Thinking & Living

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle
By Ed Chasteen The Pedalin Prof
Book design and layout by Sharon Hanson
Copyright 2010 by Ed Chasteen All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America
GREATER LIBERTY BOOKS Box 442 Liberty, Missouri 64069
A Dedication
When I came years ago to teach at William Jewell College, I was met and welcomed by the Dean, Bruce Thomson. Bruce showed me around campus, introduced me to everyone in sight, paid rapt attention to every word I said. I left him after a couple of hours, wanting to work in this place that would have a man like him. Over the years I came to appreciate his quiet strength. More than most anyone I knew, I trusted him. He seemed to have no personal ambition other than to be of service, and toward that end he worked like a demon. We didnt always agree, but we could talk about our disagreements. And we could still be friends. That first day I met him Bruce had said that he and his wife wanted to have my wife and me over for dinner. But we would have to wait until they finished painting their house. Years passed and we didnt go to dinner. One of the saddest days of my life came when I heard that Bruce had cancer. I knew when I heard he was sick that I had to go see him. On a beautiful fall Sunday I drove to the nearby town where he was hospitalized. I had gone before when other friends were sick. We had talked about the weather. Never about illness or death. I couldnt do that with Bruce. It took all the courage I could muster, but after I had exchanged pleasantries with his wife and daughter and son-in-law, I asked if they would leave the room so Bruce and I could talk. I took his hand. Bruce, Im so sorry. I dont know what to say. If I had just been told I had cancer, I would be scared out of my mind. So Im here to listen to anything you want to tell me. Bruce began to cry. He talked for a while about fear and i
death and hope. I left the hospital knowing that my life had been changed. I had stepped across that moat that separated me from real contact with another human being. Over the next three years, Bruce was in and out of hospitals. I visited him at every opportunity. At first we both thought he was getting well. Then, we knew he was not. Finally he was confined to his bed at home, and at last I was a guest in his house. Each time we talked, we talked of death. Not solely, but we never avoided it. We talked about the college, our families, sports, books we were reading, and dying. It was not a depressing conversation. Ever! Now that Bruce has died, I think of those talks. I miss him terribly, more I think because he was the only one I could talk to like that. But Im finding others. Bruce, this book is for you. I wish you were here so we could talk about all of this. I like to think that somehow you know.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .i Why This Book is 23 Years Late . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .v Once There Was A Spot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1 The Mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .2 Background For Bobbies Concern . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .14 1981 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .14 1985 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18 Spirit Trail Begins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37 Florida 1987 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37 Georgia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48 Tennessee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .71 Kentucky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .106 Illinois . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .113 Missouri . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .116 Nebraska . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .150 Wyoming . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .160 Montana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .184 Idaho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .204 iii
Washington . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .211 Oregon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .239 Peace Pilgrim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .245 1960 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .245 1977 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .246 1987 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .246 California . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .255 Brigadoon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .294 Does the Caged Bird Sing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .301 Dads Trip . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .304
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WHY THIS BOOK IS 23 YEARS LATE

By Ed Chasteen Alone and without money on a bicycle across America: Thats how I spent my summer of 1987. Mickey Mouse gave me a trophy. I planned to write a book to tell my story of that summer. Then folks in Louisiana elected a Klansman to their State Legislature. I had always told my Race Relations students at William Jewell College that its never enough just to know. We must be willing to act on what we know. We knew the good people of Louisiana had been embarrassed. We had to help them redeem themselves. We started HateBusters. The Governor of Louisiana invited us to come. We went. Word got out. We began to be invited all over the country. I had no time for the book. So in demand had HateBusters become that I left William Jewell in 1995 to devote all my time to it. We help people who have been hurt because someone hates them. We go to court with them. Raise money for them. Get them a lawyer. Write love letters to them. Hold prayer vigils. Whatever they need. Free of charge. We never say no when asked to help. And we never ask for money from those who need our help. That book has been on my mind all this time. Ive worked on it when I could. Now its ready. It reads like a fairy tale. I still cant believe it really happened. But every word is true. You will find it hard to believe. But you will want to believe. The way it makes you feel. The things you think about as you read. The possibilities it opens. Youll be amazed. Below is page 12 of this 305 page book I call Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle. Then one day our chaplain could not go to fill a speaking engagement. He asked me to go in his place. It was a meeting of high school boys at the headquarters of The Fellowship of Christian Athletes just across Interstate 70 from Royals Stadium. Bill Covington was in charge. When he told me he worked for AT&T, a light went off in my head. If AT&T would give me a calling card, I could call home every day to tell them where I was and how I was doing. I could get messages. I could call ahead to tell them I was coming. v
So I briefly explained my ride to Bill. "Could AT&T give me a calling card?" "No way," he said. "We're a business. We have to make money." "No problem, Bill. I'll be okay. Thanks." Our conversation had taken place as we first met. After I talk for an hour with his boys about my trip, Bill walks me to the door. As we part, he says, "Write me a letter. I'll see what I can do." On Thursday morning next I'm eating breakfast in my kitchen when the phone rings. It's Bill. "In my 27 years here, we've had requests from every good cause and person you can imagine. If we approved one, we would have to approve them all. And we can't do that. We had to turn them all down. I don't know how to tell you this or why we did it, but we just approved your request." I didn't know either. I had the feeling I had somehow tapped into a power I did not understand and could not control. And it wouldn't let me alone. And all I had to do was to keep talking to people about my dream and asking them to help. I sat down and cried. I was in to something over my head. My life was taking on a Camelot, Man of La Mancha dimension. I hadn't planned this. I wasn't sure I wanted it. Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut and let this thing die? But now people were asking me questions about the ride. And every time I opened my mouth, out came something else I had not thought about saying, something that committed me to something else I couldn't do. What have I gotten myself into? How will it all end? My book will inspire and encourage all who read it. Ive never been so sure of anything than of this. Please order an E-copy of Thinkinand Livinby Bicycle. Go to www.hatebusters.com and click on d on a t e. For a $20.00 donation, I will send you a copy on line. Your $20.00 donation will help HateBusters continue our work. PayPal will notify me of your contribution. I will E-mail a copy of the book to you. If after you have read the book you think it was not worth the money, send me an email to tell me. I will refund your money. I would also like to know what parts of the book speak most powerfully to you. Send me an email about this, too. Thanks. vi
Once There Was A Spot

1945
For Christmas when I was ten, Mother bought me a used bicycle and taught me to ride. She would hold me up and run along beside me until I was going fast enough to remain upright. The sidewalk that ran past our house ended abruptly a few blocks later, and more than once I lost my balance and fell where the sidewalk ended. I began to fear arriving at that place. Then one day as I got there, I noticed that where the sidewalk ended, there was now a paved path sweeping gently and upward to the right. The bicycle seemed to turn itself in that direction. A short time later the path became a country road leading soon to a town I had never seen before. Id better get home, I said to himself. Mother will have supper ready. But when I turned my bike around, the road was gone. Before I could cry or be afraid, someone appeared at my side. I looked quickly around. An old man stood in front of me and around me stood four beautiful children about my own age. Something about them all soon let me know that I had nothing to dread. I didnt ask who they were, how they got there or even how I chanced to be in a place I had never seen before even though I had traveled only a short distance from my home. Hello, Arthur, the old man said. Before I could tell the old man my name was Edgar, he continued. I knew that bicycle would one day bring you back. Dont you recognize it? It was yours when you were 10, the old man said. And you had to be 10 for it to bring you back. Merlin? I didnt understand how I knew the old man or why the old man called me Arthur or why I asked the old man, What
happened to us? Where have you been? Im sorry, Arthur. I forgot to warn you about Mordred. Now Camelots gone. But Ive found you again, and this is the City of Nevaeh. I thought I should cry and be afraid. Mother had taught me not to talk to strangers. And I understood that I was lost. But I was happy. And glad to be here. I didnt know why. I just was. You cant go home again, Arthur, Merlin said gently to me. With my magic, however, I will bring your home to Nevaeh. Your house, your street, your mother and dad and your school and church and all your friends will be here. You wont know it from where you were before. You will go to sleep tonight and when you wake up in the morning you will think this has all been a dream. But you will live the rest of your life here in Nevaeh. Peace and Power and Purpose and Joy will be with you always. You wont see them again with your eyes, but you will feel them in your heart. And you wont see me again, Arthur. But as I have spoken, so shall it be. Now, Arthur, ride into Nevaeh. Your mother has supper ready. Edgar Ray, you better wake up. Its Saturday morning and Lets Pretend is coming on. Its the story of King Arthur today. Mother called me Edgar Ray when she wanted to be sure she got my attention.
The Mission
1987
She was waiting for me on Antioch Pike southeast of Nashville. How can you do this? she asked. I dont know. I replied. Do you have a doctor I can call? Walt Franz. At the Mayo Clinic. Later that day on the phone Dr. Franz told me that a reporter for the Nashville Banner had called to ask her question. I told her,
by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof
Walt said, Ed has a mission, and because he does, he can override his physical problems. Walt was more right than he knew. I had three missions. The first was to find that spark of goodness and genius I think burns inside every person on the planet. I had always said it was there. Now I had to find out. My second mission was to tell people across the country about the Human Family Reunion we had been having at William Jewell for eleven years. And my third mission was to prove that other doctor wrong. The one who said, Its a damnable disease. And you cant be active. Two weeks on the road it has taken me to pedal from Orlando to Nashville, two weeks into a journey bound northwest to Seattle, then due south to L.A., two weeks into my triple mission when that reporter for the Nashville Banner appears in a grocery store parking lot on the outskirts of Nashville to ask me her question. When I was a child and would listen on Saturday mornings to Lets Pretend, my imagination took flight as the magic of radio made pictures in my mind. King Arthur and Excalliber and the Round Table, Cinderella, Goldilocks, Sleeping Beauty, the Seven Dwarfs, Rumplestilskin, Prince Charming, Hanzel and Gretel. On Sunday mornings in church my teachers would tell me stories of little David the shepherd boy who took his slingshot and slew Goliath, of Moses who led his people out of slavery, of Samson who pulled down the pillars and killed the bad people. I would have believed anything I was told when I was six and seven years old. Great good fortune came to me as a child as I would hear fairy tales and Bible stories. My mind and heart were shaped and filled with heroic and noble persons. Through nothing I did to deserve it, I was in my first years of life caught in an upward spiral of soul-shaping, mind-expanding ideas and ideals. Scriptures of all the faiths express common themes that would lead those who take them to heart to embrace one another. One of the teachings I encountered as a child and have since found in different words in other faiths is this: Train up a child in the way he
should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it. I had been trained and now I was old. So how was I at age fifty to fulfill my three-pronged mission? With a childs toy! In a place for children. Get on a bicycle. At Disney World. Alone and without money, pedal west and north. To Atlanta. Chattanooga, Nashville, St. Louis, Kansas City, Lincoln, Scottsbluff, Casper, Missoula, Spokane, Seattle. Then turn south to Portland, San Francisco and Los Angeles. Then meet Mickey at Disneyland. At whatever town I would come to between three and five in the afternoon, stop at the first church I see and ask for a meal and a bed for the night. Go to the newspapers and the TV. stations. Tell them the story of what had happened thus far on my journey. Tell them of the spark of goodness and genius. Tell them about the Human Family Reunion. Ask them to tell their readers and viewers. The five year old I was in my mind saw no problem with this plan. The 50 year old visible to other people had doubts. Are you crazy? Youll get killed. Nobodys gonna give you anything. People will think youre nuts. This was the 50 year old talking to the five year old. The five year old paid no attention. So the five year old gets on his bike at Disney World. May 16th. Ten oclock in the morning. The Congregation of Liberal Judaism and St. Marks Lutheran Church and a Disney camera crew have come to see me off. And now on June first I have come to Nashville to answer her question. Or to put it properly, to have her question answered for me by my doctor. Between Plattsburg and Stewartsville, Missouri on an overcast October Sunday of the previous year, my mission had been assigned to me. I was 37 miles from home, 37 miles into what I hoped would be my first century, when I heard someone say to me in a calm, conversational voice: Ride your bicycle across America. I whirled around. Nobody in sight. Road ahead and behind, empty. No one in the fields to either side. You didnt hear a voice, you idiot. Theres nobody about. And theres no way you could ride across the country. Forget that noise. So I forgot it. . . . Almost! By three oclock I have come to a
service station along US 69 and stopped to drink from my water bottle. At the time Marvin Wright pulls into that gas station, a full-scale civil war is raging in my mind. When Marvin asks, Where you goin? an answer pops out. Im gonna ride across the country to tell people about the Human Family Reunion. Ive never seen Marvin before. I watch him for signs of indifference or amused condescension. I wait for some lukewarm endorsement before a hasty departure. Instead, I get electricity. A neon smiley face jolts to life. Dancing eyes. Marvins transparent enthusiasm shakes me to my toes. Beautiful! he booms. Ill help you. Instead of leaving, Marvin pulls his pickup off the drive; we stand and talk about my ride until approaching darkness pulls me away. All the way home, thoughts of that ride dance in my head. The unexpected response of a stranger has me in a euphoric state. The next morning I am in my office at the college when our campus chaplain walks by. Got a minute, Jerry? He has hardly settled in the chair before I spring it on him. I want to bike across the country this summer. Not one question does he ask. Not one second does he hesitate. Do it. But not like everybody else. Dont go L.A. to New York. Go east to west, and not straight across. Go south to north. In that instant, the route is born: Orlando to Seattle. Jerry has the same look about him as Marvin had. I had never seen a person light up like that. And now on back-to-back days I have seen it twice, each time in response to my announcement of a bicycle ride across the country. This dumb little notion had invaded my mind 24 hours earlier. Like a video tape on fast forward, such notions have raced through my mind all my life. Much ado about nothing. Instantly forgotten. A cross-country bike ride? A grown man with a childs mission? The whole thing seems ridiculous when I am alone to think about it. But when I mention it to someone, it leaps to life. It sounds noble and bold and inspiring. When Jerry responds as he does, I
know I cannot abandon this idea as I have countless others. I also know the person I have to talk to next. Bobbie and I must be the textbook illustration of the complimentary needs theory of mate selection. In our 30 years of marriage, we have often had different opinions about major decisions. We want different things. Our method of operation is not the same. Yet our marriage endures. Neither of us wants out. Together, we survive. Our children turn out well. We travel. Meet people. We are not always happy by any of the standard definitions. But it is obvious that each of us has taken to heart our marriage vows: for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. Now I have to go home and tell Bobbie that I want to ride my bike across America this coming summer, that I will be gone for three-and-a-half months, that she will be alone. From Marvin and Jerry I had not expected a strong reaction. From Bobbie I do. I can think of no reason Bobbie should like my idea. Why should she want to sit at home and worry about me? Why should she think that this new notion is more substantial than the others she has persuaded me against? Youll spend all our money. What will I do if youre killed? Ive responded in defensive ways before, so Im not surprised when I say I wont spend any money and that Ill get a million dollar insurance policy. How will you do it without money? Bobbie asks. I dont know. But if I cant, I wont go. We cant afford a million dollar insurance policy. she says. Ill get it for nothing How? I dont have the slightest idea. But if I cant, I wont go. No way, Im thinking to myself. Now I have three impossible things to do. I dont think I could ride across the country anyway, but now I have to do it with no money. And I have to get a million dollar insurance policy. For Free! Ill just teach summer school. And ride around here. Maybe I can make it to the Ammana Colonies this time. Last time I dehydrated, fell off my bike and into a ditch. How
long I lay there unconscious I dont know. Two farmers found me and called an ambulance. I came to in the hospital as I was being sewed up. So I forgot about it. Almost! But the very next morning Ken Cardwell walks by my office. Ken operates a printing business in Kansas City and does much of the colleges printing. I hail Ken and usher him to the same seat Jerry had occupied. Ken, I want to ride across America to tell people about the Human Family Reunion and to raise money for Multiple Sclerosis. What? Raise money for Multiple Sclerosis? Where had that come from? First Id heard of that. Every time I opened my mouth this ride was taking on another dimension. I wasnt even thinking before I spoke. Words just popped out of my mouth. Along with my guest of the moment, I was hearing them for the first time. I had to be more surprised than they were. I need some flyers printed, Ken, to announce my ride and tell people where to send money. A penny a mile for M.S. and a penny a mile for the Human Family Reunion. I need a name for my ride. I know, says Ken, lets call it Spirit TrailTrek across America: The Two Penny Odyssey. But I have to do this without spending any money, Ken. Could you print the flyers without charge? The Marvin-Jerry look comes over Ken. Consider it done. A reporter for the student newspaper comes by my office a few days later. She has heard rumors about my bike plans and wants details. Enter Jewell Schoolfield. Ive got a bicycle I want to give you, he says when he calls on the phone. The paper said you need one for your ride across America. That afternoon I drive the 15 miles to Jewells home in Excelsior Springs. The bike is too small. Take it anyway. Trade it for something you need. The next day my phone rings. Its the bike shop in Excelsior Springs. Someone just came in and told me to buy you a bicycle, and he will pay for it.
Can you tell me who? I ask. Jewell Schoolfield. He just gave me a bike yesterday. He says its too small. Told me to get you the right one. I dont think Jewell knows how much the right one costs. Ive checked. Its a thousand dollars. How much do you think Jewell had in mind spending? Oh, about two hundred fifty dollars, I guess. Think hed spend that much to buy a share of the bike I need? Well, I dunno. Probly would. I can check. Jewell says yes. And three other people volunteer shortly to buy equal shares. One of the three is an anonymous student who makes a contribution through another faculty member. Bob Watts is the next major shaper of my ride. He calls one day. Ive read about your ride, he says. Youll need the right bike. Ill build it for you. Bob lives here in Liberty. He loves bicycles. He used to have a shop here in town. He and his wife, Jean, ride a tandem. And fly all over the world to do it. Bob builds bicycles for Race across America and consults with major bike manufacturers. This thing is getting out of hand, developing faster than I can comprehend and taking on a character I dont understand. Whoa! Wait just a minute. Am I up to this? Can I do what these well meaning people are pushing me into? Maybe they dont know that six years ago a doctor told me I have Multiple Sclerosis, that he said, Its a damnable disease. You wont be able to be active. These people dont know that for three years after the diagnosis I was a basket case. I sat in the corner and cried. I drew myself into a little ball. I withdrew from all activity save for going through the motions of teaching my classes. I thought of suicide. Often. So I call my doctor. (Not the doctor who diagnosed me; personal problems led him to move out of state.) Meet me at the pancake house, Dick. I need to talk to you.
Thursday morning at 6:30, Dick joins me for breakfast. I need you to put me through every test youve got. Find some reason I cant do this ride. I dont think youll find one. But try. Try hard to disqualify me. I may be getting in over my head, and Ive got to know before too many people get their hearts set on this ride. But Dick, before you say youll do this, Ive got to tell you, I cant pay for any of this. Youll have to do it for free. Call my office and set up an appointment. One more thing, Dick, I cant pay for this breakfast. My doctor paid for my breakfast. Following a battery of tests and a complete physical several days later, Dick came into the examining room to say, Im afraid Ive got some bad news. There is no reason you cant do the ride. Several more early morning breakfasts follow. My pastor. A close friend. A friend crippled by Multiple Sclerosis, unable to work, refusing to give in. From each breakfast, I come away with spirits soaring, without having spent a penny. One morning Harles joins me for breakfast. Harles used to be the counselor at my college. He now travels around the country helping businesses and governments do a better job and treat people better. Harles and I belong both belong to Second Baptist Church. Harles, I need your honest opinion. Do you think this thing will work? The Marvin-Jerry-Ken look jolts Harles to life. It cant miss. Youre giving people a chance to do something good. To feel proud. They wont be able to resist. Then Harles, I have to ask your help. I need a million dollar insurance policy. But I cant pay for it. Can you get it for me? Consider it done, Harles said. As people are responding to my ride in such supportive ways, it is taking on a life of its own. Now my bicycle needs a name. When Bobbie and I were married in Texas in 1957, we spent our first afternoon as a couple at the movies watching Jimmy Stewart as Charles Lindberg in The Spirit of St. Louis. Thirty years later we are living in Liberty, Missouri, just a few minutes out of Kansas City. Thus
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the bike is christened, The Spirit of Kansas City. With such a name, the bike has to be American made. Much searching leads me to the perfect bike. TREK is made in Wisconsin. The name is perfect. Trek across America on a Trek, a perfect marriage of symbol and purpose. Color! The aesthetic dimension. For a trek across America, what colors other than red, white, and blue? Red frame. Red panniers. Handle bars wrapped in blue. White water bottles. Such a bike will draw a crowd wherever I go, making it easier for me to get an audience for the message of reunion I carry. Bob Watts recommends that I ask John Wahrer to paint and letter my bike. I leave a message on Johns voice mail. A few days later he calls. I hear you need a bike painted, he says. Yes, I do. But I dont have any money. I cant pay you. I heard. When can you bring it over? Now I think of Disney. Walt went to Central High School in Kansas City. And Im planning to start in Orlando. So I write to Disney World to ask if they can give me a send-off. They say no. Too many such requests. My first negative response. I think maybe the magic has run out. My ride wont be the chain reaction, spine tingling extravaganza it seemed to be building toward. The next Saturday morning I have ridden my bike up to Clems Cafe in Kearney, 13 miles north of my home in Liberty, for breakfast. Mark Denny comes over to my table. Mark is a former student, one of our majors. We begin to talk about my ride. I tell him about wanting a Disney connection. A few days later Mark calls. I have a number for you. Milt Albright grew up here in Kearney. I think he went to Jewell. He worked for Disney when he was getting started. Mark gives me Milts California number. I call the college registrar. Milt Albright had indeed attended William Jewell. In 1934-35. I figure he must be retired. Or deceased. But I call anyway. Milt Albright is not retired. Milt Albright is manager of special projects for Disneyland. My request of Milt is not overly audacious. I ask to meet Mickey and to be part of the parade of Disney
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characters they have every afternoon. Milt says to write it up and send it to him. He will discuss it with his staff. A month goes by. One morning Milt calls to say Disneyland will let me be in the parade when my ride is over. Now call Orlando back. They operate separately. Tell them what were doing, and ask them to give you a send-off. I write. And call. Several times. Just a few days before my trip is to begin, Disney World says yes. Now that Disneyland is letting me join their parade, I cant stop in Seattle. I have to get to Anaheim. So an additional 1,500 hundred miles down the Washington, Oregon, California coast is added. This crazy ride keeps changing and growing almost by the hour. Several of my friends are urging me to get a van to follow me. They are worried about my safety. I am grateful for their concern. And I try to work up enthusiasm for a van. I cant. Ive always said I believe there is a spark of goodness and genius inside every person on the planet. Ive said I believe that newspaper headlines scream about murder and rape and robbery and other evils because they are rare. If they were the norm, they would not be news. Now, having said this, I wanted to find out if it were true. Could I count on igniting that spark in hundreds of people across the country by coming briefly into their lives on a bicycle and asking their help. To have any hope of doing so, I had to be alone, totally dependent. But how could I respond to my wife and my friends who were worried about my safety? I could not ignore their concerns; neither could I let those concerns warp the purpose this ride was quickly acquiring. I couldnt decide what to do. At times I could almost persuade myself to give in, to accept a van accompanying me as the compromise I must make to win support for simply doing the ride. Such a thought depressed me. Then one day our chaplain could not go to fill a speaking engagement. He asked me to go in his place. It was a meeting of high school boys at the headquarters of The Fellowship of Christian Athletes just across Interstate 70 from Royals Stadium. Bill Covington was in charge. When he told me he worked for AT&T, a
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light went off in my head. If AT&T would give me a calling card, I could call home every day to tell them where I was and how I was doing. I could get messages. I could call ahead to tell them I was coming.. So I briefly explained my ride to Bill. Could AT&T give me a calling card? No way, he said. Were a business. We have to make money. No problem, Bill. Ill be okay. Thanks. Our conversation had taken place as we first met. After I talk for an hour with his boys about my trip, Bill walks me to the door. As we part, he says, Write me a letter. Ill see what I can do. On Thursday morning next Im eating breakfast in my kitchen when the phone rings. Its Bill. In my 27 years here, weve had requests from every good cause and person you can imagine. If we approved one, we would have to approve them all. And we cant do that. We had to turn them all down. I dont know how to tell you this or why we did it, but we just approved your request. I didnt know either. I had the feeling I had somehow tapped into a power I did not understand and could not control. And it wouldnt let me alone. And all I had to do was to keep talking to people about my dream and asking them to help. I sat down and cried. I was in to something over my head. My life was taking on a Camelot, Man of La Mancha dimension. I hadnt planned this. I wasnt sure I wanted it. Why couldnt I keep my mouth shut and let this thing die? But now people were asking me questions about the ride. And every time I opened my mouth, out came something else I had not thought about saying, something that committed me to something else I couldnt do. What have I gotten myself into? How will it all end? I want it all to be over. To know the outcome. On the other hand, I want this moment to last forever. I am at the center of an upwardly spiraling, constantly enlarging circle of good. More people are being drawn into the orbit by the hour. I want it never to stop. The local Rotary Club invites me to come talk about my ride.
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My eye doctor is in the audience. Afterward, he comes up to me. You cant ride across the country in those glasses. You need some sports glasses, a dark pair and a regular pair, each with bifocals so you can read maps. That would be nice. But you know the rules. He smiles. Come on down. Well fix you up. Building a bike that would stand up to everything but a Mack Truck and climb a tree becomes an obsession with Bob: 48 spoke wheels, stainless steel Swiss spokes, the strongest rims, tires meant for a tandem, 18 speeds, a biopace chain ring, Phil Wood sealed bearing hubs, center pull cantilever brakes, brakepads of the latest synthetic materialthe most wear resistant available, the lightest metal fenders, wide pedals for greatest foot comfort, racks for three water bottles, front and rear panniers, the strongest and most secure rack to attach them to, a gel-filled saddle, the highest quality brake and derailleur cables, and a top of the line helmet with a rear view mirror attached. Bob insists that I have it all. When he sticks Bob Watts Custom on the head tube, he wants no one to doubt the quality of materials or workmanship. If I am not to make it across the country, it will not be because the bicycle failed. The night before I am scheduled to fly to Orlando finds me at Bobs, packing the bike for the trip. Bob has sheets of inch thick Styrofoam to line the box with. By loosening the handlebars and turning them parallel with the tube, the bike fits snugly inside the box. Nothing about this ride has been worked long in advance. And I decide up front that I will never say no to anything anyone suggests. The ride will take on the character my friends want it to take. A second thing is obvious to me at the beginning: I dont have time to plan the ride. People keep asking me for details: route, departure and termination date, how I will pay for the trip, and other things I dont know. So I say the first thing that pops into my head. Then I ask my student assistants to work out the details. Or I ask a company, a friend, anyone, to help. And I never check on them after they say yes. It isnt only that
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I dont have time; its that I trust them. Implicitly. Completely. Knowing that Im counting on them, that I believe they are able to deliver on their promise, these good people cannot do otherwise. A situation defined as real, is real in its consequences. A web of benign promises and purposes has woven us into a grand scheme. We are co conspirators in a plot to expose and celebrate our common goodness and genius. Never in my wildest flights of fancy could I have drawn up a plan for the kind of bike ride that is upon me. I had wanted to inspire people. People with M.S. People with any problem. But that was only half my agenda. I wanted to teach the country about the Human Family Reunion, a program that regularly brings together people of all races and religions and teaches them to like one another, a program we have been operating at my college since 1976. I want everyone across the country to know how easy it is to do, how necessary to our survival as a society, to our full development as human beings. As much as I want this to be the focus of my ride, as easy to do as I really think it is, I am overwhelmed when every person of every faith says yes when I ask them to endorse the ride and work to make it a success. Jews and Muslims sign up to work. Christians, Catholic, Orthodox and Protestant, say yes. Many of them meet to work together; others exchange ideas by phone. We are in Judy Hellmans office at the Jewish Community Relations Bureau in Kansas City. What she is about to say thrills my soul and touches the core of my being: People have a hard time saying no to you.
Background For Bobbies Concern

1981
One Friday night in July, following the diagnosis in May, I was lying in bed. All over my arms and legs I felt a tingling sensation. I scratched; it continued. I had complained already so much to Bobbie. I said nothing about this attack of nerves. The neurologist
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had asked me about tingling: it was beginning. No need to tell my wife. Nothing sheor Icould do. I was in bed late the next morning, not asleep, just without reason to get up. About 11 a.m. my wife asked, Did those gnats bother you last night? I took the screens off yesterday to clean the windows, and thousands of them mustve gotten in. If the doctor hadnt asked me about tingling, I would have asked my wife about the gnats. For the first and only time all summer, I laughed out loud. School had started in the fall when one day the four of us teaching a research course had a meeting in a room where we never had met before. We were seated at a round table. As I listened to first one and then another of my colleagues, I would turn my head in their direction. Each time I looked to my right, my eye would twitch and the light would dim. Oh, my God. Its affecting my vision, just like they said. Panic engulfed me. Incipient screams tore at my throat. My ears grew deaf to all that was being said around me. Except that my legs were rubber and my colleagues would have thought me crazy (I was not so far gone that I did not consider the assessment of my behavior by others), I would have bolted from the room. I could not escape the room, and I had at least to appear to be part of the deliberations. Slowly the panic subsided, and I began to think. This is too big a coincidence, I said to myself. The doctor just asked about vision problems, and now its happening? I dont believe it. Theres got to be a common sense explanation. I looked to my left: No twitching; no light dimming. I looked to my right. There it was again. I looked to my left and up to the ceiling. Nothing. Then I looked over my right shoulder and up at the ceiling. This big fluorescent light was pulsating like something out of Star Wars. My colleagues paid it no heed. They hadnt been programmed to think they were going to go blind. And my eye wasnt twitching, either. It was that on-again, off-again light, tricking my mind into telling my body that it was doing what in fact it was not
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doing at all. If I had to get sick, why couldnt it have been a more popular disease? One about which more was known, one on which more research was being done? Why not something a surgeon could cut out? Those were my thoughts on my good days when I could at least begin to accept that I was sick. But on most days, my thoughts were more morbid: Why am I sick at all? What have I done to deserve this? When will I wake up from this bad dream? From that first phone call I had made to my nurse friend, word of my illness soon spread around our campus and among my friends. I began to get phone calls from other MS victims. One woman invited me to go with her to the meeting of a support group. I told her I would, but when the time came, I found a reason to back out. I had gone once to the MS clinic for a checkup. I had sat among the wheelchairs, had seen the devastation the disease had wrought. I couldnt stand it. I didnt mind other people knowing of my illness. But I could not witness the incapacity of others without thinking that the same thing was going to happen to me. One day, soon after I was told of my damnable disease, a good friend arranged for me to visit with a friend of his in a nearby town who had had MS for 17 years. I met him at a restaurant and then went to his home. He wore leather knee braces and lurched on flopping feet the way children might for a laugh. He could not hold things steady with his hands. He told me that he could not button his shirt or pick things up with his fingers. His wife took their children on vacation while he stayed at home. He dared not get too far from a bathroom because he could not control his bladder. Three years into my diagnosis: I was by this time so chronically tired and listless that the most routine tasks were a double-time march up Mount Everest. I wanted to die. Then the thought came to me that when I had been exhausted before from a hard day at the office, I would drag myself home almost unable to move, somehow find the strength to get into my running gear; and begin, slowly and under protest from my entire body, to run. With never an exception,
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I would return after a few miles feeling better than when I started the day. And I knew what I needed: It was not more rest, but more exercise. My muscles were atrophying; my mind and spirit were not far behind. I dragged myself to the garage and onto my sons bicycle. I began to pedal. And as I did I would recite the Lords Prayer. Over and over. Now and then aloud. I was pedaling to bring my muscles to life. I was praying to restore my soul. I did not go far that day, and I wasnt sure it had helped when I got home. But the next day I was back on the bicycle and back to the Lords Prayer. For the next several weeks I would take sporadically to the bicycle, never going far, afraid still that I would overexert myself and produce a sudden worsening of my condition. One of the worst parts of being sick is the fear of becoming even sicker. After several months of occasional riding, I returned home one day feeling so good that I spontaneously began to do the exercises I had done after running. My joints all popped, tendons refused to stretch, muscles knotted. But it felt good. And I began to do it once or twice a week. Months passed. I felt very little better. My energy level was still maddeningly erratic. One MS victim I had talked to on the phone said she could no longer plan to do anything with her family, so unpredictable was her energy level. My only ray of hope after months of intermittent bike riding and exercise was that I didnt think I felt any worse. That faint hope was enough to drive me to our local bicycle shop one day in March. As I stood on my rubbery legs to talk to the shop owner about what bicycle I should buy, I really thought it was a waste of money. I could never ride a bicycle enough to warrant the expense or make me feel better. But I was there. And I bought the bicycle: a 12 speed with toe clips, gear levers on the lower bar, racing handlebars and narrow tires. Was I mad? This was a cycle for a teenager. Or an Olympic hopeful. It certainly was not made for a 48 year old man with Multiple Sclerosis.
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The salesman told me I would love the toe clips after I got used to them. I didnt believe him. But that was the bicycle that caught my eye, so I figured I was stuck with that particular feature. Once home I was angry that I had let myself be talked into those clips. I fought like mad to get my toes into them while keeping the cycle upright. I could never do that: And I put the bicycle in the garage. It took me a couple of days to face that machine again. This time I managed to get both feet in the clips and rode up and down the block several times. The November before I bought my bicycle, the friend with whom I used to run invited me to accompany a group he was getting together to bike to a nearby town for breakfast. I really didnt think I would make it, but my pride would not let me tell him; so I said yes. I went. I made it. Twice I lost control of the bike and fell. I wasnt hurt, but I think my friend was scared: We have not ridden together since. The memory of that trip is what gave me the notion to buy a bicycle and the determination to master its new fangled devices. After a few days riding around the neighborhood, I began to venture further: into my old running routesand beyond. It didnt take me long to discover two big advantages of cycling over running: I could go much further; and I could go a lot faster. Freewheeling down northwest Missouris omnipresent hills was a new and utterly pleasurable sensation. I returned to the cycle shop for a helmet, a water bottle and a touring bag. From the county highway department I purchased a local map showing all the hard surfaced back roads, many of which I soon came to know. When winter came, I was back at the cycle shop for a pair of cold weather biking gloves and a set of little blue wind breakers that fit with Velcro straps over the toe clips.
