, for I was hustling through an emerging Saturday night party on the east
side of town, and I was fading fast, looking for a place to stay. I stopped in
the west side firehouse, and the crew there directed me up to 39th street, which connected me to Route 66. My
$30 hotel, a veteran of 66 glory, hadn't been updated
since the interstate was invented.
83 miles today. Adding plastic\cover to saddle, making it slippery, was
good, reducing friction on butt w/ shorts.
--
PJClements
Tuesday,
May 17, Day 49
Foss
KOA -> Elk City, OK
2193
-> 2211 (18)
A rest day. Whew, My body needed this. Winds
today were strong, and from the south, but I knew it would be a short day, done
well before noon, and a day during which I could rest by body. I had felt some
shakiness yesterday, and I knew that physically I needed a rebuild day, and
that psychologically I needed something to prepare me for the push into and
through Texas, a move that was looming before me.
Since
Oklahoma
City the land has clearly changed. The land has lengthened out, the roll
between decreasing ridges and creeks has become longer, and the horizon has
jumped outward by a factor of two or three. Space has become much larger. Trees grown only in draws or culverts, and the wind is a
steady reality, a defining element, like water in a lake.
I
stopped for some e-mail and route research at the Elk City Carnegie Library,
and I found a $30 including tax motel on 66, right near the (disappointing)National Route 66 museum. The wind today was stronger,
drawing comment even from locals. A $6 haircut was a treat. My barber had lived
in the east before but returned here. "I love the hills and mountains, but
I start to feel closed in. When I came back to western Oklahoma, I felt like I could breathe
again."
Tomorrow's
route takes me across the rest of Oklahoma, to Sayre and Texola,
and then across the northern Panhandle toward Amarillo. People here say it gets pretty
open over there. Hmm. Route 66 also disappears for most of Texas, buried beneath I-44, so maybe I'll
get to do some interstate riding (it's legal in TX, NM, AZ, and CA where
there's no alternate route, cities excepted). If the surface is good, that will
be a treat. Original Route 66 with its concrete slabs is great, but the more
recent chip-seal blacktop of covered frontage roads is the devil's work.
Tomorrow,
to Texas!!!
--
PJClements
Thursday,
May 19, Day 51
Shamrock
Texas -> ???
2272
-> ??
A quick note midday to those who read and worry.
I'm
in Texas! Yikes! More than hiking over the Cumberland Gap, and maybe the equal of bridging
the Mississippi, crossing the Oklahoma / Texas border was a
emotional moment, for this symbolic border is a real move into new territory.
This was a crossing from the increasing wide open but still "Green
Country" of Oklahoma to the higher, drier (<20"/year) grasslands
of the Great Plains. This is very different country, this Llano Estacado
(http://www.tsha.utexas.edu/handbook/online/articles/LL/ryl2.html
).
But
I must hurry off and hit the road, for I have a 90 mile goal for today. Route
66 has been terrific in Texas so far, from Texola
to McLean*, and on, I'm told, all the way to Amarillo, my destination today. Who knows
what lurks beyond that cattle town? So, no Interstate
so far, just the friendly concrete slabs of the old Mother Road, fair breezes, and the promise of
90 degrees in the afternoon. Roll on!
*
(MacLean, Texas, in whose library I am writing, has a Museum called "The
Devil's Rope and Route 66 Museum," a Tribute to Barbed Wire.)
pax -- PJClements
Thursday,
May 19, Day 51
Shamrock
-> Amarillo TX
2272
-> 2368 (96 miles)
[previous posting at noon, from McLean TX...]
...later, from Amarillo. Today was a long ride, 96 miles,
but it wasn't as much a grind as it sounds. From Shamrock, Route 66 was in good
shape, though the friendly concrete had been often paved over with a "chip
and seal" surface -- tar and stones generally -- that isn't as good for
cycling. I stopped in McClean to check the library
and catch some breakfast. From McLean to Amarillo, 70 miles, the road was almost
always flat -- billiard table flat. There was one rise, on top of which was the official Texas Welcome Center, huge, of course,
and dramatic. The balcony of the welcome center overlooked some of the old XIT
ranch, once the largest ranch in all of Texas (it covered ten counties!).
