Home Sweet Home--for Three Days

I have done better than expected since last updating. I decided to push myself to get past the soreness of the first week and did 537 miles (not counting ten in the back of a red pickup truck in West Virginia) in my second week on the road.

For the record that makes just over 1,000 miles traveled.

People have been universally friendly, discounting one or two morons who yell, "Get off the road," somehow convincing themselves that they have someplace important to go and something important to say to spice up their brain-dead existence.

After stopping to write at the library in Pulaski, Virginia, I decided to push into the mountains, although a local man warned I was entering "twenty miles of nothing." Pedaling out of town, I happened to see a light-skinned African-American woman watering her flowers. I asked to fill my water bottles to be safe and was rewarded by the kindness of Mrs. Angie Conners, who could not have been more considerate. After talking about where I was headed and where I had come from, and plans to raise money for diabetes, she noted that she and her husband, Willis, a retired army man, were type-2 diabetics themselves.

Then she insisted on providing ice and came back moments later with a large chunk protected in plastic zip-lock bags. I thanked her; and she said she'd pray for me, adding, "May the blood of Jesus protect you through your journey."

In the next two hours I was happy to have the ice, sipping the melt water when I hit hard spots and sticking the bag on my neck to cool down when necessary. Around 7:00 p.m. I ran into three local riders who cautioned me I was going to head over Little Walker Mountain soon and Big Walker Mountain right after. The first was two miles up, with numerous switchbacks, the second three miles up and even steeper.

I climbed over Little Walker, then decided to camp on a stream in the valley between the two mountains. "Showering" consisted of jumping in the creek, where two deer had been drinking moments before.

The next day (6-27) I had to go over Big Walker first thing in the morning and it took an hour to climb to the top. Much of the day was spent heading down the South Holston River Valley, a beautiful stretch, and then climbing two tough mountains in succession to reach Tazewell, Virginia. Near the top of the second mountain an elderly woman driving a black Ford Ranger offered a lift; but I explained I was determined to pedal my way cross country. So she cackled a little, revealing a few remaining teeth, and went on up the mountain. An hour later, entering Tazewell at last, I happened to pass her house. From the front porch she shouted cheerfully, "Glad to see you made it!"

Earlier, near Bland, Virginia, I crossed paths with a young man hiking the Appalachian Trail. I asked how he got interested, and he said a college buddy convinced him to go and keep him company. I smiled, looked in both directions, and threw my arms wide, palms up, as if to ask, "Where is he?"

The bearded hiker laughed, "That's a story in itself." He said they flew to Atlanta from their home in Maine and headed out for the trail. After one week his friend couldn't do it anymore and quit. S o he had been hiking on his own for the last forty days. He hoped to finish the trail from start to finish this year; if not he will go home for the winter and complete the journey next season. I told him I thought it sounded like a great adventure. He said the same about my plan to ride to Oregon.

As I have admitted, however, if I hadn't told students I was going to make this trip I might not have lasted through the first week.

The morning of 6-28 was spent in a laundromat, talking to an old fellow, whose history reflects the changing fortunes of America workers. As a boy he helped round the family farm, but noted it "was too damn hard." So he left home, joined the army, and did a tour as a military policeman in Korea during the war.

He returned home thinking he could catch on with the state police. One bad decision led to another and he started hanging with friends from high school and "got to actin' wild" and was soon arrested. That put the end to his plans in the line of police work. He hired on next with Chrysler till the slowdown of the early 70's. After that he went to work in the coal mines as a foreman for twenty-three years. By 1999 he was earning $5,000 per month and doing well enough for his wife to stay home and raise the three children. But it was soon clear he had black lung disease and he had to retire.

Riding that afternoon, I stopped for a drink and a rest. A fellow with a thick mustache pulled his car into the parking lot, noticed my bags, and asked how far I was riding. "To Oregon. At least that's the plan," I explained. Then I mentioned I was riding for diabetes. He wished me luck and drove off and I continued to work on my 32-oz. "Glacier Freeze" Gatorade. A few minutes later he pulled back into the lot, got out, and handed me $10 for diabetes. He explained, "The wife and I got to talking and decided we ought to donate for a good cause."