1985
Four years into my diagnosis and two years before telling Bobbie that I wanted to bike across America, an idea invaded my
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head. That idea kept ricocheting and echoing off the hardened surface of my shriveled soul and my box-canyon mind. Days of hard thought it took before I could even figure out the meaning of this dumb idea. Take up your bed and ride. Buy a sleeping bag and an air mattress, get on your bicycle and go; This was the translation I finally heard. Why? Where? When? These were the immediate questions that flooded my mind, almost drowning the not-yet-rooted idea. North to the Amana colonies, came the answer to where. Id never been there, always wanted to go, and was attracted by their origin in hard work and simple faith. To prove you can and to meet inspiring people along the way, came the answer to why. When was easiest of all: As soon as I could be ready and before Bobbies school was out for the summer. We had plans for the summer; I didnt want to leave her after she was free to travel. Several weeks, and more money than I had counted on, it took it get ready. May 20 was the departure date I chose. My last family obligation for the month would be satisfied on May 19 when I attended Brians graduation from Jewell. Up at 5:15; I left at 6:15. Dorothy and Don came to see me off and to assure me of their prayers while Im gone. I rode out of Liberty on Richfield, over the wooden bridge, and turned south (right) on EE about four miles from town. I saw Irwin Williams about to get in his pickup to begin his day caring for his sheep and stopped briefly to talk to him. I promised to see him in Sunday School on June 2, and I was off again. Coming shortly to the intersection of EE and Highway 210, I turned east (left) and pulled up the long hill that runs above the Missouri River before dropping into Missouri City. For a few miles east of Missouri City, Highway 210 runs flat and smooth. Headed in the opposite direction from Kansas City at this early hour, I had the road to myself. What traffic there was, passed going west: People on their way to work or school in Kansas City. From past experience on this road, though, I knew it wouldnt be long before I was joined by delivery trucks making their way
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from Kansas City to the small towns along this road. So when I came to another EE about 10 miles east of Missouri City, I turned north (left) into the hillsand out of traffic. As I began my ascent, a verse of scripture flashed through my mind I will lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence comes my strength. From months of bicycle riding in the rugged terrain of north Missouri, I had come to a deep appreciation of the physical as well as the spiritual implications of that verse. Rippling arm, back, and leg muscles are as welcome a by-product of hill living as awesome vistas, soul pleasing panoramas, and cathedral-like solitudecounterpointed now and again with avian music carried on the breeze, echoing from hills and rocks and trees. At the crest of the first long hill on this route, I see an older couple, each mounted on a riding mower and busy on their large, lush lawn. To the left and directly across the road from their house, hills fall away to valley, ponds grace the floor, dancing in the early morning sun and I can see Highway 210 that I have just left, stretching like a brown velvet ribbon back the way I had come. Up and down EE I creep, as if on a slow-motion roller coaster, seldom getting my bicycle out of its lowest gear, drinking in the scenery, my mind intoxicated by the natural beauty and awesome quiet. Almost an hour it takes to reach the place where EE intersects with Highway 10, some ten miles west of Richmond. In Richmond I stop at a service station for long drinks of ice water, to use the restroom, to tighten the spokes on my front wheel, and for a long conversation about where I am from and where I am going. To go by bicycle from Liberty, Missouri, to the Amana Colonies in Iowa is my goal. To be gone 14 days, to travel by back roads, pass through small towns, to get to know people in them, and to sleep in churches, is my plan. I want to avoid the red highways like the plague. To bicyclists thats just what they are. The gray roads shown on the official Highway Map published by the State of Missouri are all designated by letters rather than numbers. They are all hard surfaced but little traveled, as if somebody built a road and forgot where they put it. Or maybe after they built it, everyone
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moved away. Judging by the deserted houses I see, that might have happened. The Amana Colonies were to be my turnaround point, and back roads were to be my route. I had not given much thought, though, as to precisely which back roads. I would take the first one I came to and each time I came to another, I would inquire of the locals as to its character and decide on the spot where next to proceed. About four miles north of Richmond, Highway 13 intersects with F, a road which, once taken, opens up a universe of tiny towns along an array of alphabet roads. The summer past I had ridden to Cowgill and Braymer. They both were marvelous, and I considered returning. But the attraction of the never-seen is irresistible. So I turn east off B (which I had come to on F) onto K and stop near noon in Stet. An unpainted grocery with a wooden bench in front draws me into conversation with a man who has Jim printed on his shirt. Most of our talk concerns itself with whether I should go further east to Coloma or turn directly north toward Ludlow. As I am talking to Jim, a man drives up and gets out of his pickup. Willie, says Jim, whats the best way to go north from here? Both of them begin to discuss the virtues of various routes. Those hills to Coloma are murder, Willie says. Willie means by so saying to discourage me. He doesnt. I leave them with every intention of heading for Coloma. I have pedaled a few miles up D, intending to turn east on W, jog over to T and into Coloma. Suddenly a red pickup pulls by and stops in the road just ahead. The door opens and Willie steps out. If you go straight to Ludlow on this road youll miss all them hills, he says. His laugh is contagious. He has gone to a lot of trouble to help me. I decide to take his advice. About two and a half hours later, I come to Ludlow, population 178. I go into the store to get some bananas and oranges, and to ask the question I am coming to these little towns to ask. All morning I had been trying to decide what I should say to find the people I want to talk to. I want to talk to people who have overcome problems and are inspirations to other people in town. I am afraid,
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though, that anyone I make such a request of will think I am some kind of weirdo, a city slicker out to make fun of country people. I had stopped this morning in Millville at the Methodist Church to ask the preacher. He wasnt home; the man across the street said he was graduating today from the seminary in Kansas City. The lady clerk in the Ludlow grocery responded to my request to talk to a long time resident with a name. I had told her I was writing a book on small towns. In response to my request for directions to Lester Brauns house, the clerk takes me to the big window at the front of her store. Pointing off in a direction at about 2 oclock, down a gravel road and above the tree tops, she calls my attention to a modest, white frame house. I am there in about five minutes. As I pull up in the yard and alight from my bicycle, an elderly woman rounds the corner of the house to my left. The lady at the store said Lester Braun could tell me all about Ludlows history, I say. Is he home? She tells me she is his wife. He is out back and will be glad to see me. I follow her into the back yard and she calls Lester from the shed some 40 feet or so behind the house. He ambles toward me. In his visored cap and striped overalls, he reminds me of my Uncle George who worked in the Santa Fe Shops when I was a small boy. But the thing that galvanized my attention on Lester Braun is his missing left arm. Thats all I really want to know about, but we talk for a while about the topic I had told him I was interested in. All the while my attention is focused on his left sleeve tucked at the shoulder into his overalls. How to get him to talk about it is all I can think of. Then suddenly he mentions a bailing accident that chewed this arm off. I pounce. Lester lost his left arm in a bailer 25 years ago, when he was about 55. Within a month he was back working on the farm. He never was depressed: Its not gonna grow back because you worry about it, so you just go on. I told Lester how heroic I thought he was. His reply: Nothing heroic about it. You do what you have to. Lester could not have known how directly he was speaking to
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me. Without even asking the right question, I had been directed to the perfect person to inspire me in my fight with my own illness. But Lester wasnt through. What he said next hit so close to home, I was stunned, as I imagine anyone would be who had his deepest and unspokenneed completely satisfied. Lester had seen me ride up on my bicycle, alight, and walk with him to a chair in his yard. He had no way of knowing how hard walking was for me or how afraid I was that I might someday not be able to walk. In my mind I hugged him, and fireworks went off in my soul when I heard what he said next: If I had a choice, Id rather lose a leg. All a leg is good for is to take you someplace. But you need hands for everything. Lester would not have shared my fear that I might not be able to walk. Knowing that, I was less afraid. Its only the first day of my two-week trip, I said to myself, and already Ive met the person I needed to meet. If the trip ends tomorrow, it will have accomplished everything I hoped it might. While sitting in his front yard and watching the town for an hour and a half or so, Lester let slip some details of life in Ludlow. The bank is strong. Been robbed twice, in the 1920s and again in the 40s. Young people have a hard time payin back their car loans. As it neared 5 p.m. I told Lester I had to go so I could make it to Chillicothe before dark. Chillicothe is a much bigger town than any of the others on my route. I had decided to go there only yesterday when Larry Hamilton, a fellow teacher at William Jewell College, said he planned to be visiting his parents there and invited me to stop. I had thanked him, but said I probably wouldnt. I didnt want any commitments. Lesters directions: Pedal up the road to the cemetery, take a right and go to the first black top you come to. Then take a left. Youll hit 36 just before you come to Utica. Follow 36 right into Chillicothe. Max Hamilton lives north of Chillicothe about four miles on 190. I get to Chillicothe a little after 7. Never having been there, and having had any number of students from here over the years, I am anxious to see the town. I make a grand tour of their main street
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before taking a left on Bryan Street and over a few blocks to the arrow that points to the right and announces the way to 190. Max is a friendly bear of a man and makes me welcome. I roll out my air mattress and sleeping bag about 9 oclock on the shore of his lake and go to sleep beneath the stars. Up at 5 a.m., I eat pancakes at Dave and Pegs Cafe on the square. Waitress tells me they dont have a restroom, though I could see one with a sign that says it is for employees only. I go to a Fina station to shave and brush my teeth. Out of Chillicothe on V, I get to Chula about two hours later. Inside the grocery store, the first thing I see is a beautiful book just published to commemorate Chulas bicentennial. I spend an hour with the book and leave feeling like an authority on this little town. (Chula means Beautiful in Spanish.) Two doors down from the grocery, I stop at the post office to mail a letter Ive just written to Dorothy and Don. The postmaster asks about my trip and its purpose. I tell her about the doctor who told me I couldnt be active and my determination to prove him wrong. From Chula I head north toward Lareda. Just before I get to town, I spot a quaint little place off the road to my right. I wheel into the Country Flower Barn and spend a delightful half-hour talking to owners Lena Cooksey and her daughter, Chris. They invite me to eat lunch with them, and their interest in my trip is as great as my interest in their shop. The shop is filled with beautiful wood carvings. Husband, Donald, started it all with ducks he carved: Donalds Ducks, he calls his part of the business. I decline Lena Cookseys invitation to lunch, explaining I cant eat big meals while Im cycling. Then in Lareda I stop at the grocery for fruit and juice, and I bump into Kevin, a young man who takes me under his arm and shows me where to find things on the shelves. Then he takes me to the back door to point out where the Baptist preacher lives. Kevin follows me onto the sidewalk in front of the store where we talk as I load my bicycle and my mouth. Then Kevin gets in his car and drives away: He was a customer in the store, and I mistook him for a clerk.
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I pedal around the corner and up the gravel road to the Baptist parsonage. No one answers my several knocks. I return to my bicycle under the tree; just as Im mounting I catch sight of a childs leg sticking out of the garage in the back yard. I walk to the garage, and there sits B. J. Chapman, the Baptist pastor, working on his lawn mower. I explain my mission to find inspiring people and ask if he knows of some in Lareda. He tells me he hasnt been in town long and doesnt know any. Out of Lareda, I take E to MM on my way to Browning, the little town where Ive decided to spend the night. Much later, at a stop sign at MM, a white pickup stops and Joe Rogers, the driver asks: Where you going? This leads to a half-hour conversation. Joe is from Kirksville and belongs to the bike club there. A year earlier he had a wreck while racing and cut his face upbad. About 5:15, I get to Browning, after more hills than I bargained for. Following my usual custom, I stop at the grocery store for more fruit. I had passed the Baptist Church just up the street, and John Rudloff, owner of the grocery, offers to call the preacher to see if I could sleep in the church. The preacher isnt home and John tells me how to get to his house. But if hes not home, you come to my house. Well take care of you. I find the preacher, Rusty Abbot, at home. He introduces me to his wife, LouAnn, and their four year old daughter, Michele. Rusty says I can sleep at the church, and he rounds up a member of his church for me to talk toa recovering alcoholic whose life is an inspiration to their congregation. I take my first shower since leaving home at the Abbots. Then Rusty, LouAnn and I spend an hour-and-a-half talking in their kitchen. After I tell Rusty I have MS, he tells me about his bad knees, his teeth, his concussion, his foot that a motorcycle fell on, and quitting the ministry for two years. Rusty says he used to have a violent temper, until I turned over to God. Rusty grew up in the country, has only a high school education, and this is his first full-time church. I mention to Rusty that I stopped earlier in Lareda and met the preacher there. Did you know he has one wooden leg and trouble with the other? Rusty
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asks. I didnt. While we talked, B.J. Chapman had been in his garage, working on his lawnmower. He didnt get up and I didnt think about it. I wish he had told me. LouAnn makes banana malts while we sit in the kitchen. Since Rusty suffered a concussion in high school, he has been very skinny. To put on weight, he drinks all the malts he can. It is dark before I leave their house to ride across town to the church. I had earlier taken my bedroll and both panniers off the bicycle into the church. Now I lock the door and go downstairs to the social hall where I am to sleep. Up at 4:30, I exercise for an hour before going to breakfast at the cafe where I had pancakes last night. I have biscuits and gravy this morning and write up the first two days while sitting in the restaurant. All the farmers here advise me to take Highway 5 north to Jilan. That road to Mystic has worse hills than back the way you came. When I ask about trucks on 5, though, they all say theres a lot. Ive seen several pass while we talk. I leave the cafe shortly after 8, headed on Highway 5 toward Milan. Everybody in town had advised this route: Vs too hilly, and Mystics nothing but a ghost town. Just as 5 leaves Browning going north, I spot an air hose at a service station off to the right hand side of the road. All my biker friends have told me never to use a high pressure pump on bicycle tires, but Ive been doing it all along. Getting 95 lbs. of air out of that little hand pump strapped to my bicycle is more than I can manage. After I make several unsuccessful efforts to get air from that hose, a sympathetic attendant invites me to use the one inside the shop. I do, and in the process I ask about the roads to Milan and to Mystic. These two men stress the heavy traffic going to Milan and make light of the hills to Mystic. I had just about decided to go to Mystic anyway. When they tell me what I want to hear, the matter is settled. Highway 5 runs North-South and passes directly in front of the station. State Road O runs east from Browning, intersecting with Highway 5 just a few feet south of the station where Ive just gotten
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air. As fast as I can, I pedal east, into the sun, the wind, and the hills. Few cars, and only an occasional pickup passin either direction during the next several hours. About 11 a.m. I come upon a sign announcing NORTH SALEM off to my right. With no schedule to keep, possessor of an insatiable curiosity about places and people, I make the required right turn into North Salem. A few deserted and ramshackle houses line either side of the road. Wash hangs on a line in a yard to my right. A big black dog barks as he races with me inside his fenced yard. No people are about. An unpainted church with the doors boarded shut stands beside the road as it makes a lazy turn to the left and the pavement plays out. The cemetery just past the church has more headstones than the town has houses. One road about half a mile in length, an abandoned church, a solitary dog, houses and equipment in ill repair: This is North Salem. Measured against the usual meaning of the phrase, Im not making good time on this trip. The first day out I covered 91 miles, but I was on the road from 6:15 in the morning until 7:30 in the evening. I had set the alarm on my watch to sound on the hour; when it did, I would stop for five minutes, take a long drink of water from my bottle, eat a banana, an orange or an apple, swig some more water and be on my way again. They werent kidding: These hills are murder, and I creep along in first gear. As I turn north off O onto State Road V that runs to Mystic sometime later, I see a sign: Mower ahead. It is an hour or so later before I see the mower. The driver is bent over the blade, hammer in hand. I stop opposite him and ask how far to Mystic. We talk for a few minutes and mentions he had a heart attack two years ago. Blew a hole in the bottom of my heart the size of a quarter. They said that was the kind to have if you had to have one. He cant do what he used to, but he seems happy and looks able. I had spent months preparing for this trip. I had bought rear panniers to carry my 25 pounds of gear, a rear rack to attach the panniers to, a sleeping bag and a self-inflating air mattress, spare parts, the necessary tools, and a store of fruit and nuts that I was
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constantly replacing. To my lone water bottle that I always carried, I had added a second. Having read about the dangers of dehydration in the books I bought to prepare for my trip, I was sensitive to the need for water. Thirst would not be sufficient warning; I was resolved to drink liberally at every stopevery hour. The late May weather in Missouri was not abnormally hot. Sunshine was plentiful, but not bright enough that I found my sunglasses necessary the first dayor much of the second. By the third day, though, they were strapped permanently to my face. Of the many things I had read to prepare me for this trip, one that made the deepest impression was the one that warned against drinking milk. Avoid milk products entirely while exercising. Milk is very slow to pass out of the stomach and in the meantime blocks absorption of other liquids. The Bicycle Touring Book, published by Rodale Press had warned not drink it while cycling under strenuous, hot conditions. Before leaving home on Day 1 of my trip, I had eaten raw oats and shredded wheat, washing it down with orange juice. From Robert Hass Eat to Win, I had learned to appreciate the value of a high carbohydrate diet. I ate nothing but fruits and whole grain, unsweetened cereals the first day. The second morning, I had a big stack of pancakes, a glass of orange juice and lots of water. In the early afternoon of the third day, I finally come to Mystic. The first evidence of life I see is a well-kept greenhouse to the left of the road. A man and woman I take to be in their early seventies are busy about the place, and each calls out a greeting. Half a mile or so farther up the road, I come to the only other sign of life in Mystic a garage where three men are at work on farm equipment. The road Ive been traveling intersects at this point with Highway 129. All three are unanimous: 129 is the way to go. H runs east into BB before intersecting with 149, but the hills will kill you. Why does everybody think bicyclists want to avoid hills? All the advice I can find favors traffic over hills. These three advisors also overlook the fact that if I leave Mystic on 129, I will come to Highway 6 at Green City, but if I take H and BB to 149, I will come
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to Highway 6 east of Greencastle, some eight miles closer to Kirksville, which is my destination for the nightand Highway 6, by everyones admission is narrow, carries lots of traffic, and has no shoulder. The fewer miles on it the better. So I choose the hillier route, as I invariably have. I love hills going up more that coming down. Hills are always less traveled; the solitude is invigorating. Hills demand more mental discipline, more quickly melt flab and mold muscle. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my strength. Since Ive taken up bicycling, that verse has taken on a whole new world of meaning. Between two and three that afternoon, I have come to 149 and turned north to go the seven miles before it intersects with 6, and I head east for the last 13 miles to Kirksville. Sometime after seven that evening, I hear a voice asking for my phone number and feel someone sticking my face with needles. I scream, and thrash about. This calm, well-modulated voice says; Try not to move. Do you know where you are? Do you know what happened? I must be dreaming, I decide. I must have stopped the bicycle and stretched out in the grass for a nap. But wait a minute, I never do that. Every time I stop, I stay on my feet, move around, stay loose. Finally I realize Im in a Kirksville hospital, in the emergency room being sewed up: two stitches in my lip, 14 in my chin, several in my left leg. What the doctors call road rash peppers my chest, left forearm, left hip, thigh, knee, and shin. I have a brain concussion and a terrible headache. I have no memory of the accident or how I got to the hospital. The last thing I remember is riding fast down hill, the wind rushing past. Ive been in the hospital several hours before they call Bobbie. She tells me later that they tell her they might have to rush me to Columbia or Kansas City to a neurosurgeon. They are afraid I have brain damage, A neighbora fellow bikerdrives Bobbie to Kirksville. The highway patrolman who supervised my rescue comes to see me. He says I couldnt talk when they found me. Two farmers working in the field saw my bicycle beside the road and came to
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investigate. They found me and called an ambulance. In addition to the abrasions and cuts, my sunglasses has a lens missing and my helmet is deeply scratched and bloody. Had I been hit by a car? Had I lost control and run off in the ditch? I didnt know. Phil, my biker friend who brought Bobbie, picked up my bicycle from the police station. Theres not a scratch on it, he reported. Its in perfect condition. The police reported no skid marks to indicate that I had tried to stop. No sign of a car, truck, tractor or any other vehicle could be found. By noon on Friday, about 44 hours after I had been brought in, I leave the hospital. Phil had taken my bicycle home on Thursday. Bobbie had stayed and called our oldest son to come and get us on Friday. The friend I had been biking to Kirksville to see took me to his house to wait for Dave. Enroute to his house, my friend and I stop at the police department. The patrolman who had come to the scene of the accident reported that he had found me still on the bicycle. Apparently I had made it down the steep hill and was 125 feet or so into a level straight-away. But the bicycle was headed back in the direction I had come from. Since the rear end was more heavily loaded, the bike may have spun around. As it did, the bike and I fell to the left, accounting for the fact that my injuries were confined to my left side and the hook that attached the left carrier to the rack was torn loose. But why had I allowed myself to get into such a situation? Where was my memory of it? As I try to make sense of this, I remember two majoralmost fatalmistakes I made. On the evening before the accident I had gone to the home of Rusty Abbot, the Baptist preacher, to take a shower before going to the church to sleep. After my shower, Rusty and I were talking in the living room when LuAnn, his wife, announced that she was making banana malts. They had already been so nice to me that I didnt want to reject her offer, though I did find a way to graciously decline a second helping. The next morning, I went back to the little cafe where the waitress had promised biscuits and gravy. I had debated eating some
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of the fruit I had, but I couldnt resist the lure of this particular breakfast and the early morning meeting with area farmers I knew would accompany the meal. All that reading I had done about the hazards of milk products while cycling went for naught. I had been drinking lots of water, and I persuaded myself that gravy was not so dangerous if I didnt also have a glass of milk. My one fleeting recollection of the time before the accident persuades me that I was a victim of dehydration brought on by too much milk in my stomach, a condition that kept the water I did drink from doing its job. My last memory before the accident is of racing down hill and sensing that at the bottom I could go a thousand different ways. But I couldnt decide which way to go. I was paralyzed with indecision at the very moment that the need for decision was rushing at me. The front of the bicycle began to shake. Thats the last thing I remember until I came to in the hospital. I must have passed out while still on the bicycle. I was unconscious while still upright, but I didnt stay upright for long. My two false teeth and permanent scars will remind me forever of the accident. But thats a small tuition for lessons that will enrich me forever. The first and most direct lesson is that what I eat has a direct bearing on my welfare. If, in my concern for peoples feelings, I eat what I know I shouldnt, then there is a price to pay. That I am usually not smart enough to trace that price to those choices dooms me to continue the foolish practice. This bicycle accident will indeed have been a tragedy if I do not extract this larger meaning from it, and if I dont have the courage to apply it widely. The second lesson to be learned from my accident is that I am responsible for the decisions I make. The suggestions that other people give me do not negate the fact that I suffer or prosper according to the action I choose to take. The third lesson from my accident is that countless other people share in the happiness or sadness brought on by my behavior. I do not walkor ridealone. I would never choose to have an accident: Its not possible, since anything I could choose to do wouldby definitionnot be
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an accident. I would choose, though, to find meaning in any accident. I plan to be a better person and a better bicycle rider because of my accident. I dont think God caused my accident. If my accident is not to have been a total loss, its up to me to make it mean something. I cant change what happened, but I can determine what I get from it that I can share with others. Mystic was the last town I passed through before my accident. One of my two water bottles was empty when I got off my bike at the Mystic garage to ask directions. My habit was to fill an empty bottle at each stop. I forgot all about water in my preoccupation with route; I neither filled my bottle nor took a drink from the other. Nearing two hours later I came to 149 and turned north. I rode along for what I guess was another hour. For a reason I cannot explain, however, I did not stop every hour, on the hour, to drink water and eat some of the fruit and nuts I carried. When Phil picked up my bicycle, he reported that one water bottle was empty and one was full. I had emptied one about 11 a.m. and apparently had not taken a drink since that time: five or six hours without water, but I was not aware that I was not drinking. Light-headednessa symptom of dehydrationmust have been working on me all that time. I remember topping this big hillone of hundreds I had traversed. As I flew down the other side, at a speed I would estimate at between 30 and 40 miles an hour, I had the overpowering sensation that the front wheel was wobbling beyond my power to control. An irrational thought seized me: At the bottom of the hill, I can go in a thousand directions, but I dont have any idea which way I should go. What happened next I have no idea. Until that searing pain in my lip roused me to consciousness some three hours later, I knew nothing. I was told later that I would turn my head to look at the ambulance attendants when they spoke to me, but I could not answer them. I have no memory at all of the farmers who found me. As the pain in my lip drove the fog from my brain, a mans
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face materialized out of the bright light above me. Mr. Chasteen, do you know where you are and what happened to you? I didnt. Youre in Kirksville Hospital. Youve had an accident. It was 7:30 on Wednesday eveningday three of my trip. As I began to realize where I was and that I was hurt, I turned all my energies to figuring out what had happened. The left side of my body was badly scratched. My face was bloody, a tooth was missing. Yet aside from my mouth, I had no bruises anywhere. I was not sore; all my joints worked freely and without pain. I could not believe I had gone head first over the handle bars onto the road. Such is the norm for bicycle accidents, but my injuries were impossible to explain in such a fashion. My neck and back would have been hurt. Bones would have been stressed, if not broken. Abrasions would have occurred all over my body. I was convinced that I fell to the left, taking the bicycle over with me. The bicycles forward speed carried me along the surface of the road on my left arm and leg, banging my face and head along the way. That I had no memory of this was consistent with my hypothesis that I had passed out from dehydration. The marks on and damage to my left pannier, which I later discovered, are consistent with this explanation. Three other unrelated things I learned later lend credence to this explanation. The friend I had been on my way to visit in Kirksville has a farm. When I asked if he had plowed his ground, he said, No, Im waiting till these winds die down. If I plowed now, the wind would just suck all the moisture right out. If exposed soil that just lies there runs such danger, what was happening to my body, alternately moving through that air at better than 30 miles an hour while going down and then expending huge inventories of energy to get up the next hill. On Sunday after Id gotten home on Friday, two couples from my church brought a homemade strawberry pie and came to see me. One of the women, Jeanne Johnson, is a nurse, head of the nursing department at William Jewelland the one I had called four years earlier to find out what MS is. I told her my conclusion about the
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cause of my accident and asked her to describe the symptoms of dehydration. You get very shaky, she said, holding her hands in front of her and quivering like jello. My last memory before the accident was of the front wheel shaking violently. Yet when Phil checked my bicycle after the accident he said it was in perfect condition. It must have been my hands shaking rather than the wheel. A whole stack of letters arrived on Wednesday from members of my Sunday School department at church. Medicine for my weary body and soul were these letters. Without exception, they encouraged my physical recovery, my return to cycling, and my continued struggle to beat this disease that has hold of me. I am sorry your trip was postponed and pray that you will soon be able to be back to your normal activities and your bike trip. You said you would make a dramatic return to Sunday School after your bike trip. Did you really need to go this far for drama? We do miss you this morning. And we prayed for your recovery. Ill continue praying at home. So sorry your trip was interrupted. I miss you and Bobbie here at Sunday School. Ed, I am so grateful for all you give us of yourself, your wisdom and knowledge. Hang in there. Get back on that bike. You can do what you want to do. We miss you and pray for your well-being. When I learned of your sojourn in Kirksville I was shocked, duly concerned, and now relieved. We miss you this morning in Sunday School, aware more acutely of how we have come to depend on you. Ed, news of your accident shocked and saddened us. Although your bicycling plans are thwarted, it is good to know that you are recovering nicely. So sorry about your accident. But Im glad you werent hurt any worse. Dub said you have been able to come home. Rest and take care, and maybe you will be able to complete your trip at a later date. Hang in there, Ed; We need you back in one piece to hold things together.
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We miss you! May your recovery be complete and quick. Were praying for your early return to us. Sure hope you get all O.K. and get back with us. This is a beautiful Lords day here in Sunday School together with Gods people and we all miss you. Deeply sorrowful about your tragedy. Admire your indomitable spirit. And pray that your recovery will be swift and complete. Hey, Ed, you ride em, not dismount them so awkwardly! Hang in there, buddy. We remember you in prayer. The place just isnt the same without you. We are so very sorry to hear of your mishap, and we were thankful that you were wearing a helmet, and that it kept you from being banged up even worse than you were. Our Lord was good to you, and we are so thankful you were saved to serve Him for a longer period on earth. Hang in there, be a good patient, and youll be riding that bike again soon. Dear Ed, it must have been a traumatic experience doing all you did so far from home. Please stay around herewe love you and need your booming voice and your jokes. I pray, Ed, during this recuperation time that you find your secret place as Psalm 91 says. He that dwells in the Secret Place of the Most High, shall dwell under the shadow of the Almighty! If you seek a certain time and place to submit yourself to your Lord each day, He will meet you there, give you the hope, love and fulfillment you need. My primary purpose in undertaking a two week bicycle odyssey through small towns was to meet and learn from inspiring people. When my trip ended after three days in a bizarre accident, I could not know that I was about to be re-introduced to those inspiring people I lived among every day of my life. My appreciation of themalready profoundwas about to be multiplied by infinity, preparing us all for eternity by allowing us to share in one anothers hurts and hopes. I would like to have my teeth and skin back. The headaches
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Ive had since the accident scare me and make it hard to concentrate on the work I have to do. Im sad that Bobbie and I have had to postpone the trip we planned for early June. Nevertheless, I have the overpowering sensation that my life, health, and relationships will in the end have been enhanced by my accident. I will ride again. I will walk. I will look forward to problems, because out of them I can demonstrate my worth. I will love my family and friends and myself in a dimension and to a degree I always dreamed of but never before thought possible. Having arisen with the help of family and friends from an accident that could have cost me my nerve and my health, having understood the love of God by witnessing the compassion of Gods people, I have become a new and better person: more wise, more loving, more able to give and to receive help. Nearly everyday of my first week back home after my accident I need to visit a doctor: a dentist to repair my teeth, my family doctor to have stitches removed, the outpatient department at the hospital for a CAT scan, the optometrist to get my glasses fixed. Bobbies second graders were still in school, Debbie was away at the University, Dave and Brian both had to work, and I didnt trust myself to drive. Friends offered to drive meand actually seemed pleased when I took them up on their offer. I came to believe that I was doing them as big a favor by asking as they we doing by taking me. Not a single person refused my request or made me feel it was an imposition. They were taking me to the places I needed to go to heal my body, but by their attitude they became even more direct vehicles of my recovery. To discover that you are the center of a concerned, loving universe is a medicine beyond any other. If theres some grand design behind seeming accidents, if evil and injury are necessary on this earth, it must surely be that only in their presence can we humansdull-witted as we ordinarily are ever glimpse the blanket of soothing relationships that rests so gently about us.
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Spirit Trail Begins

Florida
Eastern Airlines agrees to fly me free of charge to Orlando. I arrive on the night of Friday, May 16. David Gearhardt, pastor of St. Marks Lutheran Church, had written to me back in March offering to be my Orlando host. I had called him soon after I got his letter, but almost two months passed before he heard from me again. It was just two days ago that I called to tell him that I would be here tonight. He had almost decided that I wasnt coming, and he was scheduled to work at a homeless shelter. But he got someone to work in his place and he meets my plane. At 9:15 the next morning we leave on our bikes for the Congregation of Liberal Judiasm. Here I am, teacher at a Baptist college, being led by a Lutheran pastor to a Jewish synagoguea quintessential demonstration of the Human Family Reunion. When we get to the synagogue, I prop my bike against the wall just to the right of the front door. I thank David for his kindness, tell him Ill see him in the morning at his church, and unzip the left rear pannier where I have put all my clothes. I take out the only long pair of pants I have brought with me for the trip: a pair of blue jeans. And the shirt given to me by my church to wear each time I visit a religious community. The shirt has my name on the front; on the back: AMBASSADOR Second Baptist Church To Communities of Faith With my pants and shirt under my arm, I step through the door and into the synagogue. I feel more than a little conspicuous in my biking shorts and Eastern Airlines T-shirt. I want to find the mens room and change. A smiling bearded man spots me from the center of the large room. He heads toward me. We both stick out our hands. Im Ed. I begin
1987
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Im Rabbi Halpern, and I know who you are. The Jewish Federation in Kansas City sent information about you to the Jewish Federation here, and they passed it on to us. Welcome. I join the congregation in the sanctuary for the bar mitzvah of Howard Edelstein. The entire Edelstein family takes part in the service as young Howard reads the Torah in Hebrew to those who have nurtured him in the faith and are now witness to his coming of age and the beginning of his manhood. As the service is ending, Howard marches with the Torah around the sanctuary. Those standing near the aisles turn to see and touch the Torah. Touching it with their prayer books, they then bring the books to their lips. I follow suit. It seems so natural. And moves me deeply. Before dismissing us, Rabbi Halpern introduces me to his people and tells them Im beginning my ride across America from Orlando. He tells them I have M.S. When the rabbi has finished, the woman sitting directly in front of me turns to me. My name is Shirley Jacobs, and I have M.S. Now I know why I came today. I dont come often. Havent been here in a long time. I started not to come this morning. Shirley follows with a description of the Clawson Rockers, special shoes for M.S. patients. She raves about them, sends her daughter to the car to get them. Im too vain to wear them in here. They make me look six foot three, Shirley explains. Shirley insists I try them on. Open toed, with adjustable leather bands around the heel, and a wavy, wooden sole: They propel you forward. Walking is easy. Shirleys enthusiasm has me in its spell. I put them on and walk across the room. They do propel. Walking is easier. Shirley wants me to have a pair. So you can walk when you get off your bike. But we cant figure out where I would put them. Rabbi Halpen has arranged for me to spend the afternoon and night with Mark Abramson. At 6:30 that evening the doorbell rings. There stands Bernie Linton. I like him on sight. Bernie was a
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builder in Detroit until he retired. He and his wife moved to Florida nine years ago to help her emphysema. She died three years ago. His 44 year old son died a year ago of four packs of cigarettes a day. Bernie is heart broken. But still fighting and finding joy. Though he is Jewish, Bernie is chairman of the Christmas pageant for the city of Longwood. Before the night is over, Bernie will have gotten me into the Orlando Sentinel for a two-and-a-half-hour interview, lined up a film crew from Channel Two to meet us in the morning at St. Marks, and two other channels to cover my Disney World send-off on Monday morning. Bernie will also announce that he is appointing himself my guardian, for as long as I want him, and that he is thinking about driving across the country with me. After spending the night with Mark, I bike early on Sunday morning over to St. Marks where David has arranged for me to give the childrens sermon. David Gearhardt came from his native Pennsylvania to pastor St. Marks two years ago. Adjusting to year round sun and sand has not been peaches and cream. Growing up on a dairy farm is not typical preparation for a big city pastorate. But David loves this place and these people. The television and newspaper reporters Bernie had contacted are here. Im touched by their obvious and sincere interest in the Human Family Reunion and its goals of helping people of all colors and cultures and creeds to like one another. Sunday evening Channel two carries a beautiful story, but the children this morning are my highlight of the day. They sit on the floor in front of the pulpit, not more than three feet from my bicycle. I stand among them, answering their questions, awed by the energy for life and the thirst to know that radiates from them.In their presence, doubt of any nature or degree is as foreign as a Pit Bull to the Easter Bunny. Ken McFarland flew in from Kansas City on Saturday afternoon. Mac is a close friend of Bob Watts. Both are avid bikers. Mac is often at Bobs when Bob is building my bike. As they discuss the bike and my ride, Macs interest grows. He decides at the
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last instant to join me in Orlando and ride with me to Atlanta. Mac meets me at St. Marks Sunday morning just as the preaching service begins. The sanctuary is built in the round, and Im sitting on Davids left as he stands in the pulpit to preach. Bernie appears shortly before Mac. Both enter by the door on my side of the sanctuary. An usher directs them to me. As each worshipper drinks from the common cup and takes bread during the communion service after Davids sermon, David calls each by name and calls upon God to bless that person. When it is time for my row to receive communion, Im ready. I feel at home in this place. With these people. After church, David locks our bikes in his study. He and Marsha and their kids take Bernie, Mac and me out to eat. The congregation of Liberal Judiasm is not far from St. Marks Lutheran, but Bernie and David have never met. They hit it off. We linger long over lunch, until David must leave for a church meeting. Then Bernie takes Mac and me over to Shirleys for a short visit, then to his house for a few hours of rest, TV and phone calls. About six, Bernie drives us out to the Gearhardts where Mac and I are to spend the night so David can drive us to Epcot Center in the morning for our Disney bon voyage. David teaches a Monday morning Bible study at his church, but the class voted to disregard their regular schedule and come by minibus to see us off. Bernie and Shirely are scheduled to help with a lunchtime feeding program at the synagogue, but they are going to try to find someone to work in their place so they can be with us as we leave. As our 10 A.M. departure time nears, they havent come. Im preparing to leave without seeing them. Not the launching I was hoping for. Thensuddenlywith 10 minutes to spare, they are here. I begin to hug everyone I can reach. And though none of us had known one another 48 hours earlier, we begin to cry and to dread our imminent parting. I thank Ralph Kline from Disneys public relations department for arranging this send-off. Then Mac and I climb on our bikes, and with a Disney car before and after us, were off. Our escorts accom-
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pany us until we are away from Disney World and onto Highway 192. By one oclock weve reached the Citrus Tower. Rising 500 feet, the Tower advertises itself as the highest spot in Florida. Barbara, our waitress, wants to know more about our ride. She gathers other staff to hear us. They give us cards and stamps and ask if I will write them a note from out west. The usual location of the Citrus Tower restaurant is at ground level, but repairs are underway at that level, and for today only, the restaurant has been moved to the top of the Tower. Yesterday the usual location was usable; tomorrow it will be again. The restaurant advertises being open 365 days a year and is not about to let renovation render that claim a fraud. Thus Mac and I get to have lunch high above the florida countryside, offering a view of 2,000 square miles and more than 17,000,000 citrus trees and a long view of highway 27, by which we have arrived at the Tower and will soon depart. After an hour-and-half or so, Mac and I pull ourselves away from the Citrus Tower and pedal slowly northward. I had told them on camera this morning at Disney World that I would be happiest with my ride if people all across America would wave to me and yell, Hello, Ed. And now as we pedal north on highway 27, people in towns, from cars and trucks, and along the highway wave, honk, and yell encouragement. Every now and then an 18-wheeler sounds its horn in that gentle manner I have quickly learned to distinguish from the threatening and warning blasts I had expected and sometimes hear. As often as not, that gentle tap of the horn is accompanied by a thumbs-up from the driver. Its nearing six oclock when we pull into Ocala. Im not a tourist, out to see the sights by bicycle. Im a teacher, out to spread news of the Human Family Reunion, to meet people of every color and creed, and to encourage people with problems to find peace, power, purpose and joy. To do this I need help. Since I dont have time to talk personally with everyone in Ocala, I head first to the newspaper office to tell them my story. Then in search of a church to find dinner and a bed. Where else could I expect to find a more
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receptive hearing than among communities of faith? Reporters are gone for the evening. A young man asks me to come back in the morning and gives me directions to the nearest church. He walks me to the curb and points out a steeple visible through the trees. Im there in under five minutes.The sanctuary is locked, but a light is on and the door open in a small frame building behind. I walk in, the only white person among a dozen black men and women my age and older. Their pastor is not there, and they have no food available and no place to spend the night. They recommend the Episcopal church and give us careful directions. The Episcopal Church is closed. But a note on the door says pictures are being taken at a nearby house. We hurry over. Mary Ritter is sitting just inside the door, keeping track of those scheduled to have their pictures made. Following a one minute version of my story, Mary gives me a note to take to her daughter, Susan, at home, telling her to take us in and feed us As we arrive, Don Ritter, Marys husband, is talking to a policeman in their yard. Someone stole his grill last night. Scott, the Ritters son, shows us to an upstairs room. The family has already eaten, but Susan fixes us a delicious and elaborate pasta dinner. Afterward, Mac and I take hot baths in an old fashioned tub that is comfortably long and deep. Fatigue and dirt wash down the drain. We turn in a little after nine. We can almost see water in the air this morning. And it feels so close. This is the downside of green. As we leave the Ritters shortly after eight, we stop back by the paper. Too early this time. On to the next town to see what happens there. A couple hours pedaling brings us to Fellowship. A few houses needing paint is all I see; then off to the left, an old wooden church needing paint. Mac and I pedal up the short grave road to the church. No one is around. We sit down on the front step of Fellowship Baptist Church to eat a banana. As we sit, three cars come up the road, turn left and stop just out of sight. In hopes of finding someone who can tell us about the town and the church, Mac and I go in search of the cars and their drivers.