For
this small section the frontage road disappeared, and I rode the Interstate for
two exits until the frontage road reappeared. Ahhh....that
was sweet. The grade was smooth, the surface perfect,
a breeze at my back, and the wind wake of passing traffic gently pulled me
forward faster. For nervous readers out there, the section of I-40 had huge,
clean shoulders, terrific sight lines, and long distance travelers. Flying down
this road was great. I hope when I must return to I-40 for parts of New Mexico and Arizona that the road is as sweet as this
section of I-40.
How
flat is this Llano
Estacado? From Groom to Amarillo I did not cross a single bridge or
see any water course. Seven miles west of Groom I turned back to see where I'd
come, and I could still see the large cross they've erected in Groom. There are
no landmarks other than what man has made. As flat as it is, the land is not
level, however. There is a sneaky steady grade up to the west here, a billiard
table raised at one end, just slightly. Happily there was a breeze from the
east at my back, and the rising miles rolled beneath me.
It
was hot today, in the 90s, and on some of the town roads in Amarillo, I was popping tar bubbles in the
road. Friday and Saturday promise to be warmer.
Friday
will be shorter, to Vega, TX. Saturday I'll stretch out to Tucumcari
New Mexico, I hope. A new state!!
--
PJClements
Monday,
May 23, Day 55
Santa Rosa, NM
2568
miles from Peddie
Greetings, all, from the public library in Santa Rosa, NM (scuba diving
capital of the southwest). After 96, 52, 81, and 67 mile days and a lot of time out in
the increasingly bright sun, and with a forecast for high 90s today and a plan
that called for an 87 straight line run from here to Moriarty (pinto bean
capital of the WORLD!), I woke this morning with a body that said, "Seems
like a good rest day, bonehead. You're feeling strong, but your left foot is a
bit tender, your right shoulder is a little crinkly from riding so long in the
aero bars, and your plan needs a little more research." So, contravening a
long career of not paying attention to good advice, I didn't merely nod at this
wisdom. Today I am exploring the town of Santa Rosa; visiting the "blue
hole" that attracts scuba divers to this desert spot; and figuring if it
makes more sense to ride up toward Santa Fe on the original, pre 1937 track of
Route 66, and then head southwest, and down, toward Albuquerque, or to follow
my present plan and take the straight shot toward Albuquerque. Getting local
knowledge on whether services (water) actually exist at what appear on the map
to be towns will be the order of the afternoon. I won't see wireless for a
while, nor, perhaps, public libraries, so there may
not be postings here for a couple of days.
In
an odd way, these last few days have been uneventful. When I'm on old 66, it is
generally a frontage road to I-40, and there is no traffic, other than a ranch
pickup every half hour or so, or, once or twice a day, a passenger car with
out-of-state plates following the old road too, the shotgun passenger
waving as they pass. Also, yesterday, on a long straightaway a couple
hundred yards south of the interstate, a west bound trucker gave a long blast
on the horn and then pumped his arm out his window as he rolled on by. That
little piece of contact and encouragement lit me up for twenty miles. I've
discovered that I can look up at a mesa that's six or seven miles away, and
then allow my mind to explore places and ideas slowly, all the while pedaling
strong and steady progress to the distant landmark. I couldn't do this back in Virginia. The landscape was too stimulating,
my mind too busy, the movement of distance and time too tight to let loose and
think for long blocks. Like meditation, prayer, or long classes, stretching out
takes practice and progression. Here now, my body is able to pedal out big mile
days unremarkably, I'm conditioned to drinking every six minutes (Ironman watches are great tools), and as the distant buttes
and mesas provide slower moving landmarks, my mind and imagination are filling
up the space nicely. So? I'm glad I went from east to
west; endorphins are good; the mind is unbelievably elastic; and not bringing
electronic entertainment was a great decision.
More later from down the road.
--
PJClements
map:
http://www.mapquest.com/maps/map.adp?formtype=address&searchtype=address&country=US&addtohistory=&1ahXX=&address=&city=Santa+Rosa&state=NM&zipcode=
Wednesday,
May 25, Day 57
Moriarty
-> Albuquerque NM
2656
-> 2703 (47 miles)
A long day yesterday, 84 miles from Santa Rosa, where I took a
rest day, to Moriarty, NM, the western edge
of the Great Plains. At the end of the day, the Sandia Mountains rose in the west, making it clear
that the vast rolling of some the plains was over. Vast will continue, but here
in the beginning of the Basin and Range portion of the continent, we have rock upthrust by faulting again, something I haven't seen since Tennessee. And these babies look big, too.
