Riding through the “hole in the wall tunnel” crossing into Mobile, Alabama finally gave me the sense that I was on my way. After moving all my belongings to my parents’ barn in Cambridge, NY, I flew back to Pensacola, FL, where my bicycle awaited, loaded and ready. My old friend, Mark, bade me farewell, as I climbed on my saddle to make my way west.
Crossing into Mississippi, old rout 98 wound it’s way up the DeSoto National Forest, with logging trucks flying around the curves, just short of grazing me, as I steered the white line on the shoulder-less road. This was hairy stuff, and when a couple joined me for lunch in Hattiesburg, MS, they couldn’t believe that I was cycling “bloody 98”, where many had lost their lives.
After that, Hurricane Juan arrived, bringing with it five straight days of torrential wind and rain. This unusual hurricane bounced on shore two times before heading north. Everything I had was soaked, and with the flooded roads, my progress was abysmal. Taking refuge in a hotel room, in McComb, Ms with all my gear airing out, I felt like I was swimming to the west coast, not cycling.
Just outside of Texarkana, a city half in Texas and half in Arkansas, the rain finally abated. Entering Texas was like a rebirth; the weather was cooperating, and I was able to average close to 100 miles-a-day. I even stopped at a laundromat in Paris (Texas, that is) to dry out all of my wet things. At Wichita Falls, a reporter wanted to do a story on me, but I was losing my sun, so I continued on, finally ducking into an old abandoned house for the night.
With about half of the Panhandle of Texas to go, Mother Nature decided to make her move again by blowing in a strong, steady wind from the west. Luckily, the flat terrain, with thousands of acres of cattle grazing lands, made peddling tolerable, yet it was like going uphill the whole way. One evening, I jumped the barbed wire to camp in an open field among the cattle, wondering if I’d be awakened by them licking my feet.
A herd of antelope, running right beside me for several miles, welcomed me to New Mexico, where the terrain turned to desert, and the towns were few and far between. While the November temperatures were cool, the intense desert sun forced me to carry extra water, adding to my burden. The famous “UFO’s” of Roswell, NM, were on my radar, as I road into the city to re-supply and to do some maintenance on my bicycle at a local bike shop, which graciously offered the use of their equipment.
Replenished and fitted with a new rear tire, I headed out on Rt. 48. An old timer had suggested this rout; unfortunately the paved section turned to dirt and the grade was very steep climbing the 10,000 foot Capitan Mountains, not to mention the strong mountain head winds. It was brutal and, after only about seventy miles, I called it a day, camping out right on the side of this remote road. A ranger stopped by my camp site and informed me that it was the opening of deer hunting season, which put my mind at ease, as there had been continuous gun fire that evening.
The next morning I didn’t feel well at all; sleep deprived and depressed, I finally hit “the wall.” The steep dirt road, along with a head wind that only allowed me to go 3-mph, riding as hard as I could, convinced me that I didn’t have the stamina to go on. I got a room at the Capitan Lodge and started making arrangements to fly home. My brother, Hector, answered the phone, as I called to break the news to my family. His shock and disappointment were enough to convince me to go on. That night, I went through all my gear and mailed half of it home. With my bicycle lighter, and with a renewed determination, I went out the next day with a vigor.
Crossing the great Rio Grande at San Antonio NM, was exciting, but meeting up with Kevin, a fellow rider, was just what I needed. He had started out in New York and was headed to his sister’s place in Phoenix, AR. We road well together, and when it started to snow it was a comfort to have someone else there. As it turned out, I had sent most of my warm clothing home to lighten my load. I was literally wearing all the clothes I had to stay warm.
At Pie Town, NM we found an abandoned gas station and went in for shelter. That evening, the owner came by and invited us to his home just down the road. What luck! We were worried he was going to throw us out; instead, he fixed us dinner and a spot right next to a pot belly stove to sleep for the night. The food was all made from scratch, even the bread. There were hams hanging from the ceiling and dozens of mason jars filled with all varieties of fruits and vegetables on the shelves. There was electricity but no running water, with a hand pump a the well in the kitchen and a two-seater outhouse in the back. The next morning the whole family, five kids in all, were up at sunrise with cinnamon rolls rising in the oven and fresh hot coffee on the stove. Wow, I can’t begin to explain how hospitable the Sloan family was, and after my trip, I sent them $100 to show my appreciation.
With Arizona in our sights, we crossed the Continental Divide, where rivers and streams change direction. Just our luck, a rare weather pattern had the temperature in the 20’s, with up to ten inches of snow. It was hard going, but the roads were plowed, and we continued on. As we dropped down off the mountains into Phoenix, the temperature rose, bringing with it giant desert cacti and other plants that I had never seen in person. Kevin’s sister made me feel right at home, as she welcomed us and offered me a place to crash for the night.
With only 400 miles left, I was up with the sun the next morning, refreshed and ready, although a little sad that I was on my own again. After studying the map, I realized that the back roads going to LA were almost devoid of towns, so I opted for Interstate 10. While considerably shorter, the right shoulder was full of speed bumps that drove me crazy, as well as hurt my sore bottom. The left shoulder, while considerably narrower, was nice and smooth, and with very few cars, it was plenty safe. The Arizona as well as the California police stopped me several times warning me to stay on the right side..
As I crossed the Colorado River into California It seemed surreal. I kissed the ground and jumped for joy. Little did I know that I was entering one of the most traffic-congested areas of the world. By the time I got to Riverside I was completely lost, and with nowhere to camp I got a room at the Dragon Motel, a seedy spot in a small town just outside of San Bernadino. There were strange people knocking on the door all night, and when I looked up from my bed and saw a full size mirror on the ceiling I realized how seedy it really was.
When I rounded the corner and spotted my uncle’s house in Van Nuys, that’s when the gravity of this adventure really hit me. It had taken me almost a month to travel thousands of miles, through some really difficult adversity, and yet here I was. I felt like I could accomplish anything, but first I needed a well deserved break.
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