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I stick my head in the open door and see several older women preparing tables for a noon luncheon. I introduce myself and briefly explain what were doing in their town. I hand my water bottles to the woman who comes to the door. She fills them and says theyre getting ready for a meeting of the Womens Missionary Union. I get the feeling that Mac and I are making these women nervous. I cant blame them. Strangers in funny garb, with a crazy story about riding across the country. How are they to know they wont be tomorrows headline, victims of bizarre bikers? Out of Fellowship we pass quickly into beautiful horse country, lush rolling pastures dotted with fairytale homes and horses to make a sheik proud. Before we get to Willison, the land turns sandy. Pine country. And poor. We wheel into Bronson a little after noon and stop at the first church we come to. Thats the rule. Dont go looking for a particular church. Take the first one we see. At First Baptist lunch has just been served. The pastor is out. The secretary apologizes because they cant help. But when she hears that I travel without money, she opens her purse and hands me several bills. I thank her and stuff them in my pocket without looking to see how much it is. The young man who is cleaning the church has overhead our conversation. As he walks over to me, he is digging deep in his pocket. He hands me a fistfull of coins. I have the feeling its all the money he has, and I fight back tears. I ask the young man for directions to a cafe with home cookin and I buy lunch for Mac and me. By mid-afternoon were in Chiefland. A teenager is bicycling down the sidewalk in my direction. When he gets close, I ask him to take me to the newspaper office. Arent you that teacher I saw on TV last night? he asks. Then Edwin Jekins leads me to the paper. Enroute I ask him what church he attends. He is a member of the Church of Christ. His uncle is pastor. A man at the synagogue in Orlando gave me five dollars, and when Bernie bought my breakfast Sunday morning, he slipped me a ten dollar bill. So youll have something for emergencies, he said. Later in the morning when the collection plate was passed at
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St. Marks, I felt an urge to put the $15.00 I had acquired in the collection plate. I resisted. Later that afternoon, I gave it to the pastor. Broke again! As I was leaving Orlando the next morning, David loaded me down with fruit and stuck a folded bill in my hand. A $20.00 bill I discovered later. I bought a few things on the road. But I have a little of that money and some from the church in Bronson still in my pocket when I meet young Edwin Jenkins. What to do with it? Send it home to the pledge fund? After all, I am trying to raise money. BikeAmerica: A Two Penny Odyssey, my ride has been christened, emphasing its intent to raise a penny a mile for Multiple Sclerosis and a penny for the Human Family Reunion. But Im not asking those I meet to give me their pledge money. They are to send that to Commercial Bank back in Liberty, where I live. The banks address is on the flyer Im handing out to everyone. The money people are giving me is for my daily needs. If it turns out to be more than I need, then what? In my trek across America, I will be living each day in a different community. I will not be at home to fulfill my obligations. So it makes sense to act out the part of good citizen in the place I am at the moment. This is my temporary home; I am obligated to help while Im here. I will give away any money I have left at the end of the day to someone who needs it more than I do. I had started the trip with no money, and the excitement of it was electrifying. I cant let money rob me of that feeling. I know what I have to do. Edwin, after you show me the paper, take me to your pastor. Ive been given more money than I need. I want your church to have it. Edwin, Mac and I make our way down several gravel roads to a small frame house. Its a hot day. Christy Donaldson (4th grade), John Donaldson (6th grade) and Yonji Donaldson (12th grade) are in the back yard, trying to stay cool. I give them, and Edwin, each a dollar for ice cream. I give the rest to Yonji Donaldson to give to her father, the pastor, when he gets home from his job as a tree cutter for a logging company.
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Mac and I are several miles away when I remember my camera. Mark Johnson had written several nice stories about my ride for the Antioch Publication, a hometown shopper back in Liberty. Mark had asked me to call him each Thursday morning all summer to update him so he could write a story for each weekly edition of the paper. Mark had also wanted pictures. So he gave me a camera and all the film I could use. Several hours Mark had spent teaching me to use the camera. The first camera Mark picked for me to carry with me had several electronic components. After Mark saw my unfamiliarity with cameras and my density in the company of gadgetry, he suggested a purely mechanical camera, that will withstand road shock better. If journalism grows stale, Mark has a future as a diplomat. That camera was buried in the left front pannier as I visited with Edwin and his cousins. I didnt think to get it out and take a picture. Im sick that I hadnt gotten a picture of those beautiful young people. I had loved them on sight. I comfort myself that I have their address and can send for a picture. But it wont show me with them. After leaving the children, I stop at a service station phone booth to call Habitat for Humanity in Americus, Georgia. I had promised to be there for a pot-luck dinner Thursday night. I also call Jimmy Carters secretary to see if I will be able to see the President when I pass through Plains. Thanks to John Pritchard, a long-time friend in Liberty, I had gotten a hand written invitation from Mr. Carter to visit him. Mister Carter and John both serve on the national board of directors for Habitat for Humanity. John had hand delivered my letter to President Carter, exlaining myh ride across America. Now as we approach Plains, Im anxious to discover if Mr. Carter will be at home. As I put down the phone and turn around, an elderly man is motioning to me from the car that he has just pulled up beside me. Woodys my name, he says. Can you tell me about this? He is pointing at my bicycle. I tell him.
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Bless you, says Woody. Im 82, and Im not a religious man. Im an ex-cop. Ive seen some mean people. But I admire what youre doing. Woody sticks out his hand. When I pull my hand back, I have a $5.00 bill. Could you put us up for the night, Woody? I would, says Woody, But my wife has cancer. Just got out of the hospital. If I called and asked, shed say, Bring him over. But I cant do that to her. An hour later we come upon a motel underneath some pine trees just off the road to the right. Only one car about, and the office is deserted as I walk in. A pretty young girl about 16 appears momentarily from another room. I ask her for a free room or the nearest church. From somewhere out of sight in the room the young lady appeared from, she now asks, Whats the preachers phone number? She calls the number. No answer. She gives me the name of a member. After hearing me out, this member suggests we try the Baptist Church in Cross City, nine miles up Highway 19. This man ius not a Baptist. I had told him we were raising money for charity. We have plenty of charities around here,he says. His body language speaks loudly of disapproval. I thank him. Mac and I strike out for Cross City. Its almost seven in the evening by the time we get to Cross City. The Baptist Church is on the edge of town. The pastor is loading a pickup and about to leave. Before I say much more than my name, he says we can sleep in the church. From the church pantry he gives us each a can of Spam, a can of pork and beans, some crackers, chocolate pudding, and juice to drink. He tells us where the showers are. And he is gone. Less than 10 minutes, and we have the run of the church. Ive not found Spam and chocolate pudding on any biking diet Ive run across. Or maybe its sleeping on the flolor. Or wanting to get my thoughts on paper before theyre crowded out by todays adventures. Whatever! Im awake at 1:30 this morning. We have to
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be out of the church by 7 AM when the preschool children begin arriving. And we have to get to Thomasville, Georgia 125 miles away before dark if we are to have a chance of getting to Americus in time for the potluck dinner Thursday evening. By 3 AM I have filled 10 pages in my journal. Im getting ready to do my hour of stretching and bending. Then Ill wake Mac a little after five, and we will be on the road by six. We have to make sure the church is spotless. And I have to compose just the right thank you note to express my gratitude to the pastor. Just before we slip out the door into the still dark morning, I leave this letter and a $5.00 donation for the pastor on a small table by the door. Until I sit to write my appreciation to the pastor, I hadnt realized that Id forgotten to get his name. Dear Pastor, Without the church my life would be impoverished beyond my comprehension. And without those communities of faith found across this land, my bicycle odyssey would be impossible. Because I can count on kindness such as yours, I can undertake a journey, otherwise filled with dangers and uncertainties, with complete confidence. Because you love God, you also love me. I count on that every moment of every day. Thank you for demonstrating how firm a foundation my faith rests upon. Whether or not we ever see one another again, you are now part of my life, and I will forever remember you to those I meet. God bless you. Mac and I ride hard all day. Countless logging trucks lumber by, their long scraggly loads of pines giving the appearance of oversized toothpicks. Sweat pours in buckets; I guzzle water from my bottle like a baby who hasnt been weaned. I stop every 10 miles for another long drink and something to eat from my panniers. Its so hot I dont want to eat much, but all those biking books I read stressed the importance of eating right and regularly. All day long those lumber trucks pass, about as many going our way as coming toward us. And it occurs to me that they could
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just trade trees and avoid all this transporting. Neary everyone we talk to about riding this road on a bicyle says were crazy and well get killed. Those trucks sound like earth movers bearing down on us. More than once their sudden appearance in my rear view mirror has my heart in my throat.
Georgia
We are hot, tired, dirty and smelly when we wheel up to the side entrance of First Baptist Church in Thomasville, 125 miles from our place of origin this morning.. A large and beautiful building occuping an entire block in the center of town, several thousand of Thomasvilles 30,000 inhabitants as members: This is where we arrive just as the dinner preceeding Wednesday evening prayer service is nearing its end. Leaving my bike by the door, I race down a long hall and burst through the double doors. Sitting at the end of a long table, the pastor is just finishing his meal. Quickly I tell him my story, ending with, We need something to eat and a place to stay. Yes, get in line. Well take care of that. As I sit eating, a deacon of the church comes to me with a small yellow paper, the number 400 written on it. Youve got a room across the street at the hotel. Heres the number. And hes gone. Yall gonna speak to us? a young woman across the table asks. I dont think so, I say. But in the back of my mind is the hope that the pastor might acknowledge my presence and give me a chance to say a few words. He doesnt. The service ends. And before I can move from my place at the back of the room, the pastor steps through a door and is gone. No one speaks to us as we leave. A small boy is admiring my helmet as it lays on the floor in a corner. When I pick it up to show it to him, it slips from my hand. The mirror attached to it shatters. My sunglasses fall from their case and a lens pops out. None of the people nearby offer to help or say an encouraging word. I am wear-
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ing shorts and smell like a horse. But my T-shirt says in big bold letters: Fellowship of Christian Athletes. I feel like it says Leper. First Baptist Church Thomasville gave me exactly what I asked for. Why, then, do I feel bad about our encounter? Because I dont feel welcome! I feel no friendship, no interest in me. I am their duty. And they are obligated to do it, no matter how joyless they find it. It hurts me to reach this conclusion about a community of faith. Because I come from a Baptist upbringing and have been an active member of a Baptist church all my life, I fight hard against this judgement of the people I know so well and love so much. My first thought is not to mention Thomasville in my report to you of my trip. But there is no growth potential in such a course. So I must say thank you to First Baptist, Thomasville. I was hungry and you fed me, tired and you gave me rest. My physical needs you met. Like you, though, I came to church this evening to satisfy a spiritual hunger. I wanted to know you and for you to know me, for all of us to leave this place after our brief encounter filled with the peace, power, purpose, and joy that is our birthright as members of the family of God. We blew it. I promise, through, not to give up. I will expect as much from the community of faith tomorrow. Please, dont you give up. Mac and I go across the street to the hotel. When Im reluctant to leave my bike behind the hotel where the security guard can keep an eye on it, the clerk finally agrees to let us take both bikes to our room. I go to tell Mac, who has been waiting outside with the bikes. As we bring them into the lobby, the clerk reappears to announce, She said you cant take them to your room, but you can take them to the police station around the corner. I dont ask who she is. I thank the clerk. We take our bikes to the police station. A kind policeman says we can leave them, but we will have to get them before shift change at 6 AM. No one calls or comes from the church to check on our welfare during the night. By 4:30 in the morning were at the police station. Where yall goin? The officer on duty asks. Americus, I answer.
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Why yall goin there? To see the housing they build for poor people. She says nothing. Her face registers nothing. Its the same incomprehension, non-engagement I had sensed in the deacon when I asked him how to get to Americus. I wouldnt know anything about that, he said as he turned away and walked off. We leave the station, turn left onto Jackson Street, making our way in the pre-dawn toward the highway to Americus. Suddenly, I hear a shot. A rushing of air. My rear wheel fishtails. The pedals wont turn. I come to a dead stop and jump off before I fall over. I pull the bike under a light in a shopping center parking lot. As if fired by a gun, a large nail has been driven clean through my rear tire, the same tire Ive been bragging about: That tires so tough I may go clear to California without a flat. Ive never used the beautiful red pump, painted just to match my bicycle. And Mac has presta valves; my Shroeder pump is foreign to him. Im carrying two spare tubes, but the tire is ruined. By the time we find a bike shop and Mac buys me a tire, its nearing eight oclock. I call Habitat to report my delay. I ask if someone can come to Albany and pick us up. We can bike the 60 miles north to Albany; someone can drive the 40 miles from Americus to Albany, and we can all be in Americus for the pot-luck dinner scheduled for 6:30 at the Episcopal Church. The ride from Thomasville is pleasant. Cool weather. But the ground looks unable to give life at more than a grudging level. About 20 miles up the road, we pull into a service station to use the phone. Our bikes grinds to a halt and almost fall in the heavy red sand of the driveway. Have a payphone? I ask the unshaven older man in overalls who sits, barefoot and shirtless, clipping his toe nails in front of the station. Without looking up or making a sound, he motions to a phone on the exterior wall. I call Habitat again to see if my message has been received and someone can come for me. Bob Stevens is coming.
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About 1:30 he picks us up at the Georgia State Highway Patrol Headquarters just south of Albany on highway 9. We get to Habitat a little after three. A message is waiting for me to call Jimmys Carters office in Plains. I can see him tomorrow afternoon at three oclock. A little after five, Bob jumps on his bike and leads Mac and me on a high speed tour of Americus. I fall in love with the place, so eloquently do its stately homes and buildings speak of southern charm, so inviting are the rolling hills and deep green forest. At 6:30 we join Habitat staff and volunteers for the potluck dinner and a good natured roasting of the senior staff. If my purpose in this cross county wandering during this 200th anniversary year of the U.S. constitution is to find what makes America hang together, I dare not dismiss what I see and sense in this room. The atmosphere is electric with spoken and non-verbal affirmations, with purpose, commitment, integrity, and energy enough to jump-start a tired social system. I see blacks and whites together. Lots of both! Its obvious they like one another. Love one another. Its also obvious they come together for more than ceremonial occasions like the one that brings them together tonight. Nearer to heaven. More like the world I live in. Thats what this joyous congregation of committed, hard working people causes me to feel.Though I may never be in this place again, this place will forever be part of me. As the evening is beginning, it is announced that today is Bob Stephens birthday. He hadnt told me. And he had taken several hours out of his special day, with no advance warning, to pick us up. The essence of the church is alive in this place. The church where we have dinner is through town and a mile or so from Habitat. I bike over, though I would prefer to walk with the others. My leg wont always do what I want it to, and I have to think so hard about walking that Im not good company. My bike takes care of the problem. Most of the work of Habitat is done by volunteers. While here they stay in Habitat housing without charge and are paid $20.00 a
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week. We spend the night in Shalom House with a young family in training for a three year stint as construction supervisors in Ecuador. The communal aspect of Habitat living I find appealing. Whatever is in the refrigerator is for anyone. The door to the house is never locked. Rain is falling the next morning. Im a little late when I find the upstairs room nearby where a large group has gathered for morning devotions. After several student volunteers speak, Millard Fuller, Founder and Director of Habitat, rises to say: Ed Chasteen is visiting us today. Ed stand up. Let us see you. And tell us about this marvelous thing youre doing. Following my five minute summary of my ride and its reasons, two volunteers press money into my hand. And Judy Rogers (not her real name) asks to talk with me. Judys mother was recently diagnosed with M.S. and she is devastated. For years her mother had been trying to find out what was wrong with her. And all that time, she kept going, doing so well that her family was unaware she had a problem. But with the diagnosis, Judys mother became a victim, seduced by a system of social expectations that first labels a person a patient, then a victim, then handicapped, a cripple unable to function normally. Physicians believe this. The public believes this. The personpatient believes this. The family believes this. And all act out of assumptions they believe to be reality, the only reality available to them. That they have all bought a bill of goods that none finds satisfying is a truth they can never see, can never even imagine. Each is mentally crippled by their limited view of the human potential. Judys mother is more a victim of this limited world view than of neurological dysfunction. Judy asks me to call her mother to offer help. As Mac and I prepare to leave Americus and Habitat for the eight mile ride to Plains and a visit with President Carter, its a little after one oclock. A gentle rain has fallen most of the morning, coaxing fragrance from towering pines that guard these Georgia hills. The rain has stopped as we leave; steam rises from the black surfaced road.
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We have been here only 22 hours, but Mac and I are in love with these people. Talking to Bob about the possibility of returning as a volunteer, Mac discovers that this is the place where his daughter came last year for a week with a group from her college. Rather than going to his home, I have been asked by his secretary to meet Mr. Carter at the Plains Visitors Center just recently completed. Word of the Carters presence has apparently been announced. The room is filled with good humored people awaiting their arrival. Precisely on time, the Carters appear. A relaxed and pleasant few minutes pass as Mr. Carter makes his way through the room, shaking hands, smiling, calling people by name. After a brief exchange with me, we each step outside so I can show the President my bicycle, tell him about my trip, and have our pictures taken with the bicycle. As I stand with Mr. Carter, through my mind are running the two images that to me symbolize his presidency. The first is of Jimmy and Roslyn walking hand in hand up Pennsylvania Avenue during the inaugural. They had chosen simplicity and openness as the theme for their tenure as national and world leaders. My second image of Mr. Carter has him with Anwar Sadat and Menacham Begin as the historic peace treaty between Egypt and Israel is signed. Tenuous though it is, I feel a part of these two events as Mr. Carter and I talk about my route from Plains and the distance to Atlanta. Then Mac and I jump on our bikes and pedal hard toward Atlanta. The original plan had been to meet President Carter at nine, leave Plains at 10, and ride hard toward Atlanta. Curt would leave Atlanta at three oclock, heading toward us. When we met, we would put our bikes in his van, and Curt would take us to his house. When my meeting with Mr. Carter is delayed until three, I called Curt to tell him he would need to come further south to get me. Rather than return to Americus by the route we traveled this morning to Plains, Mac and I decide to take highway 45 from Plains, bound for Ellaville and what I hope is a rendezvous with that maroon van Curt is driving. As it now stands, Curt is leaving Atlanta
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at the same time we leave Plains. Unless we reach Ellaville and highway 19 before Curt, he will be south of us before we turn north toward Atlanta. In that case, we will have a hundred mile ride ahead of us, with about three hours of daylight left and no notion of how to negotiate the Atlanta freeways. A mile or so past the Plains Baptist Church, I spot Lucy Grace Hart as she steps off the porch and into the yard with her two small dogs. Her home is an unpretentious white farm house off the road to the left about 50 yards, a gravel driveway leading to the unattached garage. Hello, I yell. She responds with a greeting I cant quite make out. I wheel my bike around. Pull into her driveway. And almost flip on the loose gravel. But I recover enough to make what I hope looks like a deliberate departure from the bike. Im Miz Hot, and I thought you were Jimmy ridin by. He rides out this way now and then to visit John Pope, his best friend in the world. And the Carter family cemeterys just down the road. My husband was a cousin of Jimmys. My familys lived on this farm for hundreds of years. We have talked for a few minutes when Lucy Grace Hart asks, Wherere my manners? I should have asked you in for somethin to drink. But I know yaller in a hurry. Its nearly five when we reach Ellaville and turn left onto highway 19. Curts driving a maroon van, one of those new Fords. He works at Ford, I yell to Mac. A few blocks later we come to a railroad crossing. The bar is across the road; red lights are flashing. An approaching train is sounding its whistle. Im gonna fill my water bottles while we wait on the train, Mac says as he wheels into a service station. We prop our bikes against the wall and step into this working mans station. No stop and shop, this is a bare bones gas station. A few cans of grape pop and two or three Cokes in a small ice box. Greasy rags, empty counters, and tools scattered about. Everything needs paint. I grab two grape sodas and pay for them with one of the dollars a Habitat volunteer gave me this morning. When I turn around,
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there stands Curt in the doorway. Whered you come from? I explode. I cant believe youre here. An impromptu hug and some excited, simultaneous attempts at communication later, I get the story. We had passed a maroon van just a block after we turned onto 19. It sat in the driveway of another station, and I hadnt seen it. Curt was in the restroom and didnt see us. When he came out, he asked the attendant how to find the highway from Ellaville to Plains and explained he had to pick up two biking friends. Is one of them riding a big red bike? the attendant asked. Yes. They just passed goin north. Just a minute ago. Curt jumped in his van and took off after us. We were so close he almost missed us. I hadnt remembered my promise to Curt that we would leave our bikes in a conspicuous place when we stopped. If he hadnt had to slow down for the train, he probably would have driven right on by. But Im not surprised to see him. I expected us to find one another easily. The whole character of this trip leaves me no other option but total confidence that everything will happen on schedule and will be adequate to my need. Like the reporter for the Orlando Sentinel who appeared at the Jimmy Carter reception. I had asked Madelyn, President Carters secretary, if they could have someone take my picture with President Carter. We dont have anyone for that, she said. As Im waiting to talk to Mr. Carter, a man walks up to me. Hello, Ed, my name is Gary Taylor. Im a reporter for the Orlando Sentinel. Id like to do a follow up. Whats happened since you left Disney World? I give him a five minute capsule, ending with, Could you take some pictures of President Carter and me? He could. He does. How these things keep happening I dont know. But that they will happen I fully expect. And now I realize Ive had these great expectations since Ken Cardwell that January morning in my Jewell office said yes to my request for 10,000 free flyers announcing my
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ride. Ken set in motion a domino effect that keeps knocking down potential problems. Mac and I secure our bikes in Curts van and drive for about an hour and a half, then stop at a Dominos Pizza, advertising 2 for 1. The three of us order a large, with Canadian bacon, black olives and mushrooms. You want two with Canadian bacon, black olives and mushrooms. The clerk repeats my order. Just one. I say. Its two for one, she says. I cant order just one. I think of Jack Nickelsons restaurant routine in Five Easy Pieces. And I let it go. We eat one and a half. And leave the rest on the table. Curt and Mac hold a fascinating conversation over our pizza. Curt handles employee relations for Ford in Atlanta. Mac helped pioneer the use of computers to check out flight systems for TWA in Kansas City. They speak a language foreign to me about bytes, robots, dishes, an alphabet of names, the internal operation of cars and planes. I listen, understaning nothing. Back in the car, Curt talks about the failing of American education; the competitive advantage of the Japanese; the resurgence of Ford in the domestic market; its continous catch-up position worldwide to Honda and Toyota; the unwillingness of American workers to face economic realityand his general optimism in the face of all these problems. Everywhere I go I keep finding people who see problems. Now and in the future. But they also see solutions. And work to make them happen. The people Im meeting arent blind to their situations, neither are they paralyzed by what they see. Hope keeps them in harness, chomping at the bit to get on with it, to demonstrate that they are equal to the task. Like the remark Mac made as we biked down a road in Georgia and were passed by a truck belonging to the state highway department. Thats a sign of progress, he said after the truck had passed.
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Whaddya mean? I asked That truck was driven by a black woman. Dont tell me things havent changed in the south. Tradition in America elicits respect enough to keep things from coming unraveled. But worship of this thing we call progress is also a dominant characteristic of ours. The tension between them is enough to avert giving in to despair but not enough to break our wills. Mac is anxious to get back to his wife. Several times during he week he tried to call her. She never was home. Her widowed mother lives near. Her brother just broke his leg. And she has the two of them to see about, as well as her five classes of remedial reading to teach. So Curt drives Mac directly to the airport. He tries to get Mac to let us stay until he gets a plane. But Mac insists hell be okay. With his TWA pass, Mac has been flying around the world for 25 years. I can fly any airline and wont have any trouble, he says. We drop Mac at the TWA terminal, give him Curts phone number and head for the baseball game Curts 10-year old son, David, is playing. Curt was due to coach Davids baseball team tonight. He begged off to come get us. As we arrive at the game, its the third inning. David is up to bat. He gets a hit. His team wins, 54, upping their record to 10-0. Not bad, but a ways to go from the 50-2 record his team had as eight year olds when they went to the national tournament. Curt tells me about the boys on his baseball team whose parents have split up and reassembled in novel combinations. And the problems the boys have as a result. Married now 26 years, Curt is aware how unusual he is, sensitive to the fact that few friends seem to endure in marriage. He is dismayed by what he sees. But not pessimistic. Dorotys twin dicta, Nothing is ever just coincidence, and Coincidence is Gods way of remaining anonymous, come to mind this morning as I take my seat in the lobby of the King Center in Atlanta. Dorothy McClain is a member of my church back home. When she volunteered two years ago to type the manuscript for my book about my struggles with MS, she took advantage of nearly every
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meeting we had to talk about a book she had just read or to offer her observations on life. Her perspective on coincidence is a small part of the mother lode she freely shares with any who will listen. Im here at the King Center for the private tour Carol Hogue has arranged for me. Carol was a senior in 1965 when I joined the faculty at William Jewell. Her potential was as obvious as neon in the night. Now she is in Atlanta, employed by the Center for Disease Control. A PhD epidemiologist, directing the research of a staff of MDs; consulting regularly around the world with governments and organizations that would improve the life chances of millions. I had Carol for only two courses: Methods of Social Research and Population Studies. What she does now is a reflection and extension of these courses. And when I have thought of Carol over these years, I have rejoiced anew at my decision to be a teacher. On my study wall at home is a large picture of the three men alive in my time who have most moved me, all of whom were assassinated: John Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy. A visit to the Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Social Change is the major of my several resons for routing my ride through Atlanta. Carol has arranged with Kerry Ramsey, Director of the Visitors Program, for him to give me a tour of the King Center. As I drop into the chair in front of the receptionists desk and Carol pages Kerry, I am so tired I can hardly move. Am I going to hold up for a whole summer of constant biking, new places, and new people? My confidence is in jeopardy. A glance across the room gives me a sudden surge of adrenaline. On the far wall to my left hangs a glass covered poster. In the upper left hand corner, I recognize a picture of Coretta Scott King. Beside her picture is the name: Seinan Gakuin University. At the airport in Kansas City to see me off for Orlando had been four students from William Jewell: Sachico Sumikawa, Yuki Rikimaru, Natsuko Araki, and Craig Tepker. Craig had brought the three young women, students for this one year at Jewell. They had come from, and in a few weeks would be returning to, their
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Japanese university: Seinan Gakuin. Just last summer Bobbie and I had gone to Japan to visit Seinan Gakuin and the four young women from there who had stayed in our home. My spirits soar at seeing this reminder of home here in the King Center. Kerry Ramsey gives me a two-hour VIP tour that further revives my sagging spirits. As I watch the film of Martins life and work, tears come to my eyes. The 18 minute film of his I Have a Dream reminds me how much my dreams for this ride spring from Dr. King. I have driven to the King Center in Curts van, my bike in the back. When I see the crypt containing Martins body resting on a concrete island in the midst of a reflection pool, I take my bike out and put it in front of the crypt so I can get a picture. Following the map Curt has drawn for me, I get back to his house in Fayettville, some 25 miles from downtown Atlanta, without incident. The traffic is quiet on this Saturday before Memorial Day Monday, but I can imagine what it must be like on an ordinary week day. And I congratulate myself anew for my wisdom in getting myself picked up well south of Atlanta and deposited when Im ready to leave just north of Marietta. Curt, Maxine, and I sit around after dinner. The conversation turns to dreams. Maxine mentions that one of their two boys remembers all his dreams; the other never dreams. I tell her that somewhere I read that we all dream; remembering them depends on the vitamin level in our body, though I cant recall which vitamin helps with memory. We move on to a discussion of the current life status of the many friends we have in common from Curt and Maxines time in Liberty, now more than nine years distant. I turn in a little after 11. And remember the next morning my first dream in months: I was one of several found guilty of murder for failure to properly supervise a student function at William Jewell. I would spend several years in prison. Obviously our conversation about dreams caused me to remember that dream. Another demonstration of the power of mind. But did that particular dream have meaning? Was I to abandon the many projects I require of students? Am I to be crippled by my illness and spend years in bed or
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in a wheel chair: a prison! Is it all just coincidence, to be dismissed without a second thought? Maybe! But I cant think so. It must all mean something. But what? About midnight I hear Curt calling from downstairs. Bob Watts is on the phone. Are you coming? I ask when I stumble to the phone. I can tell he wants to. Bob says Mac got home at 9:30 Saturday morning. He couldnt get a flight out and had to spend the night in a hotel. Bob and Jean want to bring their tandem and ride along with me for a while so Bob can see the bike he built in action. But I dont want to ruin your trip, Bob says. You wont. Come ahead. Bob tells me to call back in the morning. Hes going to stay up all night, and if he can get the bike ready, they may come. He wants to. So does Jean. Over the months Bob was building my bicycle, we talked for hours about the ride. He took great pride in building a bike that would stand up to a Mack truck and climb a tree. He had to see that bike on the road. Bob and Jean had also attended the Human Family Reunion held shortly before I left. They had loved it. And couldnt quit talking about it. To be a part of it on the road was a temptation I knew they could not resist. I know youre coming, Bob, even if you dont. Now get that bike ready while I get some sleep. Curt takes me to church with him Sunday morning. Ron Churchill is a rarity: a bachelor Baptist preacher, pastor for about a year now of First Baptist Chuch, Fayetteville. Rons sermon this morning at early church ism about teaching, and his text is Matthew 28:19-20, a passage I memorized as a 10-year old Royal Ambassador at Field Street Baptist Church in Cleburne, Texas. And as I had promised I would do each time I visit a religious community, Im wearing my Ambassador T-shirt from my home church back in Liberty. The first words of the mornings text are Go. . . and teach.