Yesterday's
ride was all in I-40, beneath which the remnants of old 66 lie expired. The
wind was sweet in the morning for an easy 40 miles. In the afternoon the wind
switched to the west, so the ride was more of a grind. Except for three flat
tires, each the result of the tiny wires that lie about after truckers' tires
disintegrate on the interstate. Missing the big chunks of dead tires is easy;
picking up the insidious invisible wires is inevitable.
Today's
ride was back on old 66 as I headed into Albuquerque. A lot of climbing into the Sandias was rewarded by a long roll down into Albuquerque. I stopped by "The Bike Coop,
Ltd" for some of the necessary brotherhood, and met some terrific riders,
both teachers. Stephen Knight Williamson, of Active Knowledge Adventures, was
an inspiration, working on his maters into order to found a charter school
based on experiential learning. His "bike and barge" trip to England of a couple of summers ago sounded
awesome, as did special ride along the old, original Santa Fé
Trail. I'll be in touch with him later when I'm done.
The
rest of today will be exploring town a bit, finding a cheap motel (plenty of
$25 places on the way into town, so there must be some on the way out too),
writing up a terrific conversation with two young men from Santa Rosa, and getting set for a long ride to
Grants NM. Leaving town along 66 includes something the locals call "Nine
Mile Hill." I wonder what that's about.
I'm
making progress every day. Finally, I think I will make it to California, something I wasn't sure of a few
weeks ago. Something like being a senior and wondering
whether you'll ever get all the work done to make it to graduation.
--
PJClements
Saturday
May 28, Day 60
Gallup, NM, 2862 miles
These
have been some terrific days, crossing New Mexico, and the rides from Albuquerque to Grants (83 miles), the then
Grants to Gallup (66) were spectacular. Physical space uses a different
exponent system here than in the east; time is more clearly visible in the
land; and the four elements have asserted their primacy. Approaching Grants on
a rising road, I noticed the mesas on the north and south slowly converging,
and soon it was clear that old 66, the railroad, I-40, and the Rio Puerco would all squeeze together through a narrow pass.
The locomotives' diesels, the trucks' loud gearing, and my breathing labored
louder as we pulled closer to a half mile opening, towers of wind and river
cuts focusing all these moving men and machines, then releasing us out into
another flat valley, higher now, but layered with lava, the fourth element
grinding through this scene. The next day, riding into Gallup, the staggered northern mesas
slowly let me pass, each tilted up slightly, their strata parallel, their heads
jutting out like so many Gibraltars. Church Rock and
Cathedral Rock announced the town, and I was glad to arrive.
My
stay in Gallup was lovely and special, thanks to the warm welcome of Jason
Slesher, Experiential Programs Manager of the
National Indian Youth Leadership Project, who welcomed me into his house, his
city, his home. I pulled into town, found a bike shop
for more patches and fresh rubber (miles on I-40, though easy, is killing my
tires -- those damned wires from shredded truck tires), and then a terrific
crew at The Coffee House, an upbeat joint on Coal Street. There I met several young folks,
some cyclists, and enjoyed the street scene prep for a punk concert that night
in the grand El Morro Theatre down the block.
Everyone seemed enthused about Gallup, its rich potential, the clear
civic progress of the present administration, and the richness of the cultural
power of Gallup.
After
clearing up a bit, Jason took me to meet some colleagues, young Jeff Benham, a recent high school graduate who is deeply
involved in land conservation, helping build trails on new city land, working with younger high
school students in several of the NIYLP outreach programs, helping too in
Search and Rescue. Raelynne Randolph, also of NIYLP,
joined us for dinner, and she too was a great ambassador for the city and its
spirit. All these people were busy creating themselves, not settling for the
dispiriting, seeking rather growth and ownership. In family, in work, in
politics -- all portions of their idea of community -- these folks were joyfully
taking command of their lives by building their home.
After
dinner, Jason toured me around Gallup, through the town, up into the
hills to the north and the edges of the Zuni mountains
to the south. In the morning, we went to the Saturday market for breakfast, for
jewelry, and the mix of cultures that markets create. We talked geography,
religion, anthropology, pedagogy -- a marvelous time. An accomplished and
centered man, Jason is another special person who makes clear Tanya Shaffer's
comment that "Travel gives strangers the opportunity to amaze you."
--
PJClements
Sunday
May 29, Day 61
Gallup NM -> ?