Entering West Virginia, I dreaded the tough mountains I expected ahead, and stopped the first night in Justice. Failing to find a camping spot, I slept in a motel. Then I ate breakfast at the "Justonian" across the street. Eating alone, you tend to listen in on conversations. Four women nearby were talking about modern teens and their strange piercings. Then they turned to the time when they first had their ears pierced. One admitted she fainted when her sister pierced her ear. "When I woke up, though," she continued, "the other one was done, too." The ladies (and I) all shared a laugh.

Julie Hatfield, who waited on my table (and I think owned the restaurant) talked to me about my plans. As usual, I mentioned diabetes. When I tried to pay the bill, she shook her head, explaining, "It's been taken care of." I offered again; but she said she wanted to help a good cause. So I set eight dollars aside for my JDRF fund.

Many of the areas I passed through have seen better days. In Logan County a local told me they have lost 25,000 people since the 1970s; and that loss has "devastated the economy." The region is coming back a little lately as coal rebounds; but there were a lot of empty homes.

People in this area work hard and often look tired and a little beat down. You see fellows with dirt on their t-shirts and up and down the front of their work pants. Even their ballcaps are smudged and tattered. But these are friendly men, quick to laugh, and all seem to know each other. These are coal miners, lumber workers, mechanics and truck drivers, the nuts and bolts of the American economy. My father would have said they were people "who don't mind getting their hands dirty."

He would have meant it as a form of praise.

That afternoon I stopped for another Gatorade. Three fellows in soiled clothing, just off work, questioned me about my ride. One commented, "You picked a hot day to travel." I agreed, but replied, "You look like you have been working harder than me." They laughed and I added, "Go home and have a cold one!"

My ride on 6-29 took me along Highway 10 and for the most part I made good time, putting in 87 miles from the seat of my bike. But one stretch was too dangerous to ride--and a kind-hearted couple, Ray and Frieda Napier, stopped to give me a lift in the back of their red Ford F150.

"We weren't sure you knew what you were getting into," Ray said. He explained they had passed me down the road and turned around to offer a lift. It turns out that Highway 10 between War and Logan, West Virginia is narrow and twisting, with coal trucks thundering past in both directions and no place for bicycle riders of any kind.

Frieda has been involved with citizens groups and has traveled to Washington, D. C. several times to lobby for funds to widen the road. Her grassroots approach to democray is refreshing. So I promised I would add: HIGHWAY 10 MUST BE WIDENED!

POLITICIANS, GET BUSY!

I spent the night at a Ramada Inn in Huntington, West Virginia. In the morning I dawdled over breakfast, and got to talking with Cindi Acree-Hamann, who lives in Cincinnati. She works at Children's Hospital and I told her how thrilled we were with the fine care provided for Emily when she turned up diabetic. She explained that her husband, Captain Gene Hamann, was sleeping in late--and on medical leave from the Cincinnati Police. He was injured by a drunk driver in January and may retire as a result.

Cindi explained that he was an ex-marine (like me) and interested in teaching (like me). He spent time in combat during Vietnam, however. I sat at a desk at Camp Pendleton in California for two years fiddling over paperwork.

I think it's safe to say Hamann is the hero in this tale.

By 6-30 I was back in Ohio and feeling confident. I had a short day (riding 67 miles) then found a camping spot in Shawnee National Forest, where I met a group of Boy Scouts led by Frank Duran. It was an impressive group. Duran has them active with scuba diving round Pelee Island in Lake Erie, rock climbing across the state, and practicing for a 70-mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail in July.

July 1 was spent riding hell-bent for leather. I wanted to be sure I got home and so logged 105 miles, blisters, sore buns and all. I assure you, too, that southern Ohio has a LOT of hills. I had to be pedaling up hill a mile or more at least ten times during this one day's ride.

Coming through Milford, Ohio, I looked in my helmet mirror and spotted two heavily-loaded riders coming up behind me. It turns out they were two recent college grads, Steve Cash and Ben Kelchlin, who started from Eastport, Maine a month ago and are aiming for California late this summer. It was fun to share stories and give and receive advice with two kindred spirits (though their combined ages would be two kindergartners short of my own). So we exchanged addresses and hope to cross paths somewhere ahead. They were staying at a friend's house overnight and headed to St. Louis in the morning.

I headed cross town to Glendale to spend the next three days home.