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Ron gives me five minutes of the preaching hour to do just that. I tell his congregation about my ride and its purposes. After the service I am besieged by well-wishers whose enthusiasm and interest are so obviously genuine, Im reduced to tears. Following the worship hour, Curt takes me to his Sunday School Dedpartment, where Im given 10 minutes to tell my story. The 40 to 50 woman and men I stand before are in my corner from the moment I start. The peace and power of that realization flow over me as a healing river. Instantly gone are the nagging doubts that were nibbling at me earlier this morning. I am tired. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. I didnt ride yesterday. Because I didnt, my legs are now less able to take me where I want to go. Walking is hard. And no fun. Two things I must have to make this ride. I knew that before I stood to address these good people, but their loving support reaffirmed my previous realization. I must have the bicycle. I must be hours on it, working my muscles, my mind, my sweat glands. That bicycle to me is like a dialysis machine to a kidney patient. I cannot live without it. But the bike by itself is not enough. I also need the supportive interacting of the people. All kinds of people. Everywhere. The bicycle or the interaction alone is half a loaf, insufficient to my appetite, leaving me wanting. And dying. I cannot resign myself to a life of mediocrity. I am a pilgrim who cannot find a lasting city. I am a wanderer from another place. A bicycle I need to bring me quietly into the lives of people down the ever beckoning road. Quickly I must make a place for myself in their lives. When our souls touch and we embrace, when we recognize our mutual love and need of one another, I must be gone. Others await. And the pain of parting is almost more than I can bear. Knowing, though, that had we not parted, I would not now know these precious ones, each day is an ode to joy. No pain, no gain is a larger truth than those who say it usually know. Two hours later I hug Curt, then watch with tears in my eyes as he gets into his van and drives away. He has brought me to spend a few hours with two people dear to me. I last saw Carol when she
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and Lynn, her husband, were back on campus a year ago for her to receive an award for distinguished achievement. In the 20 years since Carol graduated from Jewell, she has become a leading figure in epidemiological research, helping to improve the lives of mothers and infants around the world. Lynn is no less distinguished. Also a Jewell alum, Lynn is a PhD in English, holder of a juris doctorate, professor and associate dean of the Law School at Georgia State University in Atlanta. As we sit in their kitchen on this Sunday afternoon, catching up on the past year, listening to a Bach Festival recording by the Empire Brass in Washington Cathedral reverberate down the stairs and off the walls, we each are at home. This moment is all of life: no past, no future, only now. Heaven on earth, eternal in memory. But manifestly impermanent. Gone as quickly as a sigh. As I change a tire on my bike and Lynn works on his boat a little later in the afternoon, I mention to Lynn that Im afraid I will blow this trip. I dont know how. And Im not afraid in the sense that I worry a lot. Just a nagging suspicion that somehow I might mess up what so far has been unbelievably good. Lynn thinks Im too introspective, too self-examining. Thats when he mentions the Cursillo, a Spanish word for a process he has been through in the Episcopal Church under the invited tutelage of Catholic priests. An important part of the Cursillo is the surprise that comes several times during the Thursday through Sunday duration of the pilgrimmage. You are that surprise, Lynn says. On your bicycle, you unexpectedly come into peoples lives. You trouble their conscience. Touch their souls. Then youre gone. What you do is intentional. Its for their good. Its not manipulative. After youve done it several times, you pretty much know what to expect. But they dont. Its always new to them. Its a Cursillo. Carol and Lynn attend a barbeque this evening: a Leabonese barbeque. Through the outskirts of Atlanta, I follow on my bike as Lynn drives a meandering five miles around and over beautifully
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forested hills where majestic and towering trees hide and hold homes that seem a natural part of this environment. Viritually all the folks at the barbeque work at the Center for Disease Control: MDs and PhDs most everyone has. The host family is composed of a Palestinian Protestant Christian husband-father and a Leabonese Muslim wife-mother. Assorted other nationalities are present, most all have traveled widely throughout the world. The menu for the evening is a smorgasbord of Mid-Eastern and American South. Young children of all colors and several languages play together in the yard as their parents talk about contagious diseases, government grants and projects, international travel and health, careers and family. Before we left for the barbeque, I had gotten Debbie on the phone. Yesterday was her birthday, the first one I had missed in her 29 years. We had talked a long time. Before Im back home this fall, Debbie will have moved to Grand Forks. Why she chose North Dakota over other offers is hard to figure. She said it was the best job. Im proud that she has followed me into college teaching, but I will miss seeing her regularly and at unexpected times. Shortly before I talked to Debbie, I had gotten Bob on the phone. He had been able to work out a flight from Kansas City, and he had gotten the tandem ready and boxed. He and Jean will arrive in Atlanta at 11:05 tonight. I had mentioned to Lynn this afternoon that my ride in progress means everything, but my ride completed will mean nothing. Gently he disagreed, reminding me of Boswell, Samuel Johnsons biographer, who lived everything three times: once in anticipation; once in the doing; once in remembrance. Writing about my ride, he said, could do the same thing for me. And for others. Tomorrow is Memorial Day. Carol and Lynn dont have to work and will drive Bob, Jean and me north about 15 miles to Marietta where we will start biking toward Chattanooga. When time comes to go to the airport to pick up Bob and Jean, Carol and Lynn volunteer to go and let me stay at their house and spend my time updating my journal.
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Lynn and Carol have breakfast ready for us at 6:30 this morning: Georgia grits, muffins, scrambled eggs and bacon. Bob said last night he would need an hour to get their bike un-boxed and reassembled. Turns out to be a little more complicated. Bob hadnt wanted to risk his favorite bike to an airline, so he spent until four in the morning getting an older one road-worthy. Small problem, though. French metric is not the same as Japanese metric, and Bob cant get the pedals screwed to the crankarm. Bob had brought his favorite pedals. I didnt want to tear up my feet with those others. He said. Did you try those pedals on this bike? Asked Jean. Well it was 4 AM and I didnt, Bob mumbled. So one hour turns to three as Bob tries every way he can to attach those pedals. Meanwhile, Jean and Carol call every bike shop in the yellow pages. To get his mind off his problems, Bob takes a look at my bike. He discovers a sheared crank bolt, a missing Allen wrench and the wrong size spoke wrench in my tool kit. He also finds that his rear wheel has been bent in shipment. Before 10 oclock, none of the bike shops answer. When finally Jean finds a bike shop that has what Bob thinks he needs, Bob takes his wheel with him, intending to true the wheel at the shop. The wheels on Bobs tandem were built with the same 48Swiss spokes as mine,able, Bob said, to withstand anything but a Mack Truck. My confidence in that assertion wavers when he says his wheel was bent while the bike was enroute by air from Kansas City to Atlanta. Bob gets the necessay parts, and we are road ready by two oclock. Carol drives us up Highway 41 past Marietta about three. We bike the remaining 20 miles to Cartersville, arriving about 5:15. Alreay on my ride Ive discovered how much easier things work out if I get to the place I plan to spend the night before five oclock. Nearer to three oclcok is prime time for meeting people before the daily process of shutting down begins. At the Baptist and Methodist churches in Cartersville, no one is about. Two elderly women are sitting on their porch across from the Methodist Church. I ask about the pastor.
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Tommy Greens his name. Lives way across town on Maple. I ask about the nearby Baptist Church. They dont have a pastor right now. Had a split. He took half of em and left. I call Reverend Green. He isnt home and his wife doesnt know who might help. The clerk in a convenience store wants to help. She tells me where the police station is and says to come back if they cant help. But they can. In a matter of minutes they have Doug Cochran on the phone. Doug says the Interfaith Alliance will pay for our room at the Bartow Motel and for our dinner, up to a total of fifty dollars. When I run back to tell Bob and Jean, waiting across the street, Bob asks, When are you gonna teach this course at Jewell? And for their final, students have to bike across Missouri with no money. Bartow Motel is a couple of miles north of town. Im anxious the next morning to get on to Chattanooga, but I cant quit thinking about that radio station I saw yesterday in Cartersville, a Christian station it calls itself. I would love to get on my bike and go. Ride all day. Everyday. But thats not the point of all this. I have a message to deliver, a family reunion to organize. I cant lose sight of that. Im never uncertain when Im on a bicycle about which way to go. I know without thinking, and I try not to think about it. Apparently this whole trip is going to be like that. My thought last night when I went to bed was to get up early this morning and head for Chattanooga. But when I get up I have this overpowering urge to revisit the radio station. On the way to the station we pass a barn-red building calling itself The 4 Way Diner. Inside are 10 stools and a counter. The customers banter with each other and with us, about whatever is mentioned. The garish red facade. The intersection of what used to be two busy highways that gave this place its name. The 4 Way diner has been serving up breakfast for 56 years; first, father Fred Garrison; now, son Ernie, now near 70. My biscuits and gravy are rural ambrosia. And according to
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Zelma, their lunch time hamburgers are their crowning achievement. A mound of buns overflows the shelf, and I ask if they will sell that many at lunch. That. And several more just like that, says Zelma. John Dudley is a black man, a life-long resident of Cartersville who has been eatin breakfast here for 41 years. When I ask the obvious question, I get the obvious answer. Because you can go this way, that way, that way and that way, says John, pointing in all four directions. This early in my ride Ive already fashioned an image of the ideal place to eat. A place where the owner is on the premises, preferably in the kitchen and a pitcher of sweet ice tea is on the table, with pieces of jagged ice floating like icebergs in the pitcher. The diner fills his glass ad infinitum and homemade pie with buttery crust and tall merengie await meals end. By this working mans dining standard, franchised fast food is playing wiffle ball. Two blocks up Main Street at WCCV-FM, Cartersvilles Christian Voice, Brian, the station manager, and I talk briefly on the air. He tells his listeners to be watching for us coming north on 41 through Calhoun, Dalton, and into Chattanooga. Three firemen are sitting in the shade of a tree outside the Calhoun fire station as we wheel into town. They direct me to the Calhoun News Dispatch where editor Marty Cagle listens to the story of the Human Family Reunion. His photographer has gone to get a battery for the camera. I promise to come back for a picture after lunch, and one of the staff points the way to DDs. The rush hour has just ended. We are the center of attention as the three or four customers and cooks and waitresses give us their full attention. I feel good to my toes when they call me Ed. Without being asked. And without end. Dragging myself away for the last 20 miles of the day up 41 to Dalton is hard. Harder still it would have been had I known the road narrowed and trucks roar by inches away in unending succession. The last few miles into Dalton the highway is lined to either side with carpet mills, carpet showrooms, carpet stores. Carpet trucks and carpet
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movers wander in-and-out, up-and-down the shoulders. A swivel neck is mandatory survival equipment. A little after four oclock, the traffic dramatically thickens. Shift change at the mills! The cook at the restaurant where we later eat dinner tells us that the rush hour on 41 is from 5-9 in the morning and 3-6 in the evening. The cook and our waitress have just moved to Dalton from Clay County, Kentucky. Theres no work at home. Here theres help wanted signs up everywhere. For as much as five dollars an hour. Bob and Jean hit some loose gravel about 10 miles out of Dalton. When a semi passes closer than Bob likes, he takes to the shoulder. That big gravel would have upset a skinny tired racing bike, but those 27x1&3/8 tandem tires bring them to an upright stop. I am several miles ahead when this happens, and Bob needs to sit for awhile and collect himself. At our next meeting, after I have waited quite a while, Bob asks me not to wait again. Ride on into Dalton and do what you need to. Its about 4:30 when I find the newspaper office. Everyone is busy, but they take time to hear me out. As we finish, I ask for the nearest church. The Methodist church is two blocks south; the Baptist Church, three blocks north. Two secretaries are on duty at the Methodist Church. We dont have authority for anything like that, they say. Theres a Presbyterian and a Baptist Church just up the street. Their ministers may still be there. At the Baptist Church I run up and down a maze of hallways until I find a young man. He says the pastor is out. But he looks in rooms until he finds a woman who works there. The woman doesnt identify her capacity, but she is very helpful. She takes me down another series of hallways and to a long corridor that comes eventually to a long counter. Behind the long counter stands a young woman eating a baked potato. To my left stands a bank of drink and food machines. To my right, I catch sight of a gym when a young man in shorts steps through the door. The nice person who brought me to the woman with the pota-
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to asks her to call the minister of recreation and ask him to help me. When he is on the line, she hands me the phone. I explain my need of food and lodging. He suggest the Salvation Army. We would like to visit with church people. Is there some way we can do that? I ask If it was earlier, we might be able to arrange something. But at this time, theres not anything else we can do. I assure him we will be okay. I thank him. And hang up. Did he help you? the potato lady asks. Not really I say. But well be fine. Thank you for trying. Which way do I get out? She directs me down a new set of hallways, bringing me out into a vast parking lot many turns removed from my bicycle and the door I had entered. At a convenience store across the street, I ask a departing customer for the police station. When I arrive, I first ask them to find Bob and Jean. I havent seen them in over an hour and dont know where to find them. In a matter of minutes, the woman officer knocks on the bullet proof glass she works behind to summon me from the chair where she has asked me to wait. Weve found your friends. Theyre bringin em in. Bob and Jean appear shortly. Then I ask the woman officer working at an unprotected desk just inside the main door if she could help us find a room and some food. Call Larry Stiles at the Open Door Mission. He can put up both you men, but not the woman. I call. She is right. And he has no place for our bicycles. An attractive young woman waiting for a friend to be released from jail is sitting a few feet away and overhears my phone conversation. My husband, Lamar, is right outside just now talking to your friends about a mission we know. I think they can help. Lamar calls his friend, then puts me on the phone. The young woman on the other end wants to help, but they have no provision for both sexes. Call Joe Hayes on Old Grade Road. she says. He runs Home Town Ministries. Hell help you. But if that dudn work, yall
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call me back, and well finja somethin. I find Joes number in the phone book. He has just gotten in from helping someone move, and he is scheduled shortly to appear at the jail to teach a Bible study. As we talk, Joe is also carrying on a conversation with someone in the room with him about the help they need. Quickly I tell Joe about our need. At his response, I laugh so hard I almost drop the phone. Meet me in 20 minutes at San Quentin, he says. Are you kidding? From jail to San Quentin, quick as a wink? Well, folks around here just call it Quentin. Dont think anything about it. Its a nice motel. And as for food, I could bring you somethin from the church pantry. Please dont. After all day on a bike, a room and a shower are the important things. Well manage for food. Twenty minutes later, Joes little blue pickup pulls into the San Quentin parking lot. A smiling man in his early thirties steps out and over to us. Are you a Christian? Joe had asked me on the phone. A born again Christian? he followed with when I said yes. Do you have a Bible with you? Joe wondered. We travel light. I have writing paper. After Joe registers us into room 221 and we step back into the parking lot, he gives each of us a little booklet of scripture. Remember to pray for me tonight, Joe says. And let me know how all this turns out after you finish your ride. Each of us hugs Joe. I had first spoken to him half an hour ago. Had met him five minutes ago. But he has delivered the Christian message to three people in need. While I had been talking to Joe on the phone from the police station, the attractive young woman waiting for a friend to be released was telling Jean that the church Joe belongs to had sold its large and ornate building so they could devote more of their time and money to meeting the needs of people. After Joe leaves, Bob, Jean, and I go across the highway to the Ranch House Restaurant. Its seven oclock as we enter and
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M.A.S.H. is just coming on. We take seats at the counter so we can watch as we eat. One of Carols friends from the Center for Disease Control back in Atlanta had told me that the single most important thing for me to do in order to complete my ride is to maintain body weight. So tonight is insurance time: a heaping plate of spaghetti with meat sauce, fried okra, fried squash, a roll, pecan pie, two pieces of chocolate pie, and a pitcher of ice tea. Bob picks up the check. I told him he wouldnt be any trouble on this trip. Jean and Bob are both asleep by nine. I write for a while before I turn in. Seems only minutes before I hear birds chirping and light is streaming in the window. I look at my watch: 1:11. What? I stumble to the window and open the curtain. A giant florescent light in full illumination gives the luster of mid-day to the whole outdoors and our room. The birds are prematurely welcoming the dawn. I doze. Is Ed awake? I hear Bob ask Jean. Yes. And I look at my watch. Have you done your exercises? Bob wants to know. Its only 3:20, I reply. No, your watch must have stopped. Look how light it is. Listen to those birds. Jean turns on the light; Bob finds his watch. What? Youre right. Bob is incredulous. And asleep again in two minutes. Not me. My exercise routine is over by 4:30. I pull out my little spiral notebook and begin to write. I was deeply touched by Joe Hayes unselfish and cheerful assistance tonight. So were Bob and Jean. That young man is gonna get his money back for this room when we get home, Boy tells me. I want him t know how moved I was. And I want him to have more money to help others. From Cartersville yesterday morning, I called the newspaper and TV in Chattanooga. I dont have a publicity budget or an advance crew to go before me, but Im not willing to let the Human Family Reunion take a back seat to the lesser but better financed
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causes that saturate the media. I also called the mayors office and the chief of police so the Reunion will have official recognition and a little more attention. Now Im anxious for the sun to actually be up so we can begin our 30 mile ride into Chattanooga. I promised John Shearer at the News Free Press that I would arrive before noon for a picture. Out of Dalton at 6:30, the sun is not yet up over the mountains for our short ride to Rockey Face. The forested mountains appear black velvet and ring the road on every side. Breakfast at the Cracker Barrel is ample and country in a citified way.
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From 10 miles out of Chattanooga, I call John Shearer at the Free-Press for directions. He says to take the tunnel under East Ridge. But when we I get there, I discover its illegal to ride a bicycle through the tunnel. Another call to John gets directions up and over the ridge. Bob and Jean are several miles behind, so I sit in a grassy spot in the shade of a pole, watching for their approach. If I wait too long, I wont get to the newspaper before noon. And the Human Family Reunion wont make the afternoon paper. If I dont wait, no telling when we will find each other. I wait 20 minutes. I told Bob this morning to call the chief of police if we get separated. We will get to see how that works, because Bob and Jean havent come when I have to leave. After a spectacular ride along Crest Drive overlooking Chatagoona, winding round and round the top of the mountain, I ask a man standing in his driveway for directions. I get to the paper shortly after eleven oclock. John is sitting at his desk on the second floor of the big brick newspaper building at the corner of two busy streets in downtown Chatagoona. Surrounded by desks and other reporters, we talk for awhile. Then we walk back to the cafeteria and fill our plates and return to Johns desk to wait for Bob and Jean. I filled my plate mostly with salad, and a giant handful of
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those large green grapes. Grapes are highly prized by bikers. They are full of juice and natural sugar. All the time Im eating my vegetables, Im eyeing those grapes. Finally I reach for one, toss it to the back of my mouth, sink my teeth into it, and wait for that sweet nectar to caress its way down my throat. Instead? Vinegar. I gag. And come straight up out of my chair. Those grapes are pickles! At that moment, Jean and Bob walk through the big double doors and toward us. They look hot and wilted. And in need of a friend. You two need something cool and refreshing, I say, have some grapes. Craig Hoffman, from WRCB, TV 3, calls while John and I are talking. He comes to the paper and does an interview for showing tonight. The first thing Craig wants to talk about is my having M.S. What do I say after I say Ive got it? The disease is so variable that my experience has no particular relevance to anyone else who has it. But the Human Family Reunion is relevant to every member of the family. Thats what I want to talk about. Everywhere. All the time. This early in the ride, though, Ive realized that if I didnt have Multiple Sclerosis, not many of these reporters would be interested in talking to me. I wouldnt be newsworthy. So as much as I would like to be free of this illness, I know that its getting an audience for a message I had before I had M.S. And I was not able to get this kind of hearing for the Human Family Reunion before. From the Visitors Bureau in downtown Chattanooga I call the Hamilton County Baptist Association, a suggestion made to me by the helpful lady at the desk. If nothing else works out, she invites me to Ridgedale Baptist, her church, for the evening service The Missions Director in the Association office gives me the names of three ministers. Bryan Reed is the first one who is in. Youth and Family Minister at Central Baptist Church, Bryan eagerly agrees to let me speak to the youth, to feed me at the Wednesday night supper, and to find me a place to sleep. Central Baptist is some 10 miles from downtown. And through
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a tunnel. No sign is posted prohibiting bikes, but traffic is heavy. So I take to the walkway. Barely wide enough for an ordinary bike, the walkway comes nowhere close to accommodating the stuffed rear panniers on my bike. Twice I have to stand the bike up on the back wheel and push hard against the seat to get through the tight spaces where cars have hit the metal guard rail, narrowing the clearance even more. As I do so, I hear the canvas sides of the right rear pannier rub against the rough and dirty concrete. Inching my feet sideways, I finally shuffle through the tunnel: forty-five minutes of carbon monoxide, two lanes of cars and trucks roaring by just to my left, and too little light to see what Im doing. Im covered with grime from head to toe. Under the shade of a tree beside a small gas station, I inspect the bike to see if Ive damaged anything that makes it inoperable. I havent, but the two inch slit in the bulging pannier pocket where I keep my bike chain and lock makes me sick. Its the first mark on my bike or my gear. I arrive at Central Baptist without further incident. Bryan makes me feel at home from the moment we meet. He and his wife, Dollie, have been two years at Central, eight years in Tennessee, both originally having come from Kansas. Following a long and leisurely dinner, we go upstairs where Bryan lets me speak to his young people, a group of 25 or so boys and girls from the seventh grade through high school. Their attention is total. Not a whisper do I hear. Eye contact is intense. The boys pour over my bike when Im finished and we dismiss. Several girls speak encouraging and appreciative words as we leave. The Lord has provided you a place for the night, Bryan says as we end. In probably the nicest home in our church. Bill and Jan Pierce drive me to their beautiful home in East Brainerd, a wooded and rolling area miles from the church, 14 miles from Chattanooga. Their red brick home with tall and white Grecian columns to either side of the entryway sits atop a hill to my left as we make a final right turn onto their street. A panoramic view of luxurious homes, lush greenry and distant mountains seizes my attention as we walk to their front door. The interior of their home
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is filled with natural woods and comfortable furniture. A major purpose of this ride is to meet people and to spend time with them. Bob and Jean have been feeling they are preventing this. So when I called the church from the Visitors Center, they decided to stay at the Sheraton we could see not far away. Ill meet them there in the morning, after the Pierces son, Tim, takes me back to the church to get my bike and shows me how to pedal up and over Missionary Ridge in order to avoid that tunnel. Bill gets out his maps when I mention heading for McMinnville from here. He spends half an hour explaining the best route and describing the steep grades well face. Bill even calls his dad long distance to make sure he is giving me the best advice. Then I call Zora. And everything changes. Zora Chastain Baldwin wrote to me last April after reading about my ride in the state Baptist paper of Tennessee. If youre coming anywhere near McMinnville, she said, I want you to come spend some time with us so you can meet my brother, Ed Chastain. When I looked on the map and saw that McMinnville was only 80 miles out of the way, I wrote Zora to tell her to set a place for me. But Im in Chattagoona four days earlier than I had planned. So I call Zora to tell her Ill get to her place this week instead of next. But Zora has had it written up in the paper that Ill be there next week and will speak Wednesday night to a community gathering. So, on the spot, I change my plans. Sorry, Bill, all that trouble, and now Ill be going on to Nashville first. Zora needs me in McMinnville next week, and she said she would drive to Nashville to pick me up. I couldnt say no to her. I made a pledge to myself early in the planning of this ride that I would never say no to offers of help or suggestions about route and schedule. If Im to be dependent on people by asking for their help, they have a right to have their help accepted. I have no right to say no, even if I havent asked for what theyre offering. This ride is an organic, living thing. Like a Banyan tree, it takes root wherever it touches and grows in whatever direction it wishes. Im not in charge. The people I meet are in charge.
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Back to the maps. And a new plan. Bob, Jean, and I will head up 41 tomorrow toward Nashville, probably spend the night at Mounteagle, ending that 50 mile day with the seven mile switchback ascent of Mounteagle that people keep trying to scare us with. Mounteagle stops all the northern fronts from dumping snow on Chattagoona, Bill says, that mountain will get six inches; well get a few flakes. All our weather comes up from the south. From Mounteagle to Murfreesboro is another 50, and our second night, leaving 30 more miles into Nashville on Saturday. Bob and Jean will fly home. Ill stay in Nashville until late Monday or early Tuesday. Zora will have someone drive the 70 miles from McMinnville to get my bike and me and take us to their farm near Shellford, about five miles out of McMinnville. Tim is a sophomore at the University of Tennesse Chattanooga. He drives me to breakfast at Shoneys and buys breakfast for the two of us, then back to the church to get my bike. By 8:45 Im on the road downtown to find Bob and Jean. I go wrong with the directions Tim gave me, ride three times as far as I should, ask directions of three people, change course several times and get to Bob and Jean about 10:15. Someone told Bob about a bike shop not far from their hotel, and Bob insists that we stop by there to pick up a mirror for my helmet. Ive been riding without one since it broke that night Mac and I ate dinner with First Baptist in Thomasville, Georgia. That handlebar mirror Iver been using since is bigger, but I can hardly ever get it positioned so it picks up traffic before it overtakes me. Overhead birds, tall trees, blue sky all come in bright and clear. But the bike shop doesnt have the mirror. The owner does have advice about riding up Mounteagle and stories about semis that lose their brakes coming down. He thinks construction has one side of the highway closed, all traffic merging into the one lane still open. Bikers have to be alert, he concludes. Its a roller coaster road strung out over hill and dale that wends its way northwest out of Chattagoona like a gray ribbon pulled through green velvet. A profusion of plant life in more
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shades of green than the dictionary has names for borders the road, growing around and over and through the pavement in its never ending struggle to reclaim this barren strip dedicated to motor vehicles. A bicycle affords long looks. So slow the pace, so unhindered and panoramic the view, cycling is more like being there than its like transit. And the quiet is cathedral-like. The only sound I hear is the sound that would be here if I were not. Listen. A bass staccato rumble. A high pitched off-key counterpoint. Frogs and locusts, a natural stereophonic symphony as we labor up the long, unrelenting grade of state highway 41, just before it parts company with the interstate. At the crest, the music vanishes, replaced by the roar of rushing wind as we plummet down the mountain at better than eight time our speed of ascent. All day long we labor ever upward. Occasionally our senses trick us into thinking we are going down when actually we are going up. Gearing quickly correct the apparition, as we shift down to avoid as complete stop. Just out of Guild we cross the Tennessee River. Half-a-mile beyond the bridge, we wheel into a restaurant for a hot meal. We had been rained on back a piece; so cold, wet, and hungry, we plop down at a table and order everything in sight. In the newspaper rack in front of the restaurant is the Chattanooga paper. With a quarter Bob gives me, I get the story John Shearer wrote about my ride. And while we eat, we read. John was paying more attention than I knew. In the third and forth paragraphs of his story, he precisely describes the purposes of my ride. The purpose, Ed said, is to encourage people who have any problem to fight those problems, not to give up. Also it is to encourage people to get to know people who are not like them and to show them how easy it is, he said. But something John says further into his story describes a thing he saw me do as we sat talking at his desk, a thing I was not even conscious of, but a thing John thought his readers should know. John is quoting what I told him about the ride, and at the end, he makes an observation. I average about 50 miles a day. I try to
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get to town about three oclock every afternoon to meet people and to tell them what Im doing, he said. Actually, the ride itself is just a way to get from place to place and meet people, he added, in between loud and friendly hellos to everyone within sight. (Emphasis added.) How often, I wonder as I reflect on Johns observation of my unconscious behavior, are we consistent in the messages we give people? And Im grateful that what he picked up on in those spontaneous greetings served to reinforce the message I planned to deliver. On the road again. Seems appropriate in Tennessee to think of Willie Nelson. From what I know of Willie, he would get a bunch of good songs from all of this. Heres to you, Willie. To free spirits. And open roads. To life. Lahiem! All day long weve been getting conflicting information on the route up Mounteagle. In Jasper we get the last word from a woman in a pickup at the Dairy Bar; thus, we turn left out of Jasper to follow highway 41. For the next 90 minutes that seem like a week, we round curve after long curve at a constant climb that reduces us to granny gear, a top speed of four miles an hour, and a spinning of the pedals at a pace that releases torrents of sweat from every possible pore. Twice I wind up walking, interspersed between rests and gulps of water from my bottles. When I reach what I desperately hope is a final leveling of that monster mountain, I drag myself back on that bike, cursing myself for having thought of such a stupid thing to do. Finally! A store off to my left. An oasis I cannot pass. I rush in. And for two quarts of orange juice and a Gatorade, I plop down a sizable portion of the $10.00 someone gave me at the church in Chatagoona. As I gulp those drinks, I breathlessly try to answer store owner, Ron Nunleys questions. After a few minutes, I sneak outside and sink down in a heap beside my bicycle to wait for Bob and Jean, still out on the mountain. When energy enough to move has returned, I unzip the pocket on my bike bag where I keep my journal. Its not there! Quickly I undo all the pockets. Still no journal. Panic sets in.
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Losing my journal would be like not having made the ride: I would have no details to build my stories around. Hold on, I tell myself. I write in that journal several times a day. Think. When was the last time? The phone booth back at the Jasper Dairy Bar. I had tried to call John Shearer to thank him for the story. I rush back into the store. Can I use your phone to call Jasper? Is it long-distance? Just local, Vicki Nunley answers. Mary Pickett picks up the phone at the Dairy Bar. She sends someone to check the phone booth. Yes, your book is here. How to get it? Im not about to bike down that mountain. Id never get up again. I call the sheriff in Jasper. Id like to help, he says, but we just had a big fire and three auto thefts. I cant spare the men. I thank the sheriff; then turn to the yellow pages to find a taxi. No luck. Jasper has no taxi. I call Mary back and ask if someone at the Dairy Bar can bring my journal up to Mountain Mart, my present location. Mary says theres no one there to do it. Just then, Ron Nunley motions to me. My son will take you. And he points to a topless jeep where a barefoot boy waits. I strap myself in for the long ride. How far? I ask young Ron. About three miles, he answers. I thought it was a hundred. We are there in five minutes. I run in. A smiling Mary hands me my journal as her four young co-workers beam. I promise her a book when my journal becomes one. And I offer her the copy of todays Chatagoona Free Press Id gotten when we stopped for lunch, the one with another Jim and Tammy Faye Baker story on the front page and my bike ride on page B-6. Ron Jr. has that jeep back up the mountain in less time than it usually takes me to get on my bike. I give both Rons a poster and a card. The poster is a 10x17 black and white glossy showing my route and schedule, across the bottom proclaiming, America is an
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Italian name, and paid for by Marion Trozzolo, a Kansas City businessman. In the middle of the business card sits a bicycle; the card reads,The Pedalin Prof and his Thinkin Machine, from the College of Excellence, Ed Chasteen. Rain threatens as we prepare to leave for the final 10 miles of the day into Tracy City. In case we get caught by the rain and have to hole up at Foster Falls, three miles away, we ask Vicki to fix us each one of the bologna sandwiches with the works that Jean had watched her make earlier for others. Theyre on the house, Vicki says when she finishes and puts them each in separate bags. By now, Bob and Jean, and I are talking to everyone in the store. As we pull ourselves away, C.J. calls to me. Bless you, my friend. Keep up the good work. We make it to Tracy City. The car theft capital of the world, according to the sheriffs deputy who talks to us as we stand on the lawn in front of the combination city hall, police station and library. While we are talking, Mayor Mike Price walks up. He says we can sleep in the council chambers across the hall from the jail. The jail is empty. We can shower where the prisoners would. We can use the cellblock phone. Hey, Bobbie, were in jail in the car theft capital of the world. I wish I could see her face as I tell her this. Im calling on the cellblock phone the sergeant said I could use. One phone call. And I chose you. Wadd-ya say? Where are you really? She asks. After the phone call, we plunk a few coins in the drink machine, then walk across the street to sit on the porch of a closed bakery and ice cream shop where we unwrap those sandwiches we carried down the mountain. Bologna never tasted so good. Were in no rush to finish our meal. We are bone tired. And this town has a Norman Rockwell charm. Watching an occasional car pass, talking to the few people we see, we are content to sit and let the dark slowly swallow us. Finally we mosey back across the street where we stretch out on the carpeted floor and sleep.
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Thinking back to yesterday two things dominate: one physical, one spiritual. The physical was my bicycle assault on Mounteagle. To have done it gives me now, some 12 hours later, a sense of being able to conquer, of winning against all odds. I anticipate repetitions of that feeling all summer all across the country. The spiritual was my reaction when I discovered my journal missing. I felt no panic. None! And that journal was more precious to me than diamonds. Rather than panic, I felt a giddy glee. Here was a new problem to slove. Could I do it? Could I recover my journal while remaining calm and kind, teaching any who might be observing how to handle their own problems? Now that its the next morning, I feel a deep and pervading peace and joy that will not let me go. A personal heaven on earth. As we leave our city-hall-jail-motel the next morning, a new Bronco truck, stolen and totalled during the night, lurks on the lawn where the recovering officers have put it, right next to the traffic light monument dedicated to Charlie Fults, who erected the nations first traffic light in Tracy City. Or so were told. And the monument is inscribed. After a double order of biscuits and gravy, three large glasses of orange juice and enough local flavor to background Charles Curalt, the three of us pedal away from Annes Cafe, to plummet down the mountain to the valley floor and Manchester, 20 miles away. Its a little before 7 A.M. when we leave Tracy. I plan to pedal till nine, then stop at the first church I come to so I can call Nashville to arrange TV and newspaper coverage, someone to pick us up at the edge of town and, hopefully, one or more churches to speak in. At a few minutes before nine, I spot it: First Baptist Church of Hillsboro. At the parsonage next door, I find pastor Martin Bowlin working on a disassembled vacuum cleaner in his basement. We take an instant liking to one another. He shows me to his study in the church where I spend more than an hour on the phone setting everything up.