2862
->
Today
the young men and women of Peddie's senior class
graduate, and I feel a bit flat, for the joy embedded in this ritual, a mix of formality
and exuberance beneath the tent on Peddie's center
lawn, is a deep, smooth pleasure. Students I've known and worked with in the
classroom, on the fields, in the dorm, on bicycles in Tennessee, celebrate a liminal
moment in their lives, and we get to do it together as a community. The morning
is electric with promise; the ceremonies are swollen with accomplishment; and
the afternoon, after the seniors have all left, after their rooms have all been
emptied, and after their families and friends have all driven away, is full of
the quiet exhale of summer. I'll miss saying farewell to many of the kids and
their parents, but I'm happy too that we're all heading off to follow dreams.
For
me, today, that's the Arizona line, and it's only about 24 miles
down the road.
--PJClements
Tuesday,
May 31, Day 63
Holbrook
-> Flagstaff, AZ
98
miles, 3059 total
Sunday,
Gallup to Chambers, 50 miles, was a
terrific ride, though challenging because of the afternoon west wind. Through
the Navajo nation, the stuff along the road, including 66 itself,
disappears, and the ride is a long reflection. In the middle of a long pull
between towns, the Chieftain Motel arose, my only option given the distances.
Monday
was a 51 mile grind against a steady gale, from first
pedal stroke to the last, a collapse into the KOA in the railroad town of Holbrook, a town "too rough for women
or children." A short Monday required a long Tuesday, a 96 mile ride from
Holbrook to Winslow (30) miles, and then to Flagstaff, with nothing, even water, in
between. After standing on the corner of 2nd and Main, waiting in vain for the sweet love
in a flatbed Ford that might save me this day, I filled up with water, packed
my backpack with ice, and headed for the road. All day long the distant, snow-capped
peaks of the San Francisco mountains were a mesmerizing beacon, accompanied
first by high desert scrub, then by red rock washes, then a long stretch of
grassland that looked ready for buffalo, and then, just before Winona
("And don't forget Winona"), a rise to 6000 feet and a new spread of
pine, for an hour just taller trees not blasted by the open winds, but then, as
I climbed still and the San Francisco peak grew enormous, the tall thick
Ponderosa pine of high western forest. I had another 300 yards or so left in me
when I checked into the Flagstaff KOA, a truly happy camper.
Wednesday
will be short: some bike maintenance, a laundry gig, some noodling
around Flagstaff and a walk-in at a realtor. Melanie and both liked Flagstaff ten years ago on our cross-country
motor trip with Peter Clements, the "Aliens Tour." Maybe we'll come
here for the next section of our lives. (Nothing too soon.
WAY down the road, so relax, Mr. Headmaster.)
After
Flagstaff, there comes
Williams and then Seligman, and then a long section of original and remote
Route 66. Cool. Sure would appreciate an east wind.
Enjoyed
camp neighbors Don and Shannon deYoung, and 6th grade
Dylan and 10th grade Brittany, of Calvert City, Kentucky. On a family vacation to see the
west, including the Grand Canyon tomorrow, they were friendly and generous neighbors,
sharing some dinner, a cold beer (verrry cold...umm,
excellent), and a healthy approach to life. "You know, after 9/11, a lot
of people just said, Hey, you gotta
take it easy, and live a little and share. You know, we're all Americans over
here. We're all family. If you want to be a jerk, go over to Iraq or something," said Don, while
grilling up a mound of burgers. A muscle of a man with a quick wit and a buzz
cut, Don has a warm, gruff way with his youngsters, like your favorite bear.
Don works on the river barges between Pittsburgh and Southpoint, Ohio, one month on and then the next
month on, leaving him lots of time in big blocks to play with his family.
Shannon, who works with the EMT, seems a good partner and foil, unflappable and
steady. I hope they get to hike down into the Canyon tomorrow, and then go home
to Kentucky and tell a thousand stories back of
Billy the Kid, the great Canyon, and all their daring exploits.
--PJClements
Sunday,
June 5, Day 68
Kingman
->Needles CA
3247
-> 3307
Thursday:
Flagstaff -> Seligman (77)
Friday:
Seligman -> Truxton (52)
Saturday:
Truxton -> Kingman (44)
Sunday:
Kingman -> Needles, CALIFORNIA!!! (60)
The past
few days have been terrific. The desert is lovely, especially in the morning
when the winds are calm, the light sharp, and the air ethereal. From Flagstaff I had a run on I-40 for a while,
but was able to pick up 66 through the Kaibab Forest, a solo ride through cool Ponderosa
pine, an easy climb. At a bend in the road, a coyote and I crossed paths in the
early morning quiet, each of us pausing, nodding to each other, and then
continuing off on our traveling business.