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Jean and Bob catch up with me in Martins study. (I had left my bike in front of the church so they would see it.) They leave after just a few minutes. I will find them in Manchester when I have finished. But I cant. I do find the police department on the second floor of city hall. While they search for Bob and Jean, I make more calls. After an hour, they havent found them. Im heading up 41 to Nashville. If you see em, tell em. I am a couple of miles out of town when a police car pulls up behind me. We found your friends back at 55 and 41. Theyll be here in a minute. They appear shortly. Somehow I missed their bike back in town. They had stopped to eat and to wait on me. About 1:30, we wheel into the gravel driveway of Grannys Restaurant, having just come over two of the steepest grades since Mounteagle. For an hour and a half we eat and drink and cool. And wait on Grannys pie to come out of the oven. Three generations of women man the place: Granny, daughter and grand daughter. Granny has 17 grandchildren. All live within two miles. Several call on the phone while we eat. Our bill for ther three of us comes to $4.73. Granny gives the bill to Bob, who by now Im calling Dad. Paycheck-sixpack-time! Ive never heard the phrase, and when Jean says it several times after we leave Grannys, I love it instantly. What better description could the bard himself devise for the eruption of traffic at 4:30 on Friday afternoon. Definitely not prime biking time, ranking just ahead of attempted suicide and high wire walking. The noise and speed and smell of traffic is suddenly overpowering, and Bob and Jean decide to sit it out. But I figure I better get into town before all the people are gone and things are locked up for the weekend. So I leave Bob and Jean about three miles out of Murfreesboro, promising to find a place for the night, then to find them. When I come to the city limit sign a little later, there is little traffic. But that sign has sprouted here recently. What I think to be fields of rye grow all around. As I draw closer, big yellow caterpil-
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lars sit in scraped-clean fields. A little closer to town, newly minted homes have become the cash crop. Suddenly bedlam breaks loose. The decibel level runs off the scale as vehicles of all types come from everywhere. All at me. Im in town. Not a big town. But the wrong time. Its paycheck-sixpacktime. Bicyclists beware. The South Central Office of State Farm Insurance heaves into view off to my right. To negotiate any leftward movement in this sea of traffic would have been suicidal. So I pull into the State Farm parking lot and sit down under a tree. Im nervously eying traffic and an approaching thunder storm when a young black man runs up. My names Gideon. Can you help me? How? My car quit. I need to push it in a parking place. In the five minutes it takes us to run to his car and push it into a parking place, I tell Gideon what Im doing and why. I get off at 10:30 tonight. Youre welcome to stay with me. He says. Gideon is on his way to a job he hasnt had long. He has two room mates and no extra beds. We cant ride our bikes after dark. But I can feel the sincerity of his offer. I never turn down anybodys offer, Gideon. But I dont know if I can find my friends and then find your house in the dark. Ill try. And I love you for offering. But if we dont make it, please know that well find a place. And Ill call to let you know so you wont worry about us. Gideon dashes his address and phone number in my journal before he runs off to work on foot. I sit down under the tree, hoping Bob hasnt turned off 41, hoping he can manage the traffic, and that the thunder I hear rumbling means nothing. Up the street I see a motel. In a few minutes, Im explaining myself to the desk clerk. I tell him to say no if he can. He does. Id like to help, but Im just the desk clerk. The managers not here. He tells me where the police station is. And as I try to find it, thunder growls, dark purple clouds swirl and twist in a cauldron
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stirred by the wicked witch of the west. I pray there will be no lightning. Visions of lightning bolts dance in my head as I think of the cyclist I read about who was literally fried on such an occasion as this. When I get to the police station, Bob and Jean have been there and have left the name of their motel. With a quarter the desk sergeant gives me, I call and tell them not to worry: Ill find a place. They want me to come stay with them. I cant. Thats too safe. And there are people still to meet. The sergeant meanwhile has gotten a name and number from somewhere. He calls. Reverend Bunch says hell be down at 7:30 (its 6:45 now) to let me in the mission. Captain Bill Todd leads me in his patrol car to West Main Mission, just a few blocks from the station. Before he leaves me there and pulls away, he points out the laundromat next door and says if the weather gets too rough before the preacher comes, I can go there. I choose to stay on the street where I can see more. Clay Lawrence wanders over shortly and begins to talk. He has lived in Murfreesboro all his 63 years. For the past twelve years, he has worked two jobs: as school janitor during the day; as manager of the laundromat from 4 to 9 p.m. He doesnt want to retire when hes 65, thinks hell sit down and die if he does. Murfreesboros growing fast. Soon Clay expects his old farm home to be taken in by the city. The new Nissan plant in Smyrna, 12 miles away, opened four or five years ago, and brought a lot of people. The new Chrysler plant will too. A bunch of Mexican men live in a nearby motel and work in construction, building all the new plants and all the new houses. Clay cant understand them when they come in the laundromat and wouldnt know if they wuz cussin me out. Three black boys about 12 walk toward us. Clay says they give him some trouble now and then in the laundromat. They stop to admire my bike: Thats a bad bike, man. Where ya goin? California, I say, Disneyland. Youre not, says one. I explain how everything works, to murmurs of admiration for
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a beautiful machine. You better lock this up. Someonell steal it. I will, I tell them. When the preacher comes. Whatre your names? Rodriguez, says the nearest. Eddie, say the next. Tony, says the third. All are laughing. Whats so funny? I ask. Rodriguez speaks. My names not Rodriguez. I lied. My names Chuck. Whatre you fellas doin this summer? Swimmin, they say, almost in unison, as they run off toward home. Better hurry; youll be swimmin tonight. Roy Bunch drives up just then in his pickup. Roy is a former Southern Baptist preacher. He attended Ouachita Baptist College in Arkadelphia, Arkansas for two years, knows my boyhood pastor I discover as we talk, and the head of the religion department at William Jewell. Roys wife is from St. Joseph, Missouri, just 60 miles from Liberty. And Roy knows my college, one of the few people Ive found who ever heard of the place. Mac had been amazed on our ride from Orlando to Atlanta that the people we met had not heard of William Jewell. Macs son was graduating from Jewell during our ride, and Mac gave serious thought to staying at home to attend. So when he told people about Jewell, he wanted them to be as proud of the place as he is. Until a few years ago, Roy was a school counselor. But I gave all that up to start this mission. And now Im on 24 hour call. Roy had been sitting down to eat when I called. He drove 20 miles from Smyrna to let me in. And back again after we talk for a while Im the only one here tonight. Its clean. Nicer than some motels Ive stayed in. Towels, food, the works. Roy shows me how to leave in the morning by the back door. And when he leaves by the front door, I hear it lock behind him. Im now cut off from the supplies in that part of the building. And from the phone. I understand
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the reason. But still, I feel strange; somehow, less. And I know some people have to live with this feeling. I told Jean Id call at 9:30 to let them know Im okay and promised Gideon Id call him at 11 to let him know where we were. Now, I cant do either. And I think how people get blamed when they dont keep their word. Sometimes they cant help it Yesterday the college sent my check to the bank. Yet here I am without a cent. But there is no way to buy the excitement and adventure Im having. Having to depend on the goodness of strangers, needing in a moment of conversation to reach that goodness at the core of their being, a goodness that wants desperately to escape but is afraid of being hurt, a goodness now so shy and timid, so weak from lack of exercise that it barely is alive, a goodness that, if expressed, may embarrass themto depend totally upon that goodness being there and somehow dominating our brief encounter gives me a simultaneous sense of power and joy like nothing Ive ever known in my life before. But something I must have again. And again. And always. Money interferes. I rely on it rather than on the person Im talking to; the person focuses on my money rather than me. I cant let that happen. As physically demanding as this trip is, there is a greater demand. As I depend on my body to meet the physical requirements; I must rely on each person I meet to satisfy the spiritual, theirs and mine. By suddenly appearing in their lives and asking something of them, I force them to a decision. That is the gift I give to them. Who knows how that gift will affect their lives and mine? No one knows! Only time can tell. If I dont ask, neither their life nor mine will have that blessed opportunity for flowering. Sandy DeBoer picks us up in the parking lot of Stevens Grocery on Antioch Pike as we enter the outskirts of Nashville at mid-afternoon on a Saturday; she takes us to her house. Sandy was a freshman at Jewell last year, but she has come home to Nashville for the summer and plans to attend a local college next year. Waiting for us with Sandy is Joyce Gorbaciak, a reporter from
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channel 5. We talk for a while, and Im touched by Joyces reaction. She responds with affirming words to my description of the Human Family Reunion and to my need to be active in spite of my problem. We spend the afternoon at the DeBoers tightening my bike and getting Bobs bike ready to box up and ship home. In the evening, Ramona, Sandys mother, takes me with her to a womans meeting at a black Methodist church. Entitled, Through the Year with Christ, the program focuses on a flower for every month and a lesson drawn from the flower and applied to the Christian life. At Antioch Methodist Church on Sunday morning with Del DeBoer, Sandys dad, we have breakfast; Del asks me to speak to his Sunday School class, too. Im not feeling very good about being a Baptist this morning. My reception in Baptist churches has been up and down, on balance a disappointment. In Chattanooga, it couldnt have been better. And I was looking forward to several days in Nashville, the Rome of Baptist life. From First Baptist Church in Hillsboro, Tennessee on Friday, I called the Nashville Baptist Association. To the woman who answered the phone, I quickly explained who I was, my need for food and lodging and a few words about the Human Family Reunion. I can put you in touch with the person who provides emergency food and lodging for up to three days, she said. ` Actually, thats not my major need in Nashville. I have friends I can stay with. Most of all, I would like to tell my story to a church. Could I speak to someone about that possibility? The man who takes care of that is not here. But I can let you speak to his assistant. For several minutes then, no sound comes over the phone. Then the same voice: I talked to Mr..____(I cant remember the name.) He said that on such short notice all the pastors had their Sundays planned. Could you give me some names to call? I ask. Without knowing your testimony, we couldnt do that. Thank you. Dont worry about me. Everything will work out.
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Thats when I call Sandy. She says she will pick me up and take me to her parents house on Saturday. Thats how I come to be in a Methodist Church this morning rather than a Baptist. When I mention to Del DeBoer that I expected to be in a Southern Baptist Church in Nashville because this is Baptist headquarters, he tells me that Nashville is also Methodist headquarters. Del invites me to speak to his Seekers Sunday School class. Then the pastor gives me a few minutes to explain my mission to the congregation during worship hour. The response of the entire church is so loving and supportive that I hate to see the noon hour come when I will have to leave Antioch Methodist Church. The DeBoer house is filled with people, good food, and talk after church. David DeBoer, 26 years old, a second year medial student, is here with Tina, his wife, a nurse. Romona and Dels daughter, Lynn, and her husband, Brian, students at Westmar College in Iowa, where Del and Romona met and graduated, are here with Curtis, their four month old son. Sandys sister, Sharon, is also here. Shes a recent college grad, now employed by a battered womans shelter. Sharons husband, Sam, loan officer for a major Tennessee lending institution, could not come for lunch, but does make it for supper. The Wallace Hutcherson family is here. Theyve been here both days Ive been here, and they were at church this morning. Del tell me that Wallace was architect for their new church building and has built a number of shopping centers around Nashville. A nursing student friend of Tinas is here for lunch. Both are in their nursing uniforms, and they run through a mock shot-giving session with young Jason Hutcherson as the patient. David DeBoer takes slides to be shown as a class project the two young women have been assigned. A long and leisurely lunch turns all too soon to evening and we return to church. While Ramona attends a meeting, I retire to the church office where I hunt-and-peck out a story of my ride I want to leave with these good people. After we get back to the DeBoers, I call Zora. She will pick me up tomorrow at 1:30 and take me to
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the Chastain family farm near McMinnville. Last Friday when I walked into the Manchester Police Station, the young woman at the desk said, I know you. A lady from McMinnville was in here yesterday asking if we had seen you. It was Zora. She was anxious for us to meet and drove the hundred mile round trip on the chance she could intercept us as we passed through Manchester. No luck. Now she will drive the 70 miles each way from McMinnville to Nashville tomorrow and pick me up at the DeBoers. Before Zora picks me up this afternoon, I need to visit the newspaper, call the Jewish Federation, Joyce Garbaciak at Channel 5, Wes Forbis at the Baptist Building and go see Ray Chastain at Vanderbuilt Rehabilation Institute. Del teaches math at Belmont College in Nashville. Belmont, like my college, William Jewell, is a Baptist college. Del drives me out to Belmonts campus where I meet three of his colleagues, one of whom volunteers to type a page for me. Then Del takes me to the Banner Press , where Katherine Bowma quizzes me at length. Katherine seems interested in my view of the Christian relation to Jews and Muslims. During our conversation, she says, Im a Christian. Later to Del she mentions her last name is Bowma, and she is from Iowa. Del and Katherine discover they are both from the same part of Iowa, each grew up in the Dutch Reform Church, and both are of Dutch ancestry. Katherine asks me for my doctors name at the Mayo Clinic. A little more than an hour later I get back to the DeBoers to find a note to call Walt Franz at the Mayo clinic. I call. Walt wants me to see a doctor in Nashville to make sure Im maintaining my weight. He will take it as a bad sign if Im not. Walt gives me the name of Dr. Lang Smith. Walt and Lang went to med school together at the University of Missouri. Walts a jogger. Langs a biker, with an office not two miles from the DeBoers. While Walt is on the phone, he mentions that a reporter just called him. How can Ed do this when M.S. patients are told not to get hot and to rest. That they cant be active? Thats what she asked
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me, says Walt. Because hes got a message to deliver, something he believes in so totally that he can over-ride his physical problems. He wont be stopped. Thats what I told her, Walt said. Lang Smith weighs me and takes my blood pressure: 169 lbs.; blood pressure, 136 over 74. Same as when I started. Instead of Zora, Lib shows up to get me. Elizabeth Lib Chastain is a retired army sergeant living back on the home place with her sister Zora and brother Ed. Zora had chores, and Lib agreed to come get me. We take the front wheel off my bike so we can get it in the trunk of Libs old Lincoln Town Car, and off we go at better than the speed limit. In Morrison, a few miles out of McMinnville, we meet Zora, who is waiting on grandson Jason to arrive with his bicycle so together we can make a grand entrance into McMinnville. When Jason hasnt arrived after the time Zora thinks its appropriate to wait, and the police car has, I jump on my bike for the short ride into town. The police escort drives just ahead of me: Lights flashing, oncoming cars pulling off the highway. And when I see big trucks braking and pulling onto the shoulder, I laugh with pure joy. So far in my ride, truckers have given me no problem, but I have made sure to give them wide berth. I never expected them to leave the road to make room for me. For the last 16 years Lib has been a county commissioner of Warren County. Lib didnt get to be a sergeant or a commissioner by being retiring or shy, and I suspect her pull got the police escort. But I feel important riding into a strange town in such dramatic fashion, especially when we go right through a red light. At the Warren County Courthouse on the square in McMinnville, Jason and his mother are waiting for us. After some picture taking, Jason and I ride our bikes out to the Chastain farm, about five miles from town. Zora had talked the editor at the paper into putting my picture and a big story on the front page last Friday. As a result, several people call to me as we ride by. A quarter mile from the Chastain farm
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a young woman and two children wave: We heard you were coming. Were kin to the Chastains, too. I had felt at home with Lib the moment she stepped out of the car back in Nashville. She talks loud and a lot, as unpretentious and open as anyone I ever met. When I walk into the Chastain farmhouse home, it has Libs character stamped all over it. Sister Zora and brother Ed, though much quieter, are cut from the same cloth. Ed and I talk for almost two hours after dinner. Chores had kept Ed from eating with us, but Im still at the table when he comes to supper. Ed is up and milking at 5 oclock every morning. To the post office by 7 a.m. Ed drives his 102 mile, 449 box mail route. Home usually around three in the afternoon, Ed is milking again by four. His garden and other chores keep him busy till supper, usually after everyone else has eaten. And to bed by 8:30 so he can do it again the next day. Ed grew up on the place. Never married. And never moved. Four years back he took on a mail route to subsidize the farm life he loves. Without the extra money, I probly would have lost this place. Unemployment in Warren County is at 17%; the number of dairy farmers in the area has fallen from over 1,300 twenty years ago to just over 200 today. Eds only vacation in years was two years ago when he and two other mail carriers drove to the gulf for deep sea fishing, and back again in under three days. Ed is a deacon in Shellford Baptist Church, just up the road about a mile and down another one to the right about another mile. I was out of the church for years until I was in my 40s, Ed says, then the Lord brought me back. After an hours stretching and sitting quietly in the dark to prepare my mind for the new day, I slip out ot the house and onto my bike for a ride back into McMinnville and a leisurely tour of the town. Its a little before six, and I can see the light in the barn where Ed has been milking now for nearly an hour. As I ride through the awakening streets of McMinnville, see the patches of light and the knots of people in the just-opened cafes
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and catch the aroma of fresh donuts and coffee, Im reminded of Grovers Corner, the Gibbs hometown in Thornton Wilders Our Town, my favorite play in all the world. And I think, too, of Emilys question when she is allowed to return from the grave for a last look at Grovers Corner on a typical day: Does anyone ever realize life as they live it, every single minute? By the time I get back to the Chastain farm, Ive made a 25 mile reconnaissance of the area; its 9 a.m. and Im starving. Jason, 11, Jim, 10, and Miles, 6, are ready for the bike ride I promised Jason yesterday when he didnt get to ride far with me. As soon as I can wolf down some breakfast, the boys and I hit the road. Miles gets tired after a short distance. He falls several times, but hes a game little guy and doesnt want to quit. Finally his mother, Carol, picks him up in the car. Then the other two boys and I bike into McMinnville by a special way they show me, and stop for a pop at a little store; then we make our way back home. After lunch, Lib takes me in her car for a tour of the farm. As we conclude, we stop to see the headstones just west of the house in the family cemetery where several generations of the family are buried. Im startled to see CHASTEEN on most of the markers. Spelling of the name has varied from Chastain to Chasteen, Lib tells me. Both spellings are found on the dozen tombstones. Lib thinks that the spelling was changed back in the late eighteen hundreds. Not in a couple of generations has a Chastain been interred in the family plot. Lib, though, says that after her death and cremation, she wants to be buried here. I can understand her wish. Lib is a fountain of information about the Chastain-Chasteen family. With hardly a pause and never a note Lib has maintained a running commentary for the two days Ive known her. It would not be justice to separate Lib from the ancestors whose lives so energize hers. They never walked and talked together, but their bones can return to the earth together, enriching for eternity the same peculiar place on the planet they in succession called home. At the base of a big tree near the graveyard, shading it and the
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road that runs in front of the farm house, stands a small block-lettered sign declaring the Chastain place a Century farm, meaning it has been in the family for over a hundred years. Only a few such places remain in Warren County. The last few decades have seen droves of farmers leave the land, some pulled away by city work that offered a more secure income and at least the possibility of a thing called leisure time. Others were driven off the land by capricious nature, voracious bankers, just plain bad luck, and some poor decisions on their part. But the Chastains have held to this place. Ed, Zora, and Lib were young here. Now they are not young. But they are still here. A wide porch stretches across the front of the Chastain house and wraps around in a J shape to the bank of windows looking out upon the cemetery and the giant oak that shields the house from the afternoon sun. Several of Libs old army trunks sit on the porch with the appearance of permanent occupants of that space just in front of the windows of what is to be my bedroom. Through the screen door that slams shut behind me, I step into a combination antique shop and general store. Knick-knacks of various sizes, shapes, and colors sit to either side of the hall. Immediately to the right is the living room where sit Libs recliner, her telephone and TV On the far side of the living room to my right . as I stand in the hallway door is a door just behind Libs chair leading to the kitchen, a back porch and the bathroom. At the other end of the living room, directly across from the door from the hallway is the entrance to dining room. To my left off the hallway is the bedroom where I sleep, and through the hall from the front door is the stairway up which Ed disappears in early evening. It is a peaceful and comfortable house, a relaxed and sprawling affair that seems not so much to have been designed as to have grown. Zora has arranged with First Baptist Church of McMinnville for me to speak this evening at seven. An announcement on the front page of the local paper the previous Friday billed our gathering as a community meeting.
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When I get to the church, the crowd is not large. Some of those in attendance are from Shellford Baptist, where the Chastains attend, First Baptist, and one woman from Madison Baptist Church. I had hoped that people of all churches, and those who dont go to any, would come. That would have made me feel better about the Human Family Reunion potential. I suppose my dream is just that. But it wont let me go. And I cant let it go. The crowd is polite. They hear what I have to say, and seem pleased that one with a tie to one of theirs has come to call. Enthusiasm is not easily kindled where the spark has not been nurtured. It is a Grant Wood that life has carved into these good people. Stoic and solid and dependable, they are the backbone of the American character. I came to this place to meet Ed Chastain. Sharing a name, I thought maybe we could find a relative we shared. Such is the difficulty and ambiguity of graveyard detective work that I will leave this place knowing no more than when I arrived. No matter. I have felt at home here. We are related, whether or not any of these who lie in the ground we could have called father. My middle name is Ray. I would like to have met Eds brother, but at the time I am here in the home Ray was born into, Ray lies in a bed in Vanderbilt Rehabilitation Institute in Nashville, a recent stroke victim with a long recovery ahead. I had tried to see him there but could not. Elizabeth went away to the army in 1937. Retiring after 20 years, she has now lived again on the home place for 20 years. Lib never married. The hundreds of prize chickens she shows at fairs and teaches youngsters to raise occupy only a fraction of her boundless energy and enthusiasm. She drives like a bat out of. . ., the real reason I think she came after me rather than Zora. She has hundreds of molds for ceramic figures, and this very minute is out back supervising the construction of a building to house all of her ceramic periphenalia. Lib also is statistician for the McMinnville sports teams. She follows the Atlanta Braves religiously and can cite from memory a
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stream of sports trivia the envy of an encyclopedia maker. Lib hasnt been to bed in years. She sleeps in a reclining chair, dozes would be more accurate. Lib cant breathe well unless her head is elevated. So the chair in front of her cable television is where she spends her in-house hours. The light is never turned off; Lib is likely at any hour to be pursuing any of her many interests, not the least of which is talking on the phone, or to anybody by any means. Zora married. Daughter Marsha has one son; daughter Carol, two. When I asked in an early conversation if Zora were a widow, she said, Yes, a grass widow. He decided he wanted a divorce so he could marry another woman, and he did. Divorced now for 25 years or so, Zora has lived back on the home place and teaches in McMinnville schools. In another three years she will have her 30 years in and will retire. Marsha followed my footsteps, Zora tells me. Her husband stayed with her til Jason was born. Then he left them. Another half day here and I will be gone. But I leave feeling good that I share surname with this family. Im roaming the country, looking for the glue that holds America together. And finding parts of the formula nearly everywhere I go. For what I have found here the word endurance seems most appropriate. To reduce a family to a single word is never fair. Only by doing so, however, is the essence obvious. So Ed, Lib, Zora, Marsha, Carol, Jason, Miles: Heres to you. Endure is what you do most and best. I salute you. I thank you. I love you. Shortly after lunch, we load my bike into Zoras beige Lincoln, a slightly bigger trunk they think, and Lib takes me back to Nashville, actually to Goodletsville, where Wes and Ginger Forbis meet us in the parking lot of Bill Crooks grocery. Wes and Ginger have a beautiful home on a lake a few miles out of Goodletsville. Wes wants me to put my bike in their car, but I persuade him that I need to ride, and he gives me directions. I follow his instructions almost far enough, but underneath a railroad trestle, one road parts from another in a gentle curve and Im uncertain how I should interpret his straight ahead. A few miles further,
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a kind householder sets me right, and I arrive before they come looking for me. Wes has been gone from Jewell six years, and I always wondered why he left. Over supper at their outdoor grill, he tells me that back pain was making it impossible for him to conduct the choir. He had his back operated on while he was at Jewell. Altogether now, he has had two back operations and one each on a hip and a knee. He lives with pain. In his job with the Southern Baptist Convention, he directs the music program for the Convention. But he cant direct a choir. He misses it. And he misses Jewell. But you learn to adjust, and make something good out of it. Wes takes me with him this morning to his office at the Sunday School Board, where we go to chapel at 7:30. My presence and my project are announced to the gathering of several hundred people. A man about 35 comes up after the service to tell me he has had M.S. for 13 years. He works at the Sunday School Board and wants me to know he is doing fine. Then over breakfast, Terri Lackey interviews me for a story in the Baptist Press. She gets so excited about everthing Im saying that I cant stop, and I go on long after I know I should let her go. Wes has excused himself and gone back upstairs to his office, and still Im burning Terris ears with my non-stop monologue. I was planning to write a story this big, Terri says, holding her fingers about three inches apart. Now Ill have to write a book. After I get back to Wess office, I call two of the three synagogues in Nashville and arrange to go to services. Not much luck arranging for a place to stay: too short a notice, both rabbis say. So Ill play it by ear. Wes offers to let me spend a second night at his place, but I dont want to impose and I do want to meet other people. So Wes takes me to the Temple about three oclock. He is reluctant to leave me in the parking lot and drive away. After I assure him several times that Ill be okay, Wes makes sure I know his phone number and slowly pulls away. The rabbi is busy when I walk in, but he talks to me briefly
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and tells me I will be welcome in the evening service. After our conversation, I spend about half-an-hour out in the parking lot going over my bike to make sure everthing is tight. Then I bike up Broadway to First Avenue and the river. A couple of river-going ships are anchored here where the City of Nashville started. One of the ships has been taking tours up and down river for the past 18 years. On my way to and from the river, I pass the remodeled union station, where the trains used to stop. Its now a hotel. I pedal around it a couple of times so I can get a good look, all the while wishing that we could do something with our Union Station in Kansas city that would make it look as inviting. Riding back to the Temple, I make a brief stop at the West End Synagogue, where I meet Joe Cohen and Paulette Smith. They are very friendly, and they already have a BikeAmerica poster on their bulletin board. They got it from the Jewish Federation here in Nashville a few days ago, and they were hoping I would visit them when I came through town. Paulette is a member of First Presbyterian Church and a secretary at the synagogue. She is also a reporter for a small newspaper and asks me to tell her my story so she can write it up. Before I leave, Paulette gives me $2.00 and she and Joe invite me to come back in the morning for services. I get back to the Temple shortly after seven. Services start at eight, giving me time to find a safe place for my bike, change from my riding shorts and Eastern Airline T-shirt to my only pair of long pants (blue jeans), and my T-shirt that identifies me as the Ambassador from Second Baptist Church , Liberty, Mo. Im wearing this shirt every time I go into a religious community. It hardly ever fails to entice questions, giving me an opening to talk about my plans to visit with as many communities of faith across the country as possible. Rabbi Fuchs message this evening is called, My Philsophy of the Bar and Bat Mitzvah. The rabbi remembers his bar mitzvah, and in detail he uses his experience to guide his congregation in
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thinking about their approach to this time of great significance. For the week immediately before his bar mitzvah took place, Rabbi Fuchs was bragging how well he would do. The night before, though, he was so nervous he couldnt sleep. When he crept into his parents room late in the night for comfort, his father asked, Wheres the big shot now? One of the Rabbi Fuchs major goals is to restore the bar mitzvahs sacred stature. As he speaks, he reads from a popular novel a caricature of what the bar mitzvah has become: a cross between a Hollywood extravanganza and a trip to Disneyland, an event that frees the young boy or girl from further study of the Torah or attendance at the synagogue. The rabbi remembers his bar mitzvah, along with his wedding day, the birth of his three children, and his ordination, as the most significant days in his life. Symbolic gestures have immense impact. As sincere and sometimes impassioned as the rabbis word are, a little thing he does at the end of his sermon signals to me how deeply felt his words have been. And how likely he is to accomplish his goal. When the Torah is ready to return to the ark, the rabbi bounces down the steps from the pulpit into the congregation, and with what I can only describe as angelic glee, quickly chooses half-a-dozen young children to help him prepare the Torah for the ark. The children each perform a small and specific task, then return to their seats. As they rejoin their parents, I am sure I can detect in their bearing and in their faces a satisfaction with who they are that bodes well for the rabbis dream. As the service ends, Rabbi Fuchs announces my presence, speaks a few words of support, and suggests that people might want to speak to me during the social time to follow. We adjourn to another room, and to some beautiful sweets, cheeses, and fruits. No doubt traveling without money makes everthing look bigger and taste better. But its hard to imagine as I stand looking at that table, reaching like an octopus for every thing at once, that King Solomon in his temple ever felt so wealthy or so at peace. Leon Levy approaches, wanting to talk bicycles. Is that your
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bike in the cloak room? He asks. Leon has a Japanese racing bike and puts in about 20 miles a day, mostly mornings, before he begins his day as a salesman traveling Tennessee and Kentucky for Esprit sports clothes. Leon asks where I spend my nights. Funny you should ask, I say. With whoever invites me. Leon takes the hint. We put my bike in the trunk of his BMW for the short ride to his condo. Leon is divorced. He bought the condo three years ago, and says that girls he dates keep asking when hes going to fix the place up. Im doing it, he says, as I think its right and as I can afford it. Leon says women want to do everthing right now and complete. He doesnt work that way. Leons place: three floors, and not very wide. I sleep on the hide-a-bed on the third floor, a room Leon uses for an office: two phones, a computer, a microfisch reader, and a desk. Friends having marital problems sometimes stay here, Leon says. Hearing that, Im glad I called Bobbie earlier today and worked out plans for her to fly to St. Louis to meet me next weekend. Otherwise I wont see her all summer. I had talked to Walt Franz by phone during my stop at the West End Synagogue. St. Louis is my hometown, Walt said when I told him I would be there next week. I told him I had invited Bobbie to join me there and that she didnt want to stay in somebodys house. I asked if he could arrange something. He said he could. Ill call Kathy Davis at Eastern Airline and ask her to fly Bobbie to St. Louis. If Walt can arrange a place to stay, a car and some spending money, well be set. Leon and I have a bowl of cereal in his kitchen before I get on my bike for the short ride to West End Synagogue that Leon has mapped out for me. These early morning rides are invariably pleasant, hardly any traffic, and it may be only my imagination, but everybody and every thing seems friendlier, even the dogs. After hearing Rabbi Fuchs last night at the Temple long for the restoration of the bar mitzvah to a central place in the spiritual life of the Jewish community, its fitting this morning that the service is the
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bar mitzvah of Brian Allen Stein. This is a Conservative Synagogue and the service is in Hebrew. Brian chants the Haftorah as his bar mitzvah draws to a close, and he ends his reading from the Haftorah with an English commentary. Then Brian mentions his friend Igor Iosovich, a 13 year old boy who lives in Russia, whose family cannot practice Judiasm, and who is not allowed a bar mitzvah. In the program for his bar mitzvah, Brian has included a postcard addressed to Igor which he asks everyone to write a message on and mail. And for the last few months, Brian has sent letters to Igor explaining his preparation for and excitement about his impending bar mitzvah. The bar mitzvah lasts from 9:15 until noon. Rabbi Ross invites me to stay for the luncheon in Brians honor. Im hungry and flat broke, but I dont want to intrude on this special day in Brians life. I change back into shorts in the mens room and bike up the street toward the heart of the city. I come to a Wendys across the street from Centennial Park, where Bobbie and I brought the kids years ago to see the replica of the Parthenon. Up to this time, I have not stopped in any commercial establishment to ask for help on my bike trip, calling instead on churches, synagogues, and police departments. I prop my bike against the window so I can watch it and step inside. I tell the young woman what Im doing. I have no money, and Im hungry, I need a baked potato and a salad. She directs me the the manager who is sitting at a table near the door. Tell the cashier to fix you up and charge it to me, he says. After I have eaten, I go across the street to Centennial Park. I stretch out on the ground for a short nap. Then I sit watching halfa-dozen young men in knights armour club each other off under some trees about fifty yards away. Suddenly an excited young woman runs up to me to ask about my bicycle. Quickly she tells me that she has biked the Great Dismal Swamp off the Outer Bank of North Carolina and is planning to bike Nova Scotia. And I give her a quick report on my travels. Where are you staying tonight? she asks.
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When I say I dont know, she invites me to stay with her But I wont be home, she says. Ill draw you a map, and the key to my apartment is under the floormat in my brown Honda Prelude with Georgia license plates in the parking lot. Help youself to pasta in the refrigerator. There are fresh towels for your shower. Use the phone. Watch TV. Make yourself at home. How can you do this? How do you know I wont rip you off? Nobody whos been to the synagogue and is going to a Baptist Church tomorrow could be all bad. Besides, you look honest. A few hours later I find the key in Anne McRaes brown Honda and let myself into her apartment. I take her at her word about making myself at home. A hot shower and several plates of pasta, followed by stretching out on the couch, and Im thinking Anne is an angel. Early in the evening, Anne and Al pop in for a few minutes before leaving again to go to a costume party to benefit cancer research. Turns out Anne is a physical therapist at Baptist Hospital here in Nashville, and Al, the young man with the motorcycle they were on in the park, is a PhD graduate student in endocrinology at the University of Georgia; he plans a career in basic research and teaching. I had brought my bike up to Annes third floor apartment and leaned it against the railing outside her front door. When Anne and Al arrive, Anne insists I bring my bike inside. Hers rests against the wall just inside the door. I prop mine against the dining table. I leave Anne a note telling her she is an angel as I leave her apartment about 7 a.m. to bike the three and a half miles to First Baptist Church. Im to meet Wes in Bill Chaneys class at 9, where Wes has arranged for me have about 20 minutes to tell the men of that class my story. Im at the church by 10 minutes after 8, and I begin to look around for someone to talk to as I cruise the streets around the church. Hey, youve got the light, I hear someone call. As I glance overhead at the green light, I also notice the source of that voice. Just to my left, stretching up the block in single file, one behind the
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other, is a line of men. Poorly dressed, some bearded; a few on crutches; one or two sitting with legs stretched across the sidewalk, backs leaning against the building: a dozen or so men all together. Black and white, young and old. I pull away with the light, make the block and come back again. As I approach, I notice another group of similarly dressed men around a corner hidden from me earlier. They are just arriving from someplace, and moving to join the line. As I draw abreast of that line, I brake: Whats here? I ask. Coffee, replies the same young black man who had announced I had the light. But youre too late for breakfast. They stop servin at 8. After a few questions about my bike and learning that I travel without money, one of the men says I might still be able to get a bowl of cereal. Whered ya stay last night? One asks me. I found a friend in the park, I answer, who let me stay the night and fed me breakfast. How about you? We stayed at the Salvation Army, and he motions across the street to the familiar symbol Ive not seen until he points it out. Costs three dollars a night and you have to be gone by 7. Theres a lot of work in this town. The young black man has done all the talking so far. Good looking and about the best dressed, John is from California. Took him four months hopping freights to reach Nashville. An older, unshaven white man in a garish, green checkered coat saunters up, mumbling something John takes exception to. Kiss my foot, the man says to John. Cut it off, and get it up here where I can, John replies. Several have gathered around my bike now, offering advice on where I can get work and food. I point to the church behind me where I tell them Im going to meet a friend. I went there, says a young white man with a beautiful brown beard. I needed a prescription filled, and they did it for me. I speak briefly to each man I can make eye contact with. I
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arrive at a back door of the church a few minutes later, pull my bike inside where the greeter suggests, and go in search of room 303 where the big notebook on the table says Bill Chaneys class meets. As I am introduced, one of the men says he will need to leave before I finish to carry out obligations for the worship service. Another says the same thing. Neither leaves, and as I finish my story I ask them to help me figure out what is happening. I have no idea why Im doing this. All I know is that this thing is consuming me. Id be miserable if I werent here right now doing what Im doing. By way of answer, Lloyd Householder begins to sing, Farther along, well understand why. Something clicks: Thats it. The answer is waiting somewhere out there. Ive got to keep looking. Will I know it when I see it? The pastor announces my presence during the worship service and has me stand to say a few words to the thousand or so in attendance. After church several come up to talk. Lloyd introduces his son, Tom, as a biker and a college student. He asks if Tom may see my bike, and while we look at it, Lloyd invites me to lunch. I had first met Lloyd on Friday when I visited the Baptist Sunday School Board where Lloyd has worked for 27 years and currently heads the communication division. Over lunch, Lloyd, Rosemarie, his wife, Tom, and I talk about the upcoming Southern Baptist Convention in St. Louis in just a few days, Ive arranged my schedule so I can be there for the Jewell alumni reception on Wednesday evening and so I will have a place to meet John Philpot, a fellow Jewell faculty member who will ride across Missouri with me. Lloyd and I listen to one anothers perspective on the takeover of the S.B.C. by the fundamentalists, and we try to imagine what the mood of the St. Louis convention will be. And though Lloyd and I have never met before this weekend, we spend the better part of an hour bringing up names from our common Baptist past to see if the other knows them; more often than not, we do. After a leisurely lunch, I say reluctant goodbyes to the several
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people who have joined us as we ate, and Tom and Lloyd drive me in their van to the northern edge of Nashville, where I begin pedaling toward Clarksville, some 47 miles away. Five miles into my ride its nearing three oclock, and Im clipping along at a pace that will get me to Clarksville before six. Lloyd told me to get to First Baptist Church in time for the evening service. While Im pedaling, he will be calling the pastor to make arrangements for my staying with them overnight and, hopefully, for me to say a few words to the congregation. No sooner have I finished these calculations than the road turns upward, and I see I wont be able to maintain this pace. For the first time in a long time, I drop to granny, and a grinding, snail-like four miles per hour. An agonizing mini-eternity later, I climb off my bike at the top of a grueling hill and plunk down a dollar and a half of the money I was given back at First Baptist on the counter of a little convenience store for a quart of orange juice. The clerk asks where Im from and where Im going. Howdja like Germantown Hill? He asks. Im pleased to know that highway to heaven has a name. Seems to lend my struggle an appropriate dignity. If the natives recognize sufficient distinctiveness in that stretch of road to christen it, Im entitled to feel a sense of accomplishment. Not quite Mount Everest, but not an anonymous mole hill either. Lloyd had called John Laida, Pastor of First Baptist Church in Clarksville during lunch to tell him I would be in his church for evening service. No answer. Lloyd would keep trying. Germantown Hill is not typical of the terrain between Nashville and Clarksville, and I get to the church just at six oclock; services begin at 6:30, again giving me just enough time to clean up and put on my church clothes. Lloyd had gotten John; Im given a warm welcome and 10 minutes of the service to tell my story. Following some beautiful congregational singing by the several hundred people in attendance and equally moving special music by a womans quartet, the pastor speaks briefly from an Old Testament text. Then he invites me up. I need to be close to you, I explain when I do not mount the
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steps to stand behind the pulpit, but instead stand on the floor, nothing between them and me. The feeling of being at home always comes over me when Im in a place of worship and among people gathered for that purpose. And as I begin to speak to these dear people, I can feel the love and support radiating from them, filling the room and carrying all of us into that secret place of peace, power, purpose, and joy where we all long to spend more time. Several people at First Baptist, Nashville had pressed money into my pocket this morning as we stood talking after Sunday School and following the worship service. I had bought that orange juice at the top of Germantown Hill and a grape drink at a service station in Clarksville when I stopped to ask directions to the church. The twenty-four dollars that I have left, I present to Pastor Laida to use for the churchs ministry to homeless people. When I have finished telling about the beautiful people making my trip come alive and the inspiring people I am meeting, many in the congregation come to say supportive things to me and to tell me of serious health problems they are struggling with. As we talk, I can feel people pressing money into my pocket. Without a word this is done. Chuck and Martha Shilling invite me home with them; then to Shoneys for dinner, where Frank and Ellen are waiting for us. Frank is a Vietnam veteran, shrapnel still in his body, making his legs useless and keeping him in pain. He works as a free-lance architect, to feel useful and help people, Chuck explains. Frank and Ellen live on the family farm, keep it up to snuff and inspire everyone who knows them. We have been late in leaving church; Frank and Ellen have eaten by the time we arrive. But in the few minutes we talk before he excuses himself and leaves, Im also inspired by Frank. His firm grip, his piercing eyes that never leave mine as we talk, his obvious joy in living, his unapologetic, nonchalant use of those metal, handheld crutches: All this brings a lump to my throat. Frank, you inspire me, I tell him. I love the way you handle yourself.
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Frank smiles and thanks me. After Frank has gone, Chuck tells me that Frank was feeling tired and knew he needed to get home. He never complains; he just knows what he has to do. And he does it. Chuck is a retired U.S. Army General. For most of his career he was at West Point. He is also a licensed engineer in Tennessee and enjoys working when he wants to. You always want to, Martha adds, only sometimes I wont let you. To compensate for his missing contact with young people, Chuck coaches church basketball and teaches Sunday School. He is proud of his boys and spends much time with them and planning for them. Chuck and Martha spend half an hour describing for me the health care program run by their church with the blessing of the local medical society and the participitation of several doctors. Area residents may come to the regularly scheduled clinic held at the church. Diagnosis and prescriptions are free, and there are no questions asked about the patients ability to pay. If they come, they need help, and it is given. When we get back to their house after dinner, Martha gets on the phone to arrange with a minister friend in Hopkinsville, Kentucky, where I go tomorrow, for me to meet him. He said he has a TV program he wants you on. You can talk as long as you want to, Martha tells me when she comes back into the room. Shortly, Martha is on the phone again, telling friends and neighbors about me. A friend of Marthas is coming at eight in the morning to take me to the local paper and the towns three radio stations. Martha, Chuck and I talk late. About their children. And mine. About my ride. My belief in people. Hardwood floors and throw rugs and easy chairs and good conversation are not things I find easy to abandon. But knowing I have to be ready for the road in a few hours, I reluctantly excuse myself. Going through my pockets before going to bed, I find the bills stuffed there as I stood talking to people at church: $24.00! And I think of what Ive heard often in church over the years about not being able to outgive God. Ruby Patch, the friend Martha called last night, comes by 8
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a.m. to drive me to the radio interviews she has arranged and to the Leaf Chronicle (the oldest paper in Tennessee). All three interviewers seem interested in what I tell them about the Human Family Reunion and in the fact I have Multiple Sclerosis. Im hardly ever in a place long enough to see how the media treat what Im doing. I ask them to send copies if they can to the college so I can see them when Im finished and back home. But the feeling I invariably get as we talk, leads me to think that they are treating me fairly and sympathetically. I would like to talk to each person in every town individually. There is no substitute for the one-to-one relationship. But I trust these reporters. And I need them. Without their help, I can never get invitations out to all the Human Family and they wont show up at the Reunion. I leave Clarksville shortly before noon, my panniers filled with Marthas provisions, and money in my billfold from Chuck. Chuck told me last night that I was taking my life in my hands to head up Highway 41 past Fort Campbell, and he offered to drive me in his car past the fort. I thought he was overstating the danger. And I was ready to get back on my bike. A few hundred yards up this highway, Im thinking Frank should have been more insistent. Biking the Indy 500 couldnt be much worse. The traffic is fierce, and there is no controlled access onto the highway. Continuous commercial development lines the highway from Clarksville to Fort Campbell and cars enter onto the highway at will. From anywhere! The flow of traffic from behind is bumper-to-bumper, forcing me onto the shoulder where I have to contend with the cars pulling out of the unending parking lot that runs all the way to the Fort.
Kentucky
My nerves are frazzled by the the time I get to the Fort, and I lie down under a tree in the yard of a small motel to collect myself. Im hot, nervous, and not wanting to get back on that road. Nothing in my panniers that I brought to eat looks good, though Martha has made some delicious sandwiches and loaded me down with fresh
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fruit and nuts. I eat some. But I cant face that traffic yet. Then I see a sign at the small store nearby. Ice cream. Thats what I want. When I spot that drumstick in the ice cream box, Im a little boy again, gone barefoot to Crows grocery to get something for mother. Shes at home with Dad, Jerry and Pat waiting supper. Im okay. Nobodys gonna hurt me. And I eat a second drumstick. And buy one for each of the small boys wandering around the store with their mother. The boys come out to see my bike, and we talk for awhile about the trip to Disneyland Im on. Their enthusiasm and sense of wonder leave me charged up and ready to hit the road again. About 10 miles south of Hopkinsville, I come upon a little Gulf station grocery standing all by itself along the southbound lane of this four lane highway. At the crossover just past the store, I wheel around and come back for something cold to drink. No cars are about; Im not sure the place is open. But the door swings inward with my touch; I step inside. She is sitting just by the door, and at first I dont see her as my eyes sweep the sparsely stocked shelves searching for the freezer. May I help you? The voice is small. After she has directed me to the cooler and has taken her place beside the cash register and behind the counter, Nora Cunningham and I begin to talk. Nora opened this store in 1956, when my husband was well and able to do most of the work. Now he has been gone six years. Nora is 87, and staring at the walls is hard to take. Nora lives close by and opens up every day but Sunday. Twice on this day I have come, Nora has had to close for a while to go back to her bed for a brief rest. After we talk for a while about the reason for my ride, I ask if she has ice cream. The drumstick I get is rubber from being so long in her freezer, but I eat it all when she says, Eat it on me. I want to support what youre doing. Nora tells me about a 15 year old boy who robbed her of $28.00 at gunpoint last year. Her grandson who works nearby and keeps and eye on me ran him down in his pickup.
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Nora didnt want to go to the courthouse with such a young boy. So the 15 year old and his 17 year old accomplice were taken to Georgia for trial in the robbery and beating of an old man. What do you think of Jehovahs Witness? Nora asks. Theyre good people, I reply. We all need to learn to like one another. Nora nods approval. I take her hand; tell her I have to go. About an hour later in Hopkinsville, I find WNKJ, the Christian radio station Martha Schilling had called from Clarksville. Manager Jim Adams hasnt been able to contact the host of Tuesday mornings Front Porch, and will not be able to get me on the show as Martha had hoped. Martha also called John Christian, Pastor of Second Baptist Church and a childhood schooolmate of hers. When she had hung up last night, Martha said John wanted to interview me on TV. You can talk as long as you want. But when I arrive at the church near 4:30, John is busy. He takes me to a motel and gives me money for supper. Saying take care of my friend, to the Indian clerk, John shakes my hand and is gone. I had given Jim Adams at WKNJ $20.00 of the money people in Clarksville gave me. When John Christian gives me $10.00 to eat, I have a little over $20.00 in my pocket. My catfish supper and two pieces of pie at the restaurant across the parking lot comes to $11.80. I intend to go straight from dinner to bed; I wont see anyone to give my money to, so I leave the rest of the $20.00 as a tip. I smile to think what the waitress will say to her fellow workers about the big tipper in the crummy clothes. Now Im broke. And ready for tomorrow. An unshaven, disheveled man is sitting on the corner of a downtown street when I stop for the light at an intersection shortly after leaving the motel. When I ask directions to the paper, he asks, Want to take an ad? Then, got a complaint? When I tell him I have a story, and what it is, he wishes me good luck. Around the block and back on 9th Street in the direction I had come from, I notice two young black men preparing to water a lawn bordering a parking lot at a business establishment. Don and Red
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are interested to learn where Ive come from and where Im going. I explain the Human Family Reunion to them, give them a flyer, and follow their directions to the paper. Its about 8 AM. when I find my way across town to The New Era. The young woman reporter takes down my story; asks all the right questions. As we finish the interview I invite her outside. My big red bike always draw a crowd, I say. As she stands to follow me, I wonder if my comment about big and red drawing a crowd was the thing to say. She is about eight months pregnant and wearing a tentlike red dress. Twenty miles later I make a second stop, at the Cadiz Record. Lisa is equally interested and takes several pictures. When I get to a little convenience store just before the bridge over Barkley Lake, I pull in and ask for the water fountain. None. All they have is an outside faucet. I dont have a cent and Im dying for some cold juice. So I take some literature out of my bag and spread it on the counter before the clerk. And before I know what Im saying, I violate one of the rules of audacious asking. Would you give me something cold to drink? What do you want? What did I expect? Always ask for the specific thing you need: Thats a rule, probably the cardinal rule, of audacious asking. I was grateful she had not just said no, since she had no way of knowing what she was committing herself to. Juice would be nice. She walks to the back of the store and picks up the same size, same brand orange juice Ive been drinking. This is from me, not from the store, she says. Id rather be anonymous, she says when I ask her name so I can send her a newsletter at the end. I am standing outside by my bike, drinking the juice, when she comes out to ask me back in. I read your literature, and I want you to have this. She opens the cash register and hands me a $5.00 bill. She has eight children, all scattered over the country. Its lonesome, but my husband loves it here. Twice more she tells me in the few minutes we talk that her
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husband loves it here. They moved here six years ago, bought a house on the lake, and retired. When I ask if she likes it here, she says, My husband does. And where hes happy, Im happy. After 38 years..., and her voice trails off. She doesnt finish the sentence. Her conversation turns to her employeer. She never checks to see how much gas her customers get. Just takes their word for it. And shes never lost a penny. If you expect people to be honest, theyll be honest. Id found a kindred soul. I explain to her that I expect people to be good. And they are. If they arent, I wont make it across the country. A few hours later, I come to Aurora, and pull into Belews Drive Inn, the only place to eat I see. Only curb service, no place inside to eat. The car hop takes my order from my bike. And I spend about half my $5.00. After Ive passed over both lakes and the Land Between the Lakes National Area, I understand what the anonymous lady who gave me the orange juice and the $5.00 meant when she said Theres nothing between here and Aurora. Miles of lake shoreline. And not a commercial building anywhere. I can almost believe another comment the anonymous angel made: The lakes arent polluted; the Mayflies may bother you after sundown. They breed on the bottom, its so clean. Could the Garden of Eden have been engineered by the TVA? Before today I would not have thought to ask such a question. It never occurs to me at Bagnel Dam back home. Though I love the Missouri Ozarks and the lake that Bagnel corks, Im saddened by the glitzy neon and the franchised eateries. There is none of that here. Ive gone through half-a-dozen water bottles and all the cold drinks I have money for by the time I finally get to Paducah about 6 p.m. I have trouble finding downtown: My energy is on empty. I stop at a little gas station grocery on the highway and dig through the pockets in my panniers until I find the ninety-five cents for a
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quart of chocolate milk. If I hadnt found the money, I wouldnt have asked. I cant believe the reaction would be any different. The clerk would have given it to me. But Im so tired. The thought of getting enthused when the person I ask gets excited is more than I can handle just now. Wheres town? I gasp when I have gulped the milk. You missed town. Its back up that way, the young clerk explains, pointing up a street that intersects the highway Id come in on. How far? About five miles. Twenty-three blocks, corrects a customer at the register. But theres nothin there less youre looking for somebody. Need the police station. Go up here five blocks to Kentucky; make a right; 14 blocks to the police station. On your right. Im there in a matter of minutes. A young patrolman escorts me a few blocks to a mission adjoining a Baptist Church. From the outside, the building looks like a nice home. Inside, the mood does not change. Phylis Smith and her son, Kelly, greet me. Phylis has me read the rules governing behavior by guests and then to sign several papers agreeing to abide by them. All this time Phylis is inquiring about my spritual welfare. When Phylis sees my bike, she decides not to put it around back as she at first says I should do. Ordinarily, I wouldnt put a bicycle in the house, she tells me. But thats more than a bicycle. I wouldnt want anything to happen to it. So saying, Phylis has me push the bike into her dining room where Kelly rearranges the table to accommodate it. Then Phylis fixes me two barbecued chicken sandwiches, piled high, all the iced tea I can drink, and two jelly filled sweet roles. Ambrosia! Phylis and her husband, Jim, (He works at the hospital) have been members of the Baptist church next door for 13 years. A year ago we felt the Lord calling us to sell our house and move in here to run this mission. And the Lords really blessed us. Whats your name? I ask the young lady standing in the
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kitchen with Phylis. Rita, she says. ` Ritas been here for a few months, Phylis volunteers. Shes been saved and got her life straightened out. Now shes a big help to me. Rita moves close to Phylis, looks up at her with as obvious a smile of contentment and devotion as I think Ill ever see. And she gives her a big hug. The homey room Phylis shows me to has four twin beds with matching bright-red spreads. Im the only occupant tonight and can have my pick. During my soak in the tub, water as hot as I can stand it, I wash todays dirty clothes, hang them all over the bathroom, and Im in bed before 9:30. Did any human being ever feel more at peace, ever filled with a greater sense of purpose? I cant imagine so. As I go to sleep tonight in this mission, Im at peace with the world, so tired Im past weary. Nothing hurts. And I feel like I could lick my weight in wildcats though I dont have the energy to lift a finger. Big Jim Smith has called the newspaper and TV when I get up. They both are here soon: Both are super attentive and receptive. First to arrive is Melinda Smith, a young Black woman reporter from the paper. As we talk about the marvelous reception people everywhere give me, Melinda asks me to tell Jeff, the camera man, who is due shortly. Hes a cynic. Tell him what you told me. He wont believe it. Im all the time telling him that people are good, but he doesnt think so. Tell him. Please tell him. When Jeff comes through the door, Melinda jumps up from the table: Jeff, Ed has something to tell you. Listen to him. Tell him, Ed, tell him. Manny Murphey from Channel 6 arrives not long after Jeff, and the TV van goes ahead of me as I ride out of town with Jim and his two sons driving their station wagon in the lead. As we come to the bridge over the Ohio River, Jim lifts my bike into the station wagon. The bridge has narrow metal rails as its surface, running its length and from side to side, with holes big enough to drop a coke bottle through, Jim doesnt want me to ride it.
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The TV van crosses the bridge from Kentucky into Illinois and runs along beside me for 10 miles or more. Twice the van stops and the cameraman gets out to film as I ride toward him. As they turn back toward home, they wave and wish me well.
Illinois
By noon I arrive in Supermans home town where they have his statue in the park and the local paper is The Planet. Metropolis is not as large as its name implies, but Superman as a boy would have learned to defend the right and uphold the truth in this All American town. Theres a good feeling about this place. Chris Wills, whose family owns The Planet, snaps my picture with 12 year old Tom Walters as we stand on the front lawn outside the newspaper. This weeks edition of The Planet is the yearly giant Superman edition and details the celebration this coming weekend of the Man of Steels association with the town. Im in Vienna, Illinois when hunger overtakes me and I stop in a little local caf and ask Donna for oatmeal and toast. She says yes. After Ive eaten, Im across the street making phone calls when another cross-country biker pulls up. From Gainesville, Georgia, Butch Bennett is biking to Bonners Ferry, Idaho. Butch is a public school physical education teacher, and is taking a month to make his trip. Its nearing six oclock when I roll into Anna, a nice little town of about 6,000. Ive left the hills back in Kentucky; the land today has been flat and pedaling easy. The roads are smooth and without shoulders, but traffic is light and considerate. Im into the Mississippi River Valley now, and I see railroad tracks along Illinios 146 from Vienna to Anna; now and then, I hear a train; once or twice I see one. As I get to Anna and turn left off the highway to the police station, I cross several sets of tracks after the bars lift, the lights stop flashing, and the train passes through. The police send me to Bread of Life Mission. If its closed, come back. It is and I do. I hoped I could do this, Officer Mike Stoner says as I return to the police station, but I had to get permission. And theres all this stupid paper work.
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Thats part of everything, I laugh. Shortly, Mike hands me three blue forms, one for a motel room, one for supper, and one for breakfast. I find the motel named on the form: The restaurant is across the street. As Im standing by the side of the road waiting for traffic to clear so I can go eat, a car slows and a young woman yells, Way to go. After a barbecue dinner, Im crossing the street back to the motel when it hits. A body blow to my back. A vicious twisting just above my left hip. I scream in pain and fall in the street. No cars coming! I pull myself up, drag myself back to my room and fall across the bed, moaning, trying to find some position that will free me of excruciating pain. I cant. I roll and twist all night.Waking often. I get up to sit in a tub of hot water, but getting into and out of the tub is agony. The pain is fierce and I want to cry. But crying hurts. Breathing hurts. The slightest movement brings instant, intense pain. After a night I think will never end, I drag myself to breakfast, knowing I have to eat to get back on that bike. But no way can I ride. Any movement is torture. After breakfast, I limp back to bed. Call the police, ask them to find someone to take you to St. Louis, I say to myself. I reach for the phone. Its not far; you can ride there. Thats my other self talking, the one that planned this damn trip. Before leaving for the police station, I call Waltz Franz at the Mayo Clinic. He recommends Advil for the pain until I can get to St. Louis where he will have help waiting. Sucking air, biting my lip to keep from screaming, and cursing myself for putting myself in this predicament, I make it to the police station. No one going to St. Louis, the chief says. He gives me four church addresses. I ask which is closest and make a call from his phone. John Myers answers at First Baptist. He says to come. I pedal the few blocks to the church and explain I have no money and am in pain; that my doctor has recommended Advil. John takes me to a local drug store to get some; then to Krogers for bananas, apples, and oranges.
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No choice now. I have to get on that bike. Ive been gone almost a month. Every day pure joy. Each one high adventure. But this is torture. Every turn of the pedal has me ready to give up. Its 180 miles to St. Louis. I cant do it. One revolution of the pedals is almost more than I can manage. Then something in my mind yells at me, Okay, youre not gonna make it. You cant get to St. Louis. But you can make those pedals go round one more time. An hour from now you wont be riding, but right this second, you are. Tomorrow youll have to quit. But not this minute. Not until you fall off this bicycle and cant drag yourself back on. Your bodys not gonna hold up, but as long as youre on this bike and movin, youre not beat. Hang in there! For hours I can muster no strength, pedaling is slow and jerky. Each time I feel a rhythm coming in my cadence, I need to stop to drink or eat. Every stop brings back the pain and the herky-jerky leg motions. Nine oclock when I started, its after one oclock when I finally can feel reasonably comfortable on the bike and attain a normal speed. From a phone booth along the roadside, I call Yahya to ask about the events they are planning for the 24th and 25th when I get to Kansas City, and we talk about the limitless possibilities for the Human Family Reunion. Ive talked to Yahya several times already. His enthusiasm for the Human Family Reunion and his involving the Muslim community in Kansas City and across the country is crucial. His joy and energy come through as powerfully on the phone as in person, and talking to him is a shot in the arm. I always feel good when I hang up the phone. For miles now Ive been riding along the Illinios side of the Mississippi, along a scenic River Road designated as such by the state, amid majestic trees, the river just to my left. And across the river? Missouri. Home. At the suggestion of a man in his yard when I pass through a tiny town, I leave the highway and climb a long hill that bypasses Chester and runs along beside the river for a mile or so before coming to the bridge. Coal trucks pass in both directions, and I pull off the road to sit at a picnic table nearby the river side to eat from my
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panniers and watch the mighty Mississippi roll and churn. An old man and a little boy are fishing from the bank about a hundred yards up river between me and the bridge. That bridge looks long, and as I sit watching one eighteen wheeler after another cross it, Im dreading the moment I have to join them. I delay as long as I can. Finally, I can wait no longer. After I make it across that bridge, I still have a long way to go before I can stop. If not, I wont make it to St. Louis on time. Approaching the bridge, I come to a sign announcing the toll for various vehicles. No bicycle listed. I bet they dont get many. Whatever the amount, I dont have it; Im flat broke. No charge, the toll taker says. The Bridge over the River Kai. San Luis Rey. Ole Man River: Tote dat barge, lif dat bale, git a little drunk and youll land in jail, The Red River Valley, Huck Finn and Joe, Mark Twain. And never looking down or at the traffic bearing down on me from behind. Thats how I make it across that bridge. Im in pain on that bike on that bridge in that traffic. But my mind is nowhere about. My mind had to be across that bridge and on to other things before my body could mount that bike. I was literally out of my mind. If anywhere on that bridge I had ever thought what I was doing, I would have frozen dead in my tracks, as unable to move as that statue of Popeye standing on a bald little hill off to the left about a hundred yards as I pedaled onto the bridge.
Missouri
Then! At last Im across the bridge. Earth! Solid earth under me. And all around me. A service station off to the left. Half a dozen young guys in and about it. None know how far to St. Louis. Or the name of the nearest town. Who Cares? Im in Missouri again. The station does have a phone. I grab it and call the college: Im home, Linda, I yell into the phone. Linda is a long-time friend and the switchboard operator at the college. Ive talked to her just about everyday since I left Orlando, and though Im still right at 400 miles from Liberty, just knowing Im in Missouri lifts my spirits.
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This river bottom land is table top flat. Cropped fields stretch to the horizon in all directions. Traffic is light. The weather is warmer than it has been all day. The pain is bearable, my cadence reasonably smooth. Another two hours of riding brings me to Perryville, a town of 7,500. Passing the Pizza Hut, the aroma surrounds me, and Im overcome by a pizza attack. Im a little past the place when the urge strikes; I wheel the bike around. I have this rule about never going back. With thousands of miles to go, the rule seems reasonable. And I have never asked for a restaurant meal as expensive as a pizza. What will they say? Only one way to find out. I doubt I would have the nerve except that smell was filling me down to my toes, leaving nothing but appeitite the size of Royal Gorge. I go in. I explain what Im doing. That I have no money. And ask for a pizza. The manager will be back in 15 or 20 minutes. Please wait, Im sure she will want to help. Im going to the police station to see about a room. But Ill be back. The policewoman sends me to the sheriffs office, where she says the kind of help I need is available. The young woman there asks for my I.D., the first person to do so. After a few minutes she writes me a voucher for a motel. She would have written one for a meal except I tell her Pizza Hut is taking care of me. As the attractive young officer rises from her chair across the room at the radio where she has been seated as we talk, she limps over to the counter where I wait. One leg is much shorter that the other. And I want to know her story. But I dont ask. Shes too busy to take the time. She doesnt know me. I would offend her. Embarrass her. So I excuse my failure to talk to another person about something that matters to both of us. When I walk back into the Pizza Hut, the manager meets me at the door, shows me to a booth and says I can order any medium pizza and a Pepsi. I had asked for each by name when I was in earlier, believing that I owe it to those I ask to be specific in my request. The waitress who takes my order also writes for the local paper and asks if she may write a story about my ride. I give her a
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brochure, a card, a poster. The waitress and her manager make repeated stops at my table while Im eating to see that I have everything I need. And to talk. About their town. Their job. Their dreams. As I leave, I stop to thank them. Others of the staff gather round and we all talk at once. Everyone is excited, and as I leave, they call out: Way to go, Ed. Youll make it. Were proud of you. Thanks for stopping. We love you. They begin to cheer. And I feel like Rocky. The Indian clerk welcomes me to the motel and accepts the voucher from the sherriffs office. You can take your bike in your room, he says. During the night, the pain comes back. Maybe Advil helps; but the pain is excruciating. Finding a position to sleep in is impossible. After a year, morning comes. Im not really hungry when I struggle out of bed, but I dont dare get on the road without eating. I ride back toward town to a little cafe. The manager isnt here, and the young waitress doesnt have the authority to give me the oatmeal I ask for. I thank her, and as I leave, I see a restaurant across the street. I get my oatmeal and am on the road by seven. My back isnt hurting, but my left thigh, from hip to knee, is numb and tight. All my muscles are caught in a vice; pedaling is torture. Every turn of the pedals shoots searing thunderbolts of whitehot pain. You wont make California. Give up! But you can turn those pedals one more time. Thus does the morning pass. By lunch time, Im in Festus. And starving. I spot a Fish and Fritters. Fish and Fritters in Festus. If only the owner is Fred Friendly. Owner Gary Linderer gives me a fish dinner and all the tea I want. He writes a $10.00 check as a donation to the Human Family Reunion and asks me if Ive had enough to eat. I have a second dinner. Gary tells me about Roy and Rick Lucas, Jewell grads, who own the Dodge dealership in Festus. Roy graduated in 67 and Rick in 79. I had been two years at William Jewell when Roy graduated. I dont remember having him in class, but I do remember he played on Jewells national championship baseball team. Around 4:30, after an 80 mile day, I make it to the restaurant at Lee May Ferry Road and Lindberg on the southeastern outskirts of
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St. Louis where Matt is waiting. Ive known Matt since last fall when he took my race relations class at Jewell; and when he did a followup internship at the Black Economic Union in Kansas City, he and I had become friends. Matt invited me to come see him when I came through St. Louis on my bike, but its not him Im expecting today. When I talked to Bill Little on the phone this morning, we had worked out this pick up point on the outskirts of St. Louis where Lee May Ferry Road and Lindberg intersect. Bill himself would be busy, but he had asked Bill Barham, a member of his church, to pick me up. I had met Bill Little only once, when he had come to Chandler Baptist Church just out of Liberty to speak back in March. A mutual friend (Harles Cone, who got the million dollar insurance policy for my ride.) told me I should meet with him when he came to town. And when I told Bill what I wanted to do, he volunteered to help. I had called Bill several times since leaving Orlando. And when I had called him this morning with my approximate time of arrival and the route I was riding, we made the final arrangements. I had also mentioned Matts name to Bill and told him I would like to spend some time with Matt. When I arrive at the place where we have agreed upon precisely on time, Im congratulating myself as I see Matt standing on the road to snap a picture. Somethings not right! What is it? Im off the bike, giving Matt a hug, asking for some cold juice, and still I cant figure out whats wrong. We are inside the restaurant; Matt has just bought me a big glass of orange juice and is telling everyone around that Ive just biked from Florida headed for California when it hits me. Matt, what are you doing here? Wheres Bill Barham? Matt doesnt understand whats wrong. When he talked to Bill Little on the phone this morning, Bill told him when and where I would be. He just assumed he was to pick me up. And Im glad to see him. A familiar face is a welcome sight. But is Bill Barham out there looking for me? I dont want anyone who offers to help me made to look foolish or caused unnecessary problems. So I find a phone as fast as I can and call Bills home. His
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wife, Carol, answers. Bill is still at work, planning to leave to get me as soon as he gets off. Carol will have time to call him and tell him that he doesnt need to come after me. We take the front wheel and the panniers off my bike and load it in the trunk of Matts car for the drive to his house. When we arrive, I put the bike in the garage and ease down on the sofa in the family room. My back is killing me. I dont know where to find the doctor Im supposed to see, how Im going to pick up Bobbie at the airport in the morning or where we will stay and what we will do while she is here. When I talked to Bill Little on the phone today, he told me that Walt Franz had called from the Mayo Clinic with the name of the doctor I was to see. Walt had explained to this doctor that I was traveling without money and had asked that he treat me at no charge. He had agreed. This trip is turning on relationships: this person knows that person who knows someone who can help. Walt Franz, for example, is a Jewell alum. He graduated from Jewell several years after I came there, but I didnt know him. Then this spring Walt was invited to Jewell by the Chemistry Department to lecture on medicine. Professor Marvin Dixoon told me Walt was coming and suggested that I might want him to speak to sociology students about his work with the cultural aspect of good medical practice. I did. During his presentation, Walt mentioned that he is a jogger and a sport lover. So I invited him to my office to talk about my biking plans. Walt got excited and said he would like to help. He would arrange medical help as needed along the way, would have me checked periodically, and would fly to meet me somewhere enroute to ride with me. Now Walt has arranged for me to see Tom Stees here in St. Louis. Walt had called Phil Poepsel, another Jewell alum with whom Walt also went to medical school at the University of Missouri. Phil is in Europe on vacation with his family, so Tom Stees, Phils medical partner, agreed to see me. The first thing I do at Matts is call Tom Stees to find out when
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he can see me and where he is. I can see him immediately. And he is only a few blocks from Matt. In fact, it turns out that Matt knows exactly where to go. Matts father is a physician and practices in the same hospital. Until Matts parents were divorced a couple of years ago, they lived just across the street from the hospital. Matt drives me to the hospital where Tom Stees is waiting. Its a heavy burden I bring to Tom. Im planning to be in St. Louis for the next four days so I can attend the reception that Jerry Cain has arranged as part of William Jewells presence at the Southern Baptist Convention. In that four days, I am expecting the doctors Walt has contacted to heal my body and get me back on the road. My first impression upon seeing Tom is that I have come to the right person. Toms touch and manner ease my mind and raise my sprits. He prescribes an anti-inflammatory drug and sends me upstairs for a heat and ultra-sound treatment. Tom makes me promise to come in for a second treatment on Monday. But back at Matts for the night, my leg keeps me awake and in pain. No position gives me relief. A deep and throbbing pain has me crying and praying through the night. This is not the way I want to meet Bobbie; she will be devastated to see me like this. And knowing this only adds to my misery. Bobbie will think she cant go to Europe, and if she does go, she will worry about me. Not exactly the meeting Bobbie and I had in mind. Matt drives me to the airport about 10 a.m. to pick her up. I have to wait in the car while Matt goes to find her. She wont think Im very anxious to see her, but if she sees me trying to walk and in such pain, she will think Im dying. This way I can hide it from her. Better she think Im not anxious than that Im dying. Neither is true but how to make that point is something I dont have the energy to think about just now. So Matt brings Bobbie to the car and I climb in the back seat with her, trying not to wince from the pain every time I move. We spend the rest of the day at Matts. His mother fixes lunch for us, and we sit for while in the back yard. My condition has us both depressed, and we find conversation difficult. While were siting in
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the yard, Matt brings his cordless phone to me so I can talk to Mike Schmidt, a reporter for KMOX radio. Matt has told him about my trip, and Mike tapes an interview, and several people tell me at church the next day that they heard it. This evening Bobbie and I are alone. Matt has gone to spend the night at Busch Stadium, waiting in line to buy tickets for Sundays game between the Cards and the Cubs. He was talking about this three game series with Chicago and his dream of a sweep when he picked me up yesterday. When the Cards won last night and again this afternoon, Matt is drooling over the prospect of being in the stands for game three. Matts mother and younger brother have gone to take care of last minute details before the brother leaves tomorrow for a week at the Montana dude ranch owned by Matts father. Danny will spend the week learning to ride and care for horses. Walt Cegelka picks us up at nine oclock Sunday morning to take us to Christ Memorial Baptist Church where Walt is a member and Bill Little is pastor. The first thing I notice at Christ Memorial is the presence of black members, something I have not seen in any other Baptist Church I have visited. During the worship service, Bill mentions that Christ Memorial is not a member of the Missouri Baptist Convention. For some reason, I wonder immediately if the black members are the reason. When I ask Bill, he tells me that Christ Memorial was formed about 15 years ago when two churches merged. Because one of the churches was black, Christ Memorial applied for membership in the National Baptist Convention so black members of the new church could maintain relationships with that national body. The director of the Missouri Baptist Convention at the time objected to Christs dual membership in the Southern and the National Baptist Convention and withdrew fellowship, meaning, in plain language, that the church was expelled from the Missouri Baptist Convenntion. After church, Bill and Carol Barham take us to lunch and then invite us home with them for as long as we want to stay. I know this is not what Bobbie has in mind, and I would love to do the town while she is here. Early in preparing for the trip, when I was learn-
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ing to ask people for the help I needed, I had formulated an operating principle that I tried not to violate. That principle, plus the fact I am in pain and can hardly walk, make Bill and Carols invitation impossible to refuse. The principle is this: Never say no to an offer of help. Asking help of even one person obligates one to accept help from anyone who offers, even if the help is not exactly what was requested. In that case, the one asking is obligated to amend the plans to incorporate the offer. So we go home with the Barhams. We go back to church with Carol and Bill for the evening service. And Bill Little turns the service over to me to tell my story. Ministers have so little time to preach to their people, and Bill didnt know I was coming tonight (I didnt even know myself.) So when Bill gives me time to tell his congregation about the Human Family Reunion and about the potential in all of us to overcome, he has given me a gift more precious than gold or diamonds. Speaking to an audience of blacks and whites about the Human Family Reunion is a shot of spiritual adrenaline. Only at Habitat for Humanity and in West End Synagogue in Nashville had I seen blacks and whites worhipping together. To see it again, to be part of it again, is to draw nearer to heaven than I usually get. When I call Tom Stees on Monday morning, he asks if his treatment helped. I tell him yes, but the pain is still almost more than I can stand and walking is agony. I tell him how scared I am that I wont be in shape by Thursday morning to get back on my bike to continue my ride. Tom says he will call back in a few minutes. His secretary calls shortly to say that I will be seeing Dr. Hunter instead of Dr. Stees, and not in the hospital emergency room where Tom and I had met on Friday, but at the St. Louis Orthopedic Sports Medicine clinic at one oclock. Bobbie and I dont find our way there in our rental car by the most direct route, but we arrive right on time. So does Harlen Hunter. After a precise examination, the results spoken into a pocket-size tape recorder, Harlen directs Ron Nelson, the physical therapist, to take charge.