I
met Ed and Lauren Hodgens of Atlanta at a break,
Lauren following a fiancé to Las Vegas for the next part of her life, Ed
helping her, his daughter, set up in a new home, one his last Dad moves, both
clearly excited about their family work together.
After a stop in Williams and the JavaCycle
coffee shop (coffee? bicycles? MY kind of place!), I headed out for another section of
Interstate. Soon, however, after Ash Fork, 66 resumed, and I had a great ride
in the wind alone into Seligman, home of the 66 revival.
Route
66 and I-40 part company here in Seligman, the new road heading south to cross
the next range, 66 heading north toward the Grand Canyon, then
looping south to Kingman. Services occur rarely, so I cut the whole Kingman
ride into two days, to gain some mastery over wind and thirst. Perfect! I thus
relaxed and enjoyed the desert, stopping to explore ruins along the road,
taking my time to sun dry myself on warm rocks, tuning into the arid majesty of
wind, rock, and sand.
Truxton was a short stop at the Frontier Motel, a 66 Classic, and a
terrific conversation at the Frontier Saloon with Ruth Gordon, a 78 year old
Arizonian transplant from Arkansas (55 years ago); Jen and Henry, two Dutch
travelers visiting the American west; and Philip Quasala,
a Havasupai who grew up on the reservation just north
of Truxton. More on these folks' dreams later.
Saturday
was an easy roll down from Truxton through the Crozier Canyon, a quick stop at the general store
in Hackberry as the long drop toward Kingman continued, and then a long flat
valley ride into town alongside the 66's old friend, the Santa Fe railroad.
From
Kingman I headed out to do some more climbing on old 66, up toward Oatman with the 22 switchbacks heading up, and then some 27
more heading down toward the valley toward Topock. The
ride up to the Sitgreaves Pass in the Black Mountains was one of the coolest sections of
the trip, a pure sweat busting climb on an old empty road. The climb included
terrifying glimpses down into the valley, wild mountain burros braying and
honking across the valley, and images of early 1930s families worrying their
way up this pass, cars laden with extra water bags, oil and gears vaporizing
with the grind. Midway up the mountain I stopped at the only civilization in
sight, the Cool Springs Camp, a restored original highway stop, a stone
building with cold drinks, pleasant conversation, two old gas pumps, and the
memory of all who'd passed before.
Oatman, an old gold mining town and modern tourist attraction
(gunfights occur a couple of times each weekend afternoon, right out in the
street), has a good old hotel, where I rested while chatting with some local
guys at the bar. Meanwhile, burros wandered and schmoozed outside, wheedling
carrots from tourists and posing for pictures.
I
headed west out of Oatman on a shortcut to Needles,
the temperature rising as I headed downhill into the Mohave Valley. By the time I hit valley below,
waves of heat were rolling up, and I rode the last 20 miles into the wind to
Needles with my head down. I crossed to Colorado River into California, gave a feeble cheer, and flopped
down into a $25 motel on old 66.
I
think finding a ride across the Mojave Desert is a good idea. I'll head into town, buy some poster
board for a sign, and see if I can finagle a lift to Barstow.
More later folks. I'm in my last state now, and Santa Monica seems like a possibility, and in
just a few days!!!
--
PJClements
Tuesday,
June 7, Day 70
3325-
??
Barstow ->
I
made it across the Mojave desert. Those who have worried about this section
of the trip (me, my mother, Catherine,...) may now
exhale.
This
report will be brief for now, but I'll expand on several incidents soon.
A slow morning in Needles as I planned my Mojave crossing. I explored the three I-40
interchanges in Needles, go the scoop on both bus and train transportation, and
then headed to the pharmacy for poster board and a marker for my sign:
"X-Country Cyclist seeks lift to BARSTOW" I tried it out at the Wagon Wheel truck stop,
with no luck. Then at the Mobil Station interchange. No luck. Finally, I headed
to the entrance ramp at the last interchange, where I met fellow ride seeker
Clarence Brown. Clarence was heading to Barstow, having been ripped off by the
friends he had come to Needles to help. $800 taken from his
wallet while he showered. Denied a drink because he
only had 16 cents. Tall and handsome in a southwest way, Clarence had
the weathered face of a 60 year old man who'd worked outside. His jeans and his
western shirt were pressed, his boot and belt nicely oiled and broken in. His
hair looked like it once could have done what Porter Waggoner's did, but it was
modest now, more modern. His left forearm and hand were wrapped in a brace, no
longer useful. "The heat's killing me. I'm heading back to Barstow, and then maybe up to Big Bear Lake where it's cooler. I can't stand it
much more." I shared what little water I had, and the loaned Clarence my
sign while I pedaled off for more water and a couple of sandwiches. Clarence
gave me his spot at the ramp for a while. "I'll go nap under those trees.
Maybe you'll have more luck than me. Four hours and not a
ride yet. But I'm not in a hurry. The check doesn't arrive until the
first of the month."
I
did my dance and wave my sign, and in about a half hour a pickup with a couple
inside pulled over. "Can you ride in the back?" asked the driver. So
I opened the tailgate, hauled up my bike into the pickup bed, and climbed in
with my rig. Clarence came over. We shook hands and he said good luck, looking
sad. My ride took off, hit 75 before the on-ramp ended, and I watched Needles,
the Mohave Valley, and the thin green tree line of
the Colorado
River
recede we climbed up into the desert. Two hours and 139 miles of speed desert
later, Rickles pulled over, unlatched the tailgate and
said "Here's Barstow!" I barely got my bike off and
shook his hand before he was off again and I was on the western edge of the
desert, glad not to have attempted by bike what I just watched from the
wind-blasted rear of a Chevy crew cab pickup.
Sitting
in the truck bed watching what we'd just passed, I waved at all the truckers we
passed, and giggled at the adventure I was on. Here I was, a grown man, jostled
in the back of a pickup truck like a load of farm gear, leaning back against my
saddlebags, wearing a yellow jersey, a bike helmet, and a big grin, waving at
westbound vacationers pulling speedboats and RVs. Sure beat trying to pedal 100
miles from water in Needles to water Ludlow, then 40 more to Barstow, all
against a powerful wind. I was as happy as could be.
This
morning I've crossed the remainder of the Mojave, reaching Victorville. The
next challenge is to climb to the El Cajon pass to cross the San Gabriel Mountains into San Bernardino. From there, it's downhill to LA ! Not too many miles left, but I better leave the library
now and go figure out a plan for these last mountains.
--PJClements
Thursday,
June 9, Day 72
Pomona -> Santa Monica, CA
3441
-> 3495 (54 miles)
Whoo-Hoo! I made it, all the way across the country, all by myself!
Damn.
Not really, not all by myself. I made it with all the freedom,
love, and support of Melanie Clements, the totally cool one; with the
head-shaking smile of Peter Clements, and his own awesome example of focus. I made
it with all the worry and prayers of Mom, all my brothers, sisters, partners,
and their kids; with the support of everyone at Peddie, colleagues, students,
friends all; and with the help and support of everyone I met all along the way.
The unrelenting kindness of everyday people meeting and connecting with an
everyday guy doing something a bit offbeat, has been a
steady inspiration. Nobody over the age of six does anything "all by
myself."
Speaking
of which,...Lloyd girls: "Monster Dude," a
green plastic scary monster with fearsome teeth set on the rear of my bike
facing aft has done a terrific job guarding against the dangers behind me I
could not see. There were plenty, and Monster Dude met the challenge.
I
was met at Santa Monica by Mary-Ann Pomerleau
and her friend Rich, in town today for some fancy AFI affair honoring George
Lucas. Those who know Principio should smile at the convergence of forces and
the serendipity of my finishing my own "signature experience" in the
quiet company of someone who saw Principio start.
Flying
across Foothills Boulevard, old 66 here in town, then crossing
further on Los Feliz, and then ripping my way to the
ocean on Santa Monica Boulevard -- all this was a steady rush all
day. Leaving a KOA in the morning, zipping across Hollywood, then crossing Rodeo Drive to finish at Ocean Avenue and Wilshire Boulevard, was an American symbol stretch. Put
differently, I had a short stack of pancakes and coffee in a diner in LaVerne with patrons with tattoos and waitresses with attitude;
I had had a light lunch on the veranda of the Wilshire Miramar with friends
heading off to a black tie dinner. Welcome to America.
More later folks. Right now I need to find a place to stay, and then
figure out how to get home. Details, details.
pax,
--PJClements