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Eds biking cross country. Were treating him free, and we have until Thursday to get him in shape to get back on his bike. Ron takes me into another room, sits me down on the edge of a table and begins to explain what has happened to my back. I quickly understand my problem. In the excitement of meeting people at the end of each day, I had quit warming down! I didnt do my customary stretching. Now all my muscles are caught in a tension that will not let me relax, a tension that has me unable to stand straight or to stretch out full-length on the floor. And a tension that tears at my left leg with spasms of unbearable pain. Ron then has me lie face down on the table. Across my back he places a rounded, blanket-like device that he plugs into a console of buttons and switches at bedside. He adjusts the setting until the tingling bore into my back is at the maximum bearable and I tell him to stop. And for 10 minutes I lie there while a whining, boring action penetrates first to one side of my spine, then the other. While in progress, the treatment erases all pain, and when Ron comes back to end the treatment, I am asleep. The pain and stiffness return as I hobble to the car. But not as bad as before, I tell myself. For the first time since I left Kansas City to begin this ride, I have been more than two nights in the same place. Carol and Bill have a comfortable home, and they make Bobbie and me feel at home. I lie in the family room floor as we all talk about their church, my trip, Bobbies imminent departure for Brussels and her tour of Europe, the Cardinals and the Royals and the seventh game of the 85 World Series. I was at the game, and my perspective on Herzog and Andujar and the lopsided Royals victory doesnt quite jibe with Bills. But he doesnt make me leave. In fact, this evening Bill volunteers to drive me to the class that Walt Cegelka is teaching. Its a class for school teachers, and Walt asked me at church on Sunday if I could come Monday evening to tell them about my ride. The class is two hours long, and the drive from Bills house is under 15 minutes, but Bill sits and listens to what by now he has heard several times. And on the way home, Bill wants to talk more.
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Back to Ron so he can apply his magic hands and healing machines to my back. Rons words are also soothing to my sagging spirits as he assures me I am getting better and will be ready to go by Thursday. I dont feel ready. But I cant disappoint Ron. He thinks Im better. He shows me how to stretch and bend my leg when Im back on the road so this wont happen again. When Ron has finished for today, Bobbie and I drive downtown, past the arch and to the Convention Center where 20,000 Baptists are gathered. We have to park blocks away, and walking is torture, but John is planning to meet me here so we can make plans for our ride across Missouri. Finding John is impossible, though we do run into Dub and Joy Steincross, our pastor and his wife, and several members from Second Baptist in Liberty. And Im wearing the Ambassador from Second Baptist T-shirt they asked me to wear. After listening to some of the music and going to see the exhibit that William Jewell has on display, Bobbie and I drive over to the Omni to try to find Lloyd Householder so I can describe for him the warm reception John Laida had given me in Clarksville. Lloyds not in. The Omni occupies a major portion of St. Louiss old Union Station, and we take as long a look around as my painful back can stand before catching a sight seeing bus that takes us to the river front and back by the Arch. With the Southern Baptist Convention in session and the Cubs in town to play the Cardinals, traffic is paralyzed. We pass pedestrians, only to be passed by them in the next block. We sit so long in one spot that those in a hurry get out to walk. Bobbie has to fly back to Kansas City this evening. I drive her to the airport in the car we rented yesterday. We get to the airport earlier than I had imagined we would, and we sit without talking in the car. I cant get out and walk her to the terminal. I wont see her again for two and a half months, wont even know where she is for the next three weeks. I will be in Montana by the time she is back home. What is she thinking, I wonder as we sit. That I wont make it,
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Im sure. After all, last year she had to come get me out of the hospital after I dehydrated and fell off my bicycle. That was the first, and only other, long bicycle trip Id planned. To the Amana Colonies and back, under 700 miles. And I had lasted less than 200. Why should she believe Im going to make this cross country trip? Right now, Im having doubts. But I cant tell Bobbie. I dont know how, or what she could do. And I dont want to ruin her trip. I feel awkward and terribly inadequate as we sit. Saying nothing. Lost in thought. Confused and hurt, with no idea how to rescue ourselves. Finally the time comes. Bobbie opens the back door and takes her suitcase out. She walks slowly into the terminal, and I ache to run after her, to hold her, to tell her I love her. But I sit and say nothing. During todays treatment, Ron mentions wanting to write up my trip in Therapist Newsletter that goes weekly to 100,000 people around the country. And through the pain, I feel gratitude trying to surface for the opportunity to reach an audience unavailable to me except through the pain. Early this evening, Bill and Carol drive me to the alumni reception that William Jewell is hosting for those who have come to the Southern Baptist Convention. We get there early, but Im asked to wait down the hall so I can come riding in on cue. Those familiar faces and that enthusiastic response are elixir for my aching back. Early the next morning I turn in the rental car and Carol drives me to the clinic for my final treatment on my back. John meets me here. He has been in St. Louis since Sunday, but I havent seen him, though hes staying with Darrell and Rhonda Pitts, a family that belongs to Christ Memorial. Ron wants to get some pictures of my bike to send with his article, so we put my bike on the elevator and take it to his second floor office. Ron has his two page article finished. I like it. And after my treatment we roll the bike into the big room with all the exercise equipment, and the photo sesseion begins. Ron, Harlen, John, Darrell and I all have cameras and each snap several pictures, being sure that we get poses showing every combination of the five of us.
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Darrell volunteers to drive John and me and our bikes from the clinic to Grays Summit out on Highway 100. This is far enough out that we wont have to fight city traffic, but near enough that Darrell can get back to his medical practice. Darrell is a surgeon, and I feel good to know that he would take time from his schedule to drive us. His action speaks volumes to me of his support and encouragement. As we drive, Darrell tells us of his mission trip to a South American country several years ago and of his plans to go back. Its after 10 oclock when John and I get on our bikes. Our objective is Hermann, a delightful little German community in the hill country about 50 miles away. John isnt sure how far or fast he can go. The weather is hot; the terrain is hilly, the traffic heavier than John is comfortable with, and John is riding his sons old bicycle. The bike has been put in good condition, but it is not a touring machine. It has 10 gears where mine has eighteen, and its several pounds heavier. John had not ridden a bicycle since high school when he came to my office last March just after he heard about my plans to bike America and said he would ride across Missouri with me. I was delighted, but perplexed. Why? I wanted to ask. But already, this early in preparing for my trip, I had learned not to ask. Thats not quite the way to put it. More a feeling that came over me, an intuitive assessment of the situation. I had the sense that people didnt really know why they responded as they did, and to ask would only cause them to wonder, and perhaps to doubt what they were doing. Accept everything at face value. If I need to know why, I will. When the time is right. After Johns offer to ride Missouri with me, we took his sons bike over to Bob Bellands bike shop in Excelsior Springs to get it road worthy. A few days later we picked it up, and John told me to give him a couple of days and he would ride up to Clems with me for breakfast on Saturday morning. John begged off when that time came because he had found out riding a bike after 20 bike-less years took more patience and stamina than he thought. But two weeks later we did make the 25 mile round trip to Clems Cafe in Kearney.
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That was to be the only time we rode together, but when I would see John around campus over the next two months, he would assure me that he would meet me in St. Louis, though he was not finding much time to train. Nearly every time I would see John he would ask who else was planning to ride across Missouri with me. When I would say he was the only one, he would shake his head and walk away. After many weeks asking this question and receiving the same answer, John said to me: You know, when I volunteered to ride with you, I thought it would encourage others to offer. I figured there would be at least a dozen of us. As we roll west out of Grays Summit, John does well. We stop often for a quick swig of water from our bottles and a bite to eat from our panniers. The hills are hard on John, and he walks up the steepest. John is fair skinned and sweat buckets. The heat takes the starch out of him; he needs frequent rest and lots of water. About four in the afternoon, the sun radiating off the black surfaced road is fierce. The water in our bottles is nearly gone, and what is left is too hot to quench our thirst. We are not near a town, but we do spot a farmer on his tractor out in a field. We pull off the road and lie down under a tree in his yard. We havent been there long when the farmer appears. John asks for water and walks to the house to get it. Both of them come back with a pitcher of ice water. John has told Victor Wehmeyer what were doing, and when they return, Victor wants to hear the whole story. I guess Victor to be about my fathers age. He has lived on this farm a long time. Things are hard right now, but Victor loves his wife, his farm, and his neighbors in the little nearby community of Marthasville where he goes to get his mail. John and I roll into Hermann between six and seven and go immediately to the police station. The officer I find suggests we go to the Methodist Church. Through town, past the store front with German names and signs, we make our way to the church. At the parsonage next door to the church we find Peggy Stevens, as of a month earlier, pastor of the church. We havent
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talked long when I discover that Peggy just came from Kansas City, where she was a student at St. Pauls Seminary and student pastor of a little country church I often ride by on my bicycle and where Ed and Betty Bauman are members. Ed is Presiding Commissioner of Clay County and Betty is secretary in the Education Department at Jewell. It was at a Christmas party at the Baumans farm home that I first publicly discussed my bike plans for the summer. Ed had volunteered to contact county officials across the country and had gotten the Clay County Commission to issue a proclamation endorsing my ride. Peggy is a widow. Her children are grown and gone, and she is pouring her life into her ministry. She is sensitive to our need for a place to sleep, but she also is sensitive to how it might appear to the community if a new woman minister took in two men for the night. We take a shower in her upstairs bathroom, but agree with her that it would be better if we slept in the church, and she okays these arrangements with the lay leader of the church. John takes Peggy and me to dinner at a little German restaurant. Afterward, we put our bikes inside the church and settle down on the carpeted floor for a good nights sleep. John and I leave Hermann at 6:30 the next morning. The first 12 to 15 miles run through the Missouri River Valley floor, road as smooth and flat as a table top. John and I ride side by side for miles; few cars pass in either direction; we indulge ourselves in long and deep conversation about life and love and purpose. While were stopped at a mailbox to stretch and drink, a pickup comes from the farmhouse off the road about 100 yards to our right and stops as it reaches us. My names Carl, says the driver, stretching his arm through the window on the passengers side to shake my hand. Carl farms 3,000 acres of this rich river bottom. The farmers problem is the same one hes had for thousands of years. Weather. Then Carl describes the flood they had last year. This pickup would have been underwater. And the water was up to that barn back behind the house. When Carl learns that John and I teach at William Jewell
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and that I teach Sociologyhe tells me he hopes to complete his education. In Sociology. Carl had three years at the University of Missouri when the Korean War broke out. After four years in the Army, Carl was tired of taking orders and came back to the farm. Carl tells me about a race relations course he took at M.U. and the life long effect it has had on him. And he talks of other issues of concern to him. You fellows are bikers. You may think farmers object to making a biking trail out of this abandoned Katy Railroad because we dont like bikers, because we think youd tear up our property. Thats not it. We object to the government telling us what we can do with our property. And we consider it ours because we reason it reverts to the heirs of the original owners when the railroad pulls out. If the government can take it for a biking trail, they can decide to take the utility easement for these power lines and use it. We dont think its right. Not long after we leave Carl, highway 94 begins a rugged clumb out of the valley. My 18 gears get me over the hills; Johns ten put him on foot up the steepest. John has developed a strategy to attack these hills. As he sees one coming, he accelerates to maximum speed, pulling far ahead of me. He counts on momentum to carry him up the hill. Once or twice, it works. Usually, though, I grind past him as he pushes his bike toward the summit. We have figured on making it to Jefferson City by noon, but its after one as we approach the Missouri River bridge, the State capital off to our left. Hold up, Ed, John shouts. I pull to the shoulder and stop. Weve only got one lane and lots of traffic. The bridge ahead is showing by overhead lights that only one lane is open to traffic entering town. Whatll we do? I can feel the concern in Johns voice. No choice. We cross the bridge. Theyre as much our problem as we are theirs. Lets go. Past the capital and down Main Street, we are shortly at the Baptist Building. I had been told to show up here and someone
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would take us home for the night. John Dowdy, Director of Missions for the Missouri Baptist Convention, volunteers. He draws us a map to his house. Two more miles of hills bring us to Johns home, where Joycelyn, his wife, welcomes us. While my John and Joycelyn are gone to the store to get supper, John Dowdy and I sit at the kitchen counter and talk. I have known John for several years, since he invited me to come to Windemere, our state Baptist assembly, to speak to associational missionaries from around the state about the six metropolitan areas in Missouri. We have talked only a few minutes when John turns the conversation to their daughter who committed suicide two years ago. We knew she was having trouble. She thought nobody liked her. We loved her, and she had lots of friends. But somehow, she couldnt believe that. She told Joycelyn she didnt feel well that morning and asked to stay home. Joycelyn came home at noon to check on her and found her in the car in the garage with the motor running. Lots of people came to the funeral. No one could understand why she killed herself. It nearly killed us. But were putting our lives back together. We have accepted the fact that if she wanted to kill herself there was nothing we could do to stop her. Were learning not to blame ourselves. I tell John that the one thing I dont think I could survive is the death of one of my children. He didnt think he could either. But you have no choice, he tells me. Life has to go on. Other people need you. As we eat dinner, Rod Smith comes from Channel 13 to film a story about my ride for the evening news. John calls Ralph Sawyer, pastor at Syracuse, about 40 miles west on Highway 50. We will get there tomorrow and spend the night with Ralphs family. I will have a chance to tell Ralphs church about my ride during Sunday School the next morning. Then we will ride the 30 miles to Knob Noster where Ill speak in Tom Brays church during the evening service and spend the night. As we ride out of Jeff City this morning, Im thinking about
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the hundreds of people with me in my head. Anyone seeing me pass by would see only me on the bike, but really there are hundreds. All those who have wished me well, said they would pray for me, given me food, lodging and everything I need: All are with me constantly. Without their help, Im helpless. Without the memory of their goodness in my head, my will to do this thing would waver, making the next problem enough to persuade me to stop. The good thing about their being in my head instead of with me on the road is that I never need wonder about their comfort or safety. The paradox is that one person with me on the road drives the hundreds out of my head. When riding, we are usually separated by enough distance to make conversation impossible. But Im constantly looking for that person in my rear view mirror. Always wondering if he needs to stop. To rest. To eat. To drink. What is John getting from being with me and involved in this thing? Thats what I can not know. It must be something good to get him out in the traffic, the heat, and the uncertainty of depending on those we meet. I cannot overlook the possibility that something that happens to John or Mac or Bob or Jean or one of the others who will appear to ride with me will be a significant outcome of this whole adventure. John figures the A.H.P.M. declines as we move west from St. Louis. John is a physicist and is always measuring things. Several times since leaving St. Louis we have encountered drivers who yell at us or make obscene gestures. Most of them appear the first day or two and now are fewer in number. Today we encounter just one, a male driver in his twenties. As he draws abreast of me he slows his car, leans across the young woman in the passengers seat, and begins to yell at me through the open window. Do you know you could get run over? I cant make out what else he says as he passes. But his body language and his volume make his anger obvious. In slowing to pass us and to deliver his message, he ignores the traffic behind him. Three cars are on his bumper when he gets his mind back to his driving and speeds away. Thats one today, John says when the noise abates. And weve been nearly 20 miles. Coming out of St. Louis, we had one
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A.H. every two miles. Dont those people bother you? John wants to know. No, I choose to ignore them. I wont let them ruin my day. I choose instead to remember the people who encourage me, the ones who tell me I inspire them and give them courage. I literally forget the others. Ten miles up the road we stop in California, Missouri. At a gas station Sandy Taylor bounces in to ask, Are you the one I saw last night on T.V.? When I say yes, she presses on John a wad of bills from her billfold as a contribution to M.S. and the Human Family Reunion. Then Sandy takes a flyer and makes sure she knows where to send other money. Sandy works at a turkey factory in town. You inspire me, she says as she hugs me. Then she runs to her car and drives away. Thats what keeps me going, John. I choose to ignore the ones I annoy and think about the ones I inspire. And Ive noticed something about the few people who yell at us. They are never alone. And they are always male. They are showing off for their friends, being a big man for that short moment. If they need that to be somebody, I dont want to take it away from them. Im beginning to understand, John says. Ralph and Sherri Sawyer moved to Syracuse from Dallas with their three small children just four months ago. Ralph has a degree in psychology from Oklahoma State and will soon graduate from Criswell Bible Institute, and this is his first full-time church. John and I get to Syracuse about 12:30. We pedal quickly through the town of 200, past the boarded up businesses and the cafe where several people sit and are visible through the window. We wheel into a service station when it seems we are leaving town. I lose control of my bike in the loose gravel and fall. Im more concerned with what the people watching must think than with the few scratches I get. A driver who is gassing up tells me we have passed the church. Its back past the cafe and about 100 yards up a gravel road to the right. The Sawyers live next to the church. When we get there,
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Sherri has lunch about ready. Ralph comes from the church, and the seven of us sit at the dining table to eat. Six year old Angela, four year old Teresa, and two year old Andrew dont quite know what to make of John and me. Before long, though, the two older ones have warmed up to us and are offering their toys for us to see. After lunch, we sit in the living room floor and tell the children about Disney World and our bicycles. Ralph and Sherri plan to home teach Angela. They are concerned aobut the influence of peers on children and about the spritual perspective of public school teachers. Ralph and Sherri were members of former Southern Baptist Convention President Jimmy Drapers church in Eulis, Texas, and about 300-400 families in the church are home teaching their children. Everybody in Texas knows about home teaching. Up here in Missouri nobody knows. But Missouri law is good about it. You have to register and keep a journal. The kids have to be tested to see what they have learned. Before I left home, Dave Baker said he would plan his work schedule so he could ride with me the last two or three days into Kansas City. I had tried to call him before, but no one was ever home. In Jefferson City I finally got him, and he said he will meet us in Knob Noster. I also called Greg Bakewell from Jeff City, and he is to meet us in here Syracuse. Greg is a bank examiner, an avid biker, husband of Karen, a member of the nursing faculty at Jewell, officed across the hall from me. Greg has to be back at work Monday morning, but he wants to ride with us as far as he can. Ralph told me shortly after we got to his house that he heard the interview Mike Schmidt did with me on KMOX in St. Louis, and he saw the TV program Rod Smith did last night from Jeff City. And when John Dowdy called to ask if you could stay with us, that clinched it. I had to be involved. As we get ready for Sunday School the next morning, Ralph is prepared for a smaller than usual attendance. One family has told him they are going to Worlds of Fun in Kansas City. And in a small church, lots of people are related. So when one family goes some-
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where, several others usually go. The adults all gather for Sunday School in the sanctuary, and Im pleasantly surprised at the number. After I have finished my talk, Anne Zumsteg comes to me. Anne is a trim woman about my age. Thirty-two years ago in a car wreck she lost her left leg below the knee. Anne skis, and she tells me that her ambition is to play shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals. Or to play the organ at the stadium. The twinkle in her eye and the way she holds her head make me think she could do either one. Annes great-grandfather homesteaded a section near Syracuse, and Anne has lived all her life on the home place. She is a teacher in the local high school. She is upbeat, optimistic, eager to talk about her leg and all she can do on her artificial leg. She spends lots of time cheering people up. Greg Bakewell meets us after church. He, John and I leave at noon for the 40 mile ride to Knob Noster. Highway 50 is crowded with lake traffic and impatient drivers. When we arrive about five oclock in Knob Noster, John says this has been his least pleasant day. The traffic congestion and noise took away the fun. The highlight of todays ride comes as we are resting beneath some shade trees about 15 yards off the road in someones yard. I look up to see a young couple approaching. They must be the owners of this house, coming to see what were up to in their yard. Ed Chasteen, good to see you. And the young man sticks out his hand. Im Eric Arner. This is my wife, Gail. Were Jewell alums. Weve been reading about you and seeing you on TV. And we saw you here as we drove by. Hows it going? I tell them all I can pack into 10 minutes, ending by inviting them to the picnic on the quad at Jewell at noon on Wednesday. Tom and Barbara Bray are standing in front of the church as we pull into Knob Noster. Quick as a flash, were at the parsonage downing iced tea and cokes, followed by a hot shower. All the Brays bedrooms are spoken for tonight and probably for many nights to come. Tom and Barbara run Grand Central Station; people are coming and going, reveling in one anothers company for the two hours
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we are here before we all go to the evening service. Soon as we get to Knob Noster, Greg loads his bike on his car and heads for Kansas City. He drove to Knob Noster this morning and biked to Syracuse, where he met us just as church was over and rode back to Knob Noster with us. His job doesnt allow many 80mile days on his bike. To church at seven, Tom tells his people what Im doing, then turns the service over to me to tell my story. From the moment I stand, I can sense the congregation with me. Knowing that, causes my story to dance out of my mouth and into their hearts: I see it in their eyes and in the rapt expression on their faces. When I ask them at the end to help me figure out what is happening, they are quick to respond. You are being used by God, says a man near the back. Others murmer agreement. Do you know how uncomfortable I am with that notion? I ask. Who am I that God would want to use me? I could never say about myself the thing you just said. The very thought of it scares me to death. Im deeply grateful that some see such meaning in what Im doing. But I cant give it a name. Something deep inside resists. What I can tell you, what I must tell you, is that I have to ride this bicycle across the country; I have to visit with people and share with them my dream of a world where people like each other, and everyone expects good from everone else. And because I expect good, I can trust people to draw their own conclusions about the meaning of what I do and why I do it. Im trusting people to meet my needs for food and shelter. I must trust them, too, to make up their own minds about my motivation. Even as I ride, newspapers in every town I pass through carry stories about one television preacher laid low by a sex scandal, while another is up in a tower saying God will kill him if people dont send him eight million dollars. The ease with these two and their legions of counterparts invoke God prompts in me a reluctance I cant overcome. Not from action do I shrink, but from explaining
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it, from describing it in the stained glass voice so loud in our land. Tom tapes all of this and tells me he will send it far and wide to people and places this church ministers to. Even to Brussels, where some of Toms former members are stationed. Knob Noster is home to Whiteman Air Force and the B-1 Stealth bomber, and many of the service people, formerly members of first Baptist Church, Knob Noster, are scattered around the world. Bobbie is in Brussels right now. Wouldnt she die if she turned on the radio in her hotel or the van they plan to rent and heard me telling about my trip? After church, many people come to say kind and encouraging things to me. And it is this brief one-on-one conversation that most energizes me. To take their hand and stand close and speak quietly of things that matter deeply to us, things we cant often bring ourselves to mention, is to stand with one foot in heaven. And it is in moments like this that I find my voice for the things I cannot say to an audience. Or in a book. Then back to the Brays for dinner. A big group is present, and as we eat and talk I feel good all over. I can feel the love. See it in faces, hear its voices. This is not a feeling Ive had often in my life. But occasionally at church it happens. And the hope of it happening again is enough to keep me coming back. Marian and Ann Morgan had arrived at the Brays shortly after we did. They had been members of the Brays church in Madisonville, Kentucky. Wherever you find the Brays, you find people who love them and each other. Marian says to us all several times during the evening. Ann mentions the Emmaus Movement and tells me I would find a ready audience for my message among them. Explaining the movement, Ann uses the word crilliso. A bell rings. Lynn! Atlanta! The four day weekend! Nothing is ever just coincidence: Dorothys dictum. Early this morning Dave is back. After a huge breakfast from Barbaras kitchen, we take to the road. Another rider has joined us. Harry Fenwick is in the Air Force and stationed at Whiteman. Harry was at the Brays last night for dinner and said if he could get off
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today he wanted to ride with us. On the way out of town, we stop by to see the water fowl aviary Tom Bray started years ago. Toms house is filled with winged life, mounted, drawn and photographed. Magazines and books compliment his passion for life that inhabits the heavens. About five miles out of Knob Noster an oncoming car honks several times and the drikver motions to us. We pull off the road and stop while the car turns around and comes back to us. Travis Pryor, a reporter for the Warrensburg Daily Star Journal wants some pictures and a story. Tom Bray had called the paper. Theres a storm coming. The sky is dark. Purple clouds boil and churn all around us, so low we can almost touch them. The air is still. Too still. And we wait for the bottom to drop out. But its cool. Harry has to drop out after 25 miles and return to Knob Noster. He did well on a clunker bike and with no time to train. I hope the rain holds off until he gets home. Tom has arranged for us to stay tonight with his married daughter in Independence. Tom is a Jewell alum, and his daughter, Martha, had been in my clas some years ago. When we get to Marthas, nobody is home. A note is taped to the front door telling us to go next door to get the key, then to go in and make ourselves at home. We do. When Martha and her husband, Dave, get home we have a good dinner catered by Colonel Sanders. And good conversation. We wake to find that a thunderstorm laid siege to Kansas City and environs last night. Downed tree limbs give evidence of the storm this morning as we pedal into downtown Kansas City, but we had all been tired enough that we slept through it Its only a short ride from Marthas and Daves in Independence to John Pritchards office at Habitat for Humanitys Kansas City office. We are there by noon as I promised John we would be when I talked to him on the phone from Syracuse. But I didnt know John would have lunch for us. If I had known, I might not have stopped by Rubys on the way in. One the other hand, I might have stopped anyway. I hadnt seen Ruby since about a month before I left. Rubys Soul Food Cafe, 1506 Brooklyn. A dump! A bit of heaven! Ruby. Earth mother. As
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fine a cook as ever lived. As beautiful a soul as ever visited among us. We could not ride past. We hug and kiss. She has to know about the trip. She has kept up with me in the papers and on TV, the same way I, and all of Kansas city, regularly keep up with her. Partly to excuse leaving without eating and without spending enough time, I say to Ruby that we will be back at two oclock. And though I dont ask, I know she will serve us family style, with wave after wave of mouth watering foods; salads of every conceivable kind, fried chicken, chicken and dressing, chicken and dumplings, smothered steak, baked ham, catfish, meatloaf, neckbones, miced greens, homemade rolls and cornbread. And when we have been made miserable by gluttony, Ruby will insist that we visit the desert table: peach and cherry cobler, sweet potato pie, apple pie, banana pudding, pecan pie, several cakes, and homemade ice cream. Of course, everything at Rubys is homemade. She would give me a good cussing if she thought you thought otherwise. Though there are only two of us, and to eat family style requires 12, I was never more certain of anything in my life than that we will not be given a menu to order from. Of one more thing I am equally certain: it will all be on the house. Ruby wouldnt take our money if we put a gun to her head. So when we get to Habitat and see that they have lunch for us, I know we have to eat twice. John and Mary Pritchard are remarkable people. They live in Liberty, and I have known them for the 22 years Ive been there. Every time I see John, my first thought is of the remark I first made to him years ago and have repeated often to him. John, I said, I cant go anywhere in the Kansas City area where good and noble things are done without seeing your name on the board of directors, or a plaque or a cornerstone or without hearing your name mentioned in conversation. I would never turn down anything John and Mary offered. They have made a sizable financial contribution to my ride and had been at the airport to see me off. They had also given me the name of one of their daughters on the west coast for me to contact when I get there.
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We would have eaten more if we had not known what was waiting at Rubys. But we did eat. After lunch, John takes us to the building site where volunteers from a college in Illinios are working, and he calls them together so I can talk to them. Were back at Rubys at two and everything transpires just as I knew it would. After an hour and a half of eating, resting, and visiting, the two of us stagger onto our bikes for the short ride back to Habitat where we are scheduled to spend the night before riding to Liberty tomorrow for the giant welcome on campus. We detour slightly to ride up Prospect and through the heart of the Back community as we make our way back. When someone calls to me, I stop. He wants to know all about the trip. When we get back to Habitat, John is sick. All that food, the heat, and that last little ride have him ready to go home. He has already arranged with John Pritchard to go back to Liberty when he comes up to our fourth floor rooms where we are to sleep. John asks if I want to go. We can leave our bikes here. Sharon, his wife, will bring us back in the morning so we can bike the 20 miles to Liberty. At first I say no, I will stay at Habitat. But the thought of sleeping in my own bed and sitting in the Jacuzzi to ease my aching back proves irresistible. Bobbie is in Europe, but Dave is home. And when I get there, he is glad to see me. We talk for a long time, longer at one time than we have in years. I feel good to know my grown son is proud of his father and anxious to hear of his experiences. By eight-thirty the next morning, John, Dave and I are back at Habitat, ready for our ride to Liberty. With time to spare, the three of us bike around downtown Kansas City. I show John and Dave the sights I often bring my students from Jewell to visit. We make a quick visit to the Westside Mexican-American community, where we stop at Sacred Heart rectory to talk with Father Mike Walker. Mike was at the Human Family Reunion we had at Pitkos Croation Restaurant just before I left. He has often been to my classes, and Ive had studentsa down to talk to him about problems in the community and to hear him preach. We ride through Columbus Park, the Italian-American com-
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munity, and past Jennies Italian Restautant, where owner, Tom Barelli, has hosted two Human Family Reunions and dozens of smaller student groups. We cross the Missouri River into North Kansas City via the recently completed Heart of America Bridge, the awkward looking super structure of the now abandoned ASB Bridge looming off to our left. We are a couple of miles past North Kansas City on 210 and traffic is heavy when Dave asks if I want to get out of the traffic, and he points to an intersecting road I know from past rides will bring us out at the right place. Cant do it, Dave. I told them our route. Someone may be waiting for us. Not a hundred yards further, we pass a car parked on the shoulder. I notice a TV emblem on the door, and the car pulls in behind us. Shortly, we are joined by another. One of them motions us to a stop at the entrance to Worlds of Fun, Lamar Hunts giant amusement park that lies off to our right where the Barness farm was until a few years ago. After a short interview, were back on the road. The other car follows us into Liberty. Ive been told by Mary Spidel, from Jewells PR Department, that I should stop at the County Courthouse in the center of town to wait for children being brought by the colleges big red London double-decker bus to be part of the festivities. As I wait, Steve Smith, the TV reporter from the second car talks to me for a long time. Steve is with ACTS, the Christian television network. He tells me that someone from the Dallas office will be in touch with me at the end of my trip. After the bus comes and other bike riders join us, we make the three block ride to the campus. The William Jewell campus is small. All the buildings face each other around a central quadrangle. The quad today is filled with folding chairs, and a podium has been set up in front of the library. People are everywhere. Im given a seat beside the podium. And the celebration begins. The sun is fierce, hotter than Ive run into so far all summer. Sweat pours from every pore. And from every person as far as I can see. But I wouldnt miss this for the world. All the people who made this possible are here. To be here with them in this place that means
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the world to me is heaven on earth. Dick Brown steps to the mike. In turn, Dick introduces those who are to say good things about me and my ride. But Dick himself is the star of the show. Dick graduated from Jewell shortly after I joined the faculty. In the years since he had acquired a reputation as a fine actor and was regularly seen in local productions and read about in those more distant. Handsome and articulate, Dick was in demand as a model and spokesman. Now after three strokes, Dicks stage career is over. His left arm will not work, and he walks with a limp, dragging his left leg. His voice is as magnificent as ever, but it is his spirit that makes him glow and draws people to him. This coming fall Dick will join the Jewell faculty to teach theater. He is here today at high noon in the glaring sun to MC. this beautiful gathering of my dear friends. The children have brought big signs on butcher paper lettered with crayons to give me. They beam and glow as they step up in small groups to hand me their treasures. And nothing given to me by any dignitary could ever touch me as these crude signs framed with innocence and tied with trust. The formal ceremony is mercifully brief. Today this quad is a natural sauna. The buildings on all four sides have stilled the air. Theres not a cloud in the sky, and the sun directly overhead is sucking moisture at a rapid rate from every living thing. When Dick welcomes me to the mike to address the several hundred who have come, I come dripping. And anxious. Alls right with my world. Ive come 1700 miles by bicycle to see you. Im glad youre here. Whether I make it all the way to California is not important to me just now. All that matters is that when Im out there on the road, I know you love me. And I love you. Each of you is on the bicycle with me. You are ever gentle on my mind. When I am tired and cannot go on, you take over. Anyone watching, would see only me on the bike, but appearances can be deceiving, just as the earth to the unaided eye seems flat. The fact is that for long stretches, for hours at a time, I am not on that bicycle. Im back here at home. And you are riding for me. Its your muscles
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that ache and hurt. Its you that sweats, that gets hungry and thirsty. You are my home court advatage, because no matter where I am, there you are also. After the ceremonies have ended, Im surrounded by children wanting to give me something they have made and wanting me to write my name on scraps of paper they have scrounged. I could have stayed all day with these precious children, but its time for their lunch, and they must be back soon to their accustomed summer place. When they have gone, I have a time too brief with Marvin Wright and Jewell Schoolfield and Mary Spidel and Charlotte Legg and others Ive spent phone time with while on the road. Marilyn Rhoads is in charge of the college cafeteria and buys my lunch in the Cage, our campus snackbar, so named because the Cardinal is our mascot. Jewell talks to me as I eat. John and I had planned to spend the afternoon separately writing up our ride across Missouri. But when I get home in the early afternoon to a cool house, a hot tub and my own bed, all plans change. The big red college bus is taking my big red bike and me into Kansas City this morning. The Caldonian Pipe Band is also going, along with a contingent of Liberty People. At noon, we will all gather in the lobby of the new AT&T Town Pavillion for a welcoming ceremony given by AT&T and the M.S. Society. The Town Pavilion is Kansas Citys newest and currently tallest downtown building. Standing here just inside the Main Street entrance, looking up into the glass and chrome atrium stretching upward for eight floors, it does seem that everythings up to date in Kansas City. The sound of bagpipes carries into far-flung cavities, reverberating off hard surfaces and echoing back on itself, sounding as if kilt-clad pipers are marching down every hallway and on every floor. Bill Covington and Jerry Prideaux from AT&T, Joyce Nelson for the M.S. Society and Vicky Davis from Eastern Airlines say good things about my ride. Friends I havent seen in years come
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after the short program to wish me well. Al Krietler his here with Killer. Al gave me a set of the rollers he makes for indoor training so I could ride during the winters snows. The Killer Headwind Trainer, he calls his rollers, named for the tiny dog he always carries in the bib pocket of his blue overalls. At two oclock, I meet Yahya at the Gregg Community Center for a ride through the black community to the Freedom Fountain a few miles east. Al Brooks is here. And Larry Schumake. And Lucile Bluford. And Shah Waliallah. All long time friends; all prominent community builders in the Kansas City area. Al is Director of the Human Relations Department for Kansas City, Larry is Director of the Black Economic Union, Lucile is Editor of the Kansas City Call, and Shah is Imam at Masjid (Mosque) Ahmed. All this has been arranged by Yahya Furqan, Imam at Masjid Omar, a dear friend and Chariman of the Faith Committee that planned my ride. None of those asked to serve on this committee refused, and membership included major religious communities and races: Father Milan Bajich, Pastor of St. George Serbian Orthodox Church; Rev. Vern Barnett, Director of the Center for Religious Experience and Study; Rev. Bob Brumet, Pastor of Overland Park Unity; Dennis Jenkins, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints; Rabbi Mark Levin, Temple Bnai Jehudah; Jim McKinney, Heart of America Indian Center; Rev. George Steincross, Pastor, Second Baptist Church, Liberty; Rev. Webster West, Pastor, King Solomon Baptist Church, Kansas City, Kansas. In the world as I would have it, these religious communities and races would regularly work together on projects to benefit them all. To my knowledge, though, BikeAmerica is the only project being worked on jointly this summer. Yesterday at Jewell, this morning at AT&T, now at the Gregg Community Center and in a while at the Freedom Fountain, The Human Family Reunion has come alive. From the hearts and minds and souls of The Faith Committee has sprung this gathering of young and old, black and white Christian, Jew, and Muslim. As we stand in the shade of the mobile stage brought to the
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lawn of the Gregg Center for this occasion, we feel warm and safe and secure. To know that we are here to celebrate our family ties, that it has taken us all of our lives to come to this place for this purpose, that after today we may never again come together: all of this gives to each second of our sharing today an eternal significance that we all intuitively recognize. And as each of those who address the assemblage steps to the mike, we embrace. And without embarassment or reservation or planning, each of us says almost in unison, I love you, my friend. Bob and Jean are with me again. And on their tandem, they ride across the city like the pied piper, an entourage of children in their wake. Before we leave the Gregg Center and again when we get to the Freedom Fountain, Bob breaks out his tools for emergency repairs to a childs bike; his payment, a smile and an energetic pedaling away. Shah is near my age, and he pedals to the Fountain and back to the Center on his young sons bike with its banana seat, handlebars above his head and frame so small that he cannot extend his legs to pedal. Yahyas bicycle is borrowed from a friend who must be a giant; its the biggest bike Ive ever seen, a frame so large that mounting and dismounting is the trickiest part of the ride. Biking the tree-lined streets through the black community as integrated riders, calling and waving to everyone I see, being responded to in kind, kindles in me a feeling I havent felt since high school when I strode the halls of Huntsville High yelling out greetings to students, teachers, administrators, and anybody else who chanced to be about. Bob loads the tandem and my bike into his station wagon when the ride is over. Then we drop by Arthur Bryants for one of their giant barbeque sandwiches, a Big Red in a stryfoam glass and a heaping mound of the best French fries in Kansas City, potatoes cut by hand into big slices with the skin still on, cooked to tender perfection and piping hot, with an outer crust over a meaty and moist interior. Then back to Liberty. To the Jacuzzi for my aching back. And another conversation with son, Dave, before I leave
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tomorrow for the rest of my ride: two and a half more months on the road and on my own. I need to get away fast this morning. Especially after Dave and I go to breakfast, and we talk to each other from the heart. I dont want to go, but I have to. Everybody is so proud of what Im doing. They all hate to see me leave. At a level they could never voice, they dont think I can do this thing; but at an even deeper level, a level beyond the conscious, an inarticulate level except perhaps to Shakespeare, they would die if I did not get back on my bicycle and go. They ride with me. They need my adventure to think about. Their life would be less this summer without this adventure of ours. I love these dear people. And because I do, I must leave them. In my leaving, we share a bold mission that enriches each of us. Despondency and defeat would wash over all of us if I were to quit. That billboard Jerry Cain had put up on the quad is drawing interest from everywhere. That giant map of the United States shows my route from Orlando to Seattle and down to Los Angeles. Tiny holes have been drilled at towns along way. Each day as I report in by phone, someone on campus puts a golf tee at the appropriate place. So hundreds of people know where I am everyday and follow my progress closely. When I first started thinking about this ride and the route I would take, I thought I would stay south, across Louisiana into Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and into California. But when I thought of this, it raised in me the same feeling I get thinking about going to the dentist. I wanted no part of the Mojave Desert. I had no initial notion of coming through Kansas City on my way west. I might be tempted not to go on. Parting again from loved ones would be painful. On the other hand, to be briefly at home midway in my journey could be an oasis, reviving my enthusiasm and renewing my energy. When those people I first talked to about my ride asked when I would be back through Kansas City and described the celebration they would like to have, I knew they had made the decision for me: Kansas City, here I come.
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A little more than 1,700 miles I have come when I roll into Kansas City on June 23rd. Where to from here? Since Milt Albright had said yes to my request to be in a parade and to meet Mickey, my destination is now Disneyland. But not as the crow flies. Before Milts offer, Jerry Cain had recommended going from Orlando to Seattle. I loved the idea instantly. East to west and south to north had a symmetry to the sound that caught me in its spell. As chaplain at our college, Jerry is accustomed to painting word pictures to help people catch visions. And he had done it again. Years earlier on one of our long summer sojourns in our little tent camper with our three kids and the dog, I had first caught sight of the Grand Teton. Such majesty I had only imagined before. Why the ancients had their gods living in the mountains had made no sense to me B.T.Before Teton. So I knew I had to bike through Grand Teton National Park. And its a package deal: if Teton, then also Yellowstone. The only road into Coulter Bay and Grand Teton National Park runs north and west to Grant village in Yellowstone National Park. And though I was a bicycle teacher rather than a bicycle tourist, I was anxious to pedal in and through these cathedrals of the infinite and eternal. I was grateful for the outpouring of support during the campus ceremony on Wednesday, the AT&T festivities on Thursday, and the Gregg Community Center gathering that afternoon. And the ride from Gregg Community Center to Freedom Fountain with black youngsters was a highlight. To ride through the Black community, blacks and white together, calling to everyone we met along the way was further demonstration of the power and possibility of the Human Family Reunion. Then to sit and eat last night with Carol and Charlie Rogers, Loretta, Charlie, Sarah and Aaron Hughes, to relax with these Ive been close to for years, to have them ask about my travels and listen as good friends do; then offer words of support, occasionally irreverent observations, and lots of laughter, heart-felt questions. Then, when time to part: hugs and tears. And Im grateful as I crawl into the back seat of Carols car
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that she has volunteered to drive me to Lincoln. On the way, she and her mother ask questions about my ride from Orlando. And I tell them. Probably more than they want to hear. But Im so grateful that they are willing to listen. Alone on a bicycle just now, my mind would be locked onto home, the people who love me. And how I hate to leave them. So out of Kansas City early on this morning, we head northwest toward Lincoln in Carols car. The United States is a big country and summers are short. I have to make my trip between the time school is out in May and it begins again in late August. And since I have never done any cross country biking before, I have little way of knowing what its going to be like. Can I hold up for day after day of riding? Will the mountains and the heat do me in? Im not even sure how far I will have to pedal. All the mileage figures I can get are for cars going the most direct route. But I cant travel interstates. Its illegal. Not to mention boring. And because the whole purpose of this trip is to talk to people, I have to travel roads that take me to them. How much farther will that be? How much longer will it take? As best I can figure in the little time Im willing to give to worrying about details, I will have time to pedal 3,000 miles. Since that will not get me where I need to be, I must catch a ride here and there with a willing motorist. The 180 miles from Kansas City to Lincoln seem made to order for putting my bike in someones car. Im familiar with this part of the country, and its near enough that I can bike it some other time. Better to get farther west so I will have more riding time in unfamiliar places. But as I get into Carols car this morning for the drive to Lincoln, Im painfully aware of the more important reason for not biking away from Liberty. Im not sure I could. I need to get away fast. And I need to be talking to someone so I wont be thinking about what Im doing. If I had to pedal slowly away from home, past the houses and the little towns Ive biked by before, meeting people I know, people who would want to talk and would invite me in, I dont think I could stand it.
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Carol Rogers is a long time friend. She and Bobbie teach second grade in adjoining rooms at Ridgeview Elementary School in Liberty. Bobbie and I and Carol and Charlie visit often on Friday evenings in the winter when their two daughters are not involved in some band event at school. While Bobbie and Carol talk about school, Charlie and I discuss all the friends we have in common from our years together at South Liberty Baptist Church. Bobbie and I changed churches some years back when the church was split over the firing of a pastor. While at South Liberty Baptist Church, though, the Rogers had been members with us and four other couples of a share group that had met weekly for several years. In talking about the problems we were having with our children, our parents, our jobs, with each other, with our faith, and with life, we had grown close. Terrible problems visited our group. One couple is now divorced. Two have moved away. Parents have died. Children have disappointed and hurt. Faith has grown weak. Each Christmas the remnants of our group assemble, along with mutual friends, to renew our ties and to catch up on the happenings of the past year in each of our lives. For the past three years, these Christmas gatherings have been held at Rubys Soul Food Cafe. We have gone there in the South Liberty Church bus. It was at Rubys that Carol learned of my wanting someone to drive me to Lincoln. Its a little after eight in the morning when we have the bike loaded in the trunk of Carols car and we are on our way. Carol has invited her mother to ride along so I can tell her about my trip and so Carol will have company on the way back home. Were paying so much attention to what were saying that we dont see the sign. When we stop for gas, the attendant doesnt know how far Lincoln is. Odd. It should be on 10 to 15 miles on up the road. But he finds a map. We have passed Lincoln. Its a good 65 miles southwest of us, and were better than an hour late getting to the lunch that Debbie Elliot has waiting for us at her home in Lincoln.
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Nebraska
We are scheduled to be at the Elliotts by lunchtime. Ron graduated from Jewell a few years ago and from Midwestern Baptist Seminary recently. While on campus last spring, Ron heard about my trip and discovered I was to pass through Lincloln where he is pastor of a Baptist Church. After a delicious lunch, Carol and her mother leave for home about two oclock. I ache as I see them leave; at the same time, Im anxious to begin the second part of my trek across America. Ron has called the newspaper and TV people, and after lunch Ron gets in his car to lead me into town and to the Lincoln StarJournal, where we are scheduled to meet with Debra Emery who will write a story for the paper. Debra and I talk for about an hour, then we go out to the street so Dan Sulaney can get a picture of me on the bicycle for tomorrows paper. After we get back to the Elliotts, Ron borrows a bicycle from a neighbor, and we go on an hours tour of the area. I spend the evening at the Elliotts playing with and being entertained by their three small children: Rachel, Linda, and Jeremy. Deana Coggins, a summer Missionary from Birmingham, Alabama, is working in Rons church and living with them; we talk about her school and mine. A TV crew shows up while were eating breakfast; they record my oatmeal on film, and we talk in the garage. Mike Tobias and Molly Miller are from KOLN-TV; we have a short, animated conversation about the Human Family Reunion, Multiple Sclerosis, and the adventure of riding across the country. Ron borrows a bike from another neighbor and rides with me out to highway 34; the TV crew rides along, filming as we go. At this point, the ride is not going as I had planned. The idea was to catch rides across Nebraska, stopping for a night in each of the three towns I had decided would be good places to spread the word about the reunion. But no one I talked to in Lincoln could help me with rides. Nothing to do, then, but to hit the road and see what happens.
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All day long I ride into the wind; at 4:15 Im in Grand Island. This is where I was planning to spend the night, where it says on the cards I had printed that I will be on this date. My speedometer shows Ive been exactly 100 miles when I see the office of the Grand Island Independent. At this time on a Saturday afternoon, I dont expect the paper to be open, but I find the back door unlocked. Jim Faddis listens to my story; we go out into the street for a picture. Its shortly after 5 p.m. when I find the Kindles house. Peter is pastor of Immanuel Baptist Church; he has been here a year. Hes from Ft. Worth, Texas and went to Southwestern Seminary some years out of college, after working as an accountant for a major business. Ron Elliott had called Peter from Lincoln to ask if they could put me up and perhaps let me say a few words in church. Janice Kindle is home when I arrive and quickly makes me feel at home. Peter is out visiting but is home a little after six. Then we all go to a church social, where I consume a large portion of the 10,000 calories a day I need to keep those pedals going: three hamburgers piled high with lettuce and tomatoes, carrot and celery sticks, grapes, chips, several cans of pop, three heaping plates of cookies and pie, and everything else nobody else wants. We play croquet for a while. Peter invites me to join them for miniature golf, but Im tired and ready for bed; so he takes me home. Ill be behind schedule after today. No way can I ride the 150 miles to North Platte tomorrow, much less the 180 from there to Scottsbluff the next day. I doubt Ill make Casper by July 4 as scheduled. Two months from today Ill be in Disneyland. We will have our L.A. Human Family Reunion. What will happen then? What will I be when I have pedaled that last mile? Bobbie wont be working this fall. The kids will be gone. Ill have a book to write. Speaking engagements. The Human Family Reunion to develop. I cant wait to see how it all works out, but I dont want this moment to pass. Here at the Kindles, sitting in the dark in their living room, no one in the house but me, I am soothed and sustained by such an
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abiding sense of peace and purpose that I want never to loose it. This morning I bike to Sunday School with Rebekah and Joshua. They had shown me their bikes right after I got here yesterday. And when this morning I mention to Janice wanting to ride my bike to church so people there can see it, both children ask their mother if they can ride with me. We get to church some 45 minutes early. As people come in for Sunday School, it is obvious from the caring way Peter greets them that he loves them and they love him. This feeling is reinforced during the worship hour as Peter stands before his congregation to preach. Todd Morgan is teacher of the Sunday School class I attend. Todd is a young man I take to be near 30; his knowledge of the lesson and his ability to apply it to situations those who listen can identify with quickly have me wanting to know him better. After the preaching hour, I find my way to Todd. He invites me to his home for lunch. After biking back to the Kindles with Joshua and Rebekah, I find my way then to Todds. Wife Brenda has a delicious spaghetti lunch waiting, and we sit down with their three young children to eat. As we eat, Todd tells me about his job problems. He had a job with the railroad, then with another company. Both times his job was cut because of the poor economy. Now hes selling cars for a local dealer. When Todd asks about my route from Grand Island, his eyes light up. My parents live in Hershey, just out of North Platte, and by brother, Jerry, lives in Bridgesport. Thats about halfway between North Platte and Scottsbluff. Ill call them. Theyd be happy to put you up. In accepting Todds offer, Im also accepting my late arrival in North Platte and Scottsbluff. But I cant refuse. Not only is his offer the only viable option I have at this moment, but just the fact he offered commits me to accepting. I leave the Morgans about 2:30 for the 45 mile ride to Kearney. Todd and Peter have given me the names of the Calvary Baptist pastor, and the Director of Missions. Having these two names, and given
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the time of day I leave Grand Island, I decide to spend the night in Kearney. Arriving in Kearney about 10 minutes before seven, I call the church from a gas station. Services are just finishing and people are leaving. I arrive at the church about seven oclock and explain my mission to the people on the lawn. One man has seen me on TV out of Lincoln and begins to tell the others about me. Joe Barber invites me to his home. They ate before church but his wife, Xan, fixes me supper. Joe teaches business at Kearney State College. They came here from Alabama two years ago. The Lord led us here, Joe says. This is an unsaved community. The PTL scandal makes it hard for us to reach them. After supper Joe, Xan, and I talk about my ride. Joe promises to tell a group he meets with about it. To encourage pledges. And for prayer. This is a close, affectionate family. The two small sons laugh and play with their two dogs in the living room as Joe, Xan, the older daughter and I sit and talk. A Christian radio station preaches and sings in the background. A lightning and thunder storm lights up and rocks the sky, giving me even more reason to be grateful to be here. Joe is a Gideon; and he gives me a New Testament to take with me. Then Joe spends time going over my route from Kearney to North Platte. Joe is teaching summer school and has to leave for class at 7 a.m. in the morning. Ill leave then for North Platte, 95 miles away. Then 175 to Scottsbluff; another 116 to Casper. Joe thinks Im headed north of the high mountains; getting to Casper should be possible by the fourth. Joe had surgery on the rotary cuff of his left arm in March. Hes in constant pain. As we talk, he lies on the floor holding a can of vegetables from the pantry in his hand and lifting it back and forth across his body to exercise his shoulder. He offers me some crackers and pop. I cant burp, he says. I take this before bed; otherwise I cant sleep. I spent $83,000 on doctors. Finally found this remedy by experimenting. Reluctantly, I say good night to Joe, Xan, and Cindy about 10:15. The younger children have gone to bed earlier.
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Its cool this morning; the clouds from last nights storm lie low, gray, and menacing. The wind in my face has a bite to it and has me longing for the warm bed Ive just left. Im wearing long pants, flannel shirt, and my yellow rain suit. Still Im cold. About three miles west of Kearney on highway 30, I spot a sign proclaiming San Francisco to be 1,733 miles west and Boston 1,733 miles to the east. And for the first time in a long time, Im lonely. The morning passes slowly. An overcast Monday morning on the road to nowhere. Im cold, stiff, homesick, and depressed. There is little traffic. Rather than pleasure at having the road to myself, though, I feel abandoned. I hadnt planned to ride this stretch of road and Im wondering how Im going to make it across the country. Ten miles at a time, I tell myself. Thats how youve come this far. Dont think past 10 miles. Remember when you pulled that muscle? You didnt think you could make another 10 feet. One more revolution of the pedals! Thats all you could imagine. But that was enough. That got you here. By one in the afternoon I have made five 10 mile rides, stopping at the end of each to eat, drink, and stretch. Im in better spirits. And Ive come to a town. We arrive simultaneously: he in his pickup; me, on my bike. We stand facing one another in front of Swede Cafe in Gothenburg. He has his hand on the door, holding it half-open. Didnt I see you on TV? Didya! Good! You goin in here? Sure am. Good place to eat. You may know, I travel with no money. Couldja buy me a sandwich? Ill buy you anything you want. I want to hear about your trip. So Tut Hecox buys my lunch, and I tell him my story. Im not as trusting as you. I dont think people are as good as you do, Tut says when I have finished. Tut talks about THE WAR. The places hes been. His hobbies. His name: Charles, I guess youd say, but everybody calls me Tut.
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How come? Born the year King Tuts tomb was opened. Lots of births that year. Not all called Tut. Why you? Ole T-Bone Koonz did it. I was a little kid; he was an old man. Onery as sin. But he liked me, and it stuck. I wolf down an order of biscuits and gravy, a grilled cheese sandwich, a short stack, and lots of ice water. I say goodbye to Tut a little after two oclock. Have to make North Platte before dark, another hundred-mile day, my second in three days. About 20 miles out of North Platte, I call the college and get two messages to call Casper. The mayors office needs to know by 10 a.m. tomorrow when I plan to arrive. The mayor will give me a proclamation. The town will have a big bike ride. My other message is from Jeff Buscher, a minister in Casper who wants to ride with me. Its right at six oclock when I get to North Platte. Peter Kindle has given me the name of the preacher in North Platte and has called to tell him Im coming. So I find a phone booth and call the number. No answer. After several tries, I ask directions to the preachers house. When I find it, hes not home. A woman I assume to be his mother answers the door. He has gone out to eat. She doesnt know when he will be back. At a convenience store I get directions to the police station. The officer I speak to behind the bulletproof glass and over the intercom doesnt know of any church that might help. He suggests the Salvation Army. He gives me a voucher for $2.50 which I can use for food at the Quick Trip up the street. They dont sell fresh fruit, so I get some dried fruit for tomorrow. The Pizza Hut is not far from the police station. When I tell Manager Tim Nowak what Im doing and ask for a large pizza, he grins from ear to ear, shakes my hand, has a waitress show me to a table. Shortly, the pizza is in front of me. Minutes later I have inhaled it, thanked Tim, and am on my way back to the police station. The officer behind the glass calls the Salvation Army. A few minutes later, the phone across the lobby rings; I pick it up and begin to explain that Im traveling across country without money
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and that I need a place to stay. And you expect us to put you up? You want us to spend our money so you wont have to. Is that it? I can tell you dont want to help. And thats fine. Ill be okay. And hang up. Im leaving now. Ill be okay, I say to the officer behind the bulletproof glass. No response. What now? I think of Todd Morgan back in Grand Island and of his parents in Hershey, 14 miles up highway 26 toward Scottsbluff. When Harry Morgan is on the line, his first question is where I am. His second is why I didnt show up at the church. He had waited for me until almost seven before going home to dinner. Harry is at the police station a half-hour later. We put my bicycle in the back of his pickup, and he drives the 11 miles to his house in the country near Hershey. Before we leave North Platte, Harry drives by the church where he is a member and waited for me. The pastor had arranged for me to have a room at a motel. I still can. But Harry is agreeable when I ask if I can go home with him instead. Kit Morgan is waiting with milk and cookies when we arrive. Harry is retired from the Burlington Northern Railroad. He and Kit, his wife, live in their trailer home on an acreage they own. Several years ago, the two of them turned part of their land into a campground to accommodate vacationers and to take advantage of the river that runs through their property. As Im getting ready to go this morning, Kit reminds me of her son, Jerry, in Bridgeport. I should have had more children, she says, we could have gotten you all the way across Nebraska. Harry offers to drive me 50 miles up the road to Ogalla. Counting the 14 miles from North Platte, this puts me 64 miles nearer Scottsbluff. Ill make Bridgeport now by late afternoon and can be in Scottsbluff tomorrow. Rolling hills, desolate, rugged beauty; no towns for the next 30 miles, until I come to Levelyn. The road drops down into Ash Hollow, a national historic site (for reasons I dont take time to discover. A messenger has no interest in being a tourist).
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By noon I am in Oshkosh, a tiny town. The S&S Cafe is the first eating place I see. The waitress phones Barb Carol, the manager, to clear my request for a grilled cheese sandwich and a salad. About 3 p.m. I come across a road-side phone in front of a gas station and store. Im on the phone when two men in a pickup pull in for gas and begin to talk to me. Wayne Keller, in his seventies, tries to correct the Bible by reading different translations. Wayne is not a scholar by academic standards, but from our conversation, I gather he has spent a good part of his life reading various editions of the Bible, comparing the way passages are variously translated and searching for the real meaning. After Wayne leaves, I go into the store asking for a quart of orange juice. Lucile Cooper tells me she has been watching me and wanting to hear my story. She gives me juice and we sit in her office and talk. We are joined by Lucilles teenage daughter, Stacey, and by Jennifer Fiscus, who works for Lucille during the summer and writes for the Garden County News. Jennifer asks if she can write about my trip. Last summer three young men on bicycles showed up at Lucilles store. One of them was blind and none of them could speak. They were students at a school for the handicapped back east and were biking by themselves across the country. They told Lucille their story by writing and showing newspaper clippings. She took them home for the evening. Now she tells their story at every opportunity. I hope all who hear it are as awed as I am. Such unbelievable courage. Such an act of will. Such a focus of mind and nerve. Is anything impossible I wonder as I listen. When I get to Bridgeport about 5 oclock, Jerry Morgan picks me up at city hall. After dinner, Helen Morgan invites Wendy and Oneva Lummel, owners of the Bridgeport Blade to come out. Jeff and Tammy, the Morgans two teenage children, join us for an evening-long discussion of my trip and their life here in this beautiful and peaceful place. The family used to live in Houston, Texas. But Jerry was born
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in the open spaces of Nebraska and was not happy in the city. Now he works for the railroad as his father did and recently bought these 10 acres to put his trailer home on. Jerry broke his leg not long ago and cannot work. He uses the time to get his place in shape and takes pride in driving me to see the garden and the animals he loves Jerry convinces me this morning that Ive ridden enough for a while and persuades me to let him drive me the 50 miles to Scottsbluff. At the Star-Herald in Scottsbluff no reporters are in and I make my way around the corner to KSTF-TV where Lee Judd and I have a long talk. As we finish, Lee says to me: You make my day. My business is to tell people the news: Rapes, robberies, stabbings, car wrecks. Then you come along with a story that makes me feel good. One that will make my viewers feel good. Thank you. Back at the newspaper, Jacquie Long has just come in. She and I talk for 45 minutes or so. I have just told Jacquie that I dont worry about anything; that everything on this trip just falls into place and that I would be staying with the Longs in Scottsbluff, though I have never met them and they arent expecting me until late afternoon or possibly tomorrow. The Longs lived in Liberty until Dale retired from Farmland about a year ago and moved back to Scottsbluff where he and June grew up. Bob Watts, the man who built my bike, is a friend of the Longs and gave me their number. Because my journey across Nebraska was not turning out to be as predictable as I had thought it would, I had given myself a two day cushion when I last talked to Dale on the phone, telling him I would arrive on Thursday afternoon. When Harry and Jerry Morgan save me more than 100 miles of riding, though, Im in Bridgeport almost 36 hours earlier than Im expected. Just at the moment I have told Jacquie that things just seem to work out so that I never have to worry, another staff member pops in to ask, Are you Mr. Chasteen? You have a phone call. Me? How? Nobody knows Im here. Its Dale Long. He is calling the paper to alert them that Im coming to town. And the reporter who takes his call says, Hes here. And calls me to the phone.
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See!? I yell to Jacquie. This is how the whole trip goes. A little later I roll up to the Longs house. Junes sister, Evelyn, and husband, Butch, are here: all sitting on the front porch. A few excited minutes later, Dale and Butch have volunteered to drive me in the morning 80 miles toward Casper to the junction of 26 and I25. That will leave me some 90 miles from Casper, where I have to be by 3 p.m. Friday if I hope to ride into town with the young people from Jeffs church. Then Dale and June call the other TV station in Scottsbluff. Tony Schall comes out about 2:30 and films an interview with all of us in the front yard. At 5:30 and again at 10 both stations carry a nice story. At 5:30 both stations announce to the city that I will speak in the Longs backyard at 7 p.m. and everyone is welcome. June and Evelyn each spend about an hour calling their friends to invite them. A small crowd comes. As we sit around the kitchen table after lunch, Dale asks me about my illness. After a quick description of my problem, Dale tells me about his: He is an alcoholic. I havent had a drink in 26 years, but Im an alcoholic. I work with the AA program here. Make lots of talks. Theres a 13 year old girl in the program now that just breaks my heart. Des and Betty Knight live in Raytown, Missouri and are up to visit Dale and June. Des met Betty in England during WW II. They married and moved to Arkansas, then to Kansas City. While were talking about the war. Dale mentions that he had tried to join, but they wouldnt take him because of his osteomelitus. He shows me a terrible scar on his right leg. When he was 13, the disease struck, and he was in the hospital for two years. Bone had to be cut out of his leg to stop the disease, and he had a long, painful rehabilitation riding a bicycle. A few months after he got out of the hospital, his father was killed. Dale has had three heart operations. He and June decided to retire to Scottsbluff, their hometown, in part because of the good hospital and doctors in the city. Evelyn had to have part of her stomach and intestines removed more than 30 years ago. She learned to live with these problems.
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Evelyns first husband died. Butch is a widower. They married about eight years ago. After lunch Dale and June want to take Des and Betty out to see the bluffs for which the city is named. And even though I promised myself before I left home that I would not go out of my way to see the sights, I want to be with these people. I want to know them. I want them to know me. The bluffs are spectacular! Sharp profiled sandstone rising hundreds of feet into the sky. Scrub trees. Sparce, hardy grasses. Tiny, delicate flowers growing from cracks in the rocks, buffeted by the ever present wind that drives gritty airborne erosion into every unprotected body opening. Evelyn stays behind when we go to the bluffs so she can have the dinner June had planned ready for us when we return. And what a dinner! June could open her own restaurant. All from scratch, subtly seasoned, perfectly cooked, dinner is an aesthetic delight of aromas, tates and tectures. Following an equally appetizing and bountiful breakfast the next morning, we load my bicycle in Butchs pickup for the 80 mile ride to Interstate 25.
Wyoming
Nowhere yet on my ride have I been allowed to ride the interstates. Nor have I wanted to. Having come across Nebraska now, I am overwhelmed at the vastness of the country. I realize that I will never make it to the coast on the backroads I love. Even if I could find my way on these roads and manage not to plummet off some mountain or be rundown by some over-size truck, the distance I have to travel would be multiplied by a factor I cant begin to imagine. So the interstate is the lesser of two evils. When I get out of the truck and watch Butch and Dale drive away, I cant muster much enthusiasm for that ribbon of asphalt I see stretching up and over the horizon as I stare at Interstate 25. But the shoulder is wide and smooth. Traffic is sparce, most of it 18 wheelers that give me wide berth, causing me to wonder if they are as uncertain about me as I
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am of them. Hours go by. The interstate skirts the mountains that I see in the distance to the west. The road runs ever up, but at so gradual an incline Im hardly aware of it. And since Im going almost due north now, I have no headwind to fight. That alone is relief enough that it would take a far steeper grade to register on me. Near Douglas, Wyoming, I see a sign, Ft. Ketterman Historic Site. And suddenly I am Red Cloud, Chief of the Sioux, riding my fastest pony through the Platte River Valley. When I was a boy, the buffalo lived here in numbers so large that only the Great Spirit could know them. Then came the wagons, their tops bobbing like snowflakes in the wind across the prairie. My people gave permission for the wagons to cross our lands. Soon all the wagons would pass, and we could live as before. But more came. Always they wanted our land. Papers were signed that said we could not live where we wanted. We could not hunt. My people spent years trying to persuade the Great Chief in Washington to abandon Ft. Ketterman and to leave this valley to my people. Six times I traveled to Washington to speak for my people. Each time I returned with the white mans promise. Where are the buffalo? Where are my people? No sign of Indians have I seen since leaving Lincoln five days ago. A hundred years ago, I could not cross the lands of the Sioux in five days on my fastest pony. Now in five days, I have seen no Sioux. I am sad. Sad that I did not call Justin and arrange a sweat lodge visit. Justin was at the Human Family Reunion just before I left, and he offered to try to arrange for me to take part in a sweat lodge as I bike west from Kansas City. But we hadnt nailed down any details, and I hadnt been able to get Justin on the phone since I left. He had been out of his office at the Federal Building in Kansas City, and I had not caught him at home the few times I called. Justin is Indian, and his job with the Federal Government is to assist Indians. Justin did not know until he was grown that he is Indian. He grew up in Seattle, son of an Episcopal minister, a mis-
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sionary to Indians. One summer while in college, he had gotten a job with Indian programs in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and on a few days off had gone to visit his older sister on the west coast. During a rambling conversation to which he was paying only passing attention, a comment by his brother-in-law caught Justins ear. And he asked to have it repeated. I only reminded your sister that she is adopted. Whats the problem? Youre adopted! What do you mean youre adopted? Justin did not know his siter was adopted. He couldnt believe she was. Nor could he believe that they thought he knew. Wide eyed, he begged for more information. Then he asked his sister directly if it were true. Why, yes, Justin, Im adopted. Just like you. And the bottom fell out of Justins world. He was no longer who he thought he was. Who was he? Years passed before he could deal with this thing he learned so unexpectedly, a thing that so fundamentally altered how he saw himself and his lifes ambition. Justin entered Harvard Law School, but when everyone assumed he would build a practice defending Indian rights and causes, he dropped out of school. At the time he was not ready to give himself to a people he had only recently learned were his. He has now learned the identity of his real mother and where she lives, though he has not met her and cannot decide if he should. What he has learned about the Indian way of life has shown him how strong the family is. And though Justins mother was forced to give him up for adoption by the repressive welfare laws of that time, Justin would feel bound by the Indian notion of family to assume responsibility for all his kin should he re-enter their lives. Perhaps someday Justin will do this. For now he gives both his professional and private time to protecting and advancing the lives and rights of American Indians. In this spirit and because of our friendship, Justin had been eager when I asked him to arrange for me to enter the lives of Indian people and communities as I follow the spirit trail across America.
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When I get to Glenrock a little after six, June has called the police from Scottsbluff to tell them I am coming. They have a room ready for me at the Coachman Motel. As I ride into Glenrock, the Casper Classic Bike Race is in progress. Clumps of the slower racers are riding east on the main street as faster ones emerges from a side street to head west and back to Casper along the same route. The race started at 3 p.m. in Casper, running east through Glenrock to Douglas and back: 104.5 miles, winning time under five hours. I leave Glenrock just after 8 a.m. I get to the state park a few miles east of Casper where I Im to meet Jeff and the young people from his church. Its a strange feeling Ive had since Nebraska. Not being able to find rides as easily as I had anticipated, I couldnt see how I could make Casper by July 4th. But I never doubted Id be here. That doesnt make sense. Not even to me. I cant imagine how it must sound to any chance reader of these words. But here I am. Early! I told Jeff from a phone at a lonely gas station back east about 70 miles that I would meet them here at the park at three oclock in the afternoon. Since Im here by 10 in the morning and that infernal wind is knifing through me, I go to find a place where the wind cant get to me. I find a shelter way back off the road near the small lake where children are swimming. How they stand it I cant imagine as I hunker down at the picnic table, walls on three sides, wind whistling around the corner. I have forgotten all about the people Im to meet. About 1:30 a young boy peers around the corner to ask if Im that bicycle rider they are supposed to meet. Jeff and a dozen of the young people from his church are here to ride the 10 miles with me into Casper. They have brought Michelle Glaze from KTWO-TV with them, and tonight all the young people will see themselves on television. As we bike into Casper, Amy, the pastors high school daughter, rides beside me for a short distance. I had noticed her earlier riding with no hands. You ride well. Do you ride often? I ask. I never ride. Not since my leg operation. Then Amy tells me about the tumor they took out of her leg five years ago. They thought it might be malignant and they would have to amputate. It
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was benign, and the leg was saved. But its weak. Amy is afraid to use it like she would if things had been different. A cold rain is spitting at us as we reach downtown and leave our bikes outside City Hall when we go in to meet with Mayor Jack Kelly. He listens as I tell him about the Human Family Reunion. Then the Mayor gives me a proclamation declaring July Fourth in Casper to be Ed Chasteen day, and a pin with the city seal on it. I take the pin to carry with me, and Jack takes the proclamation to mail back to William Jewell. When the ceremonies at City Hall are over and parents have come for all the children, Jeff and I get on our bikes for a ride around town and then to his apartment. We take both bicycles into the living room and place them alongside Kayles bike. Jeff Buscher is a graduate of William Jewell and Midwestern Baptist Seminary. He has been youth minister at Boyd Avenue Baptist Church in Casper for about a year. He and Kayle married shortly before that. Jeff and Kayle offer to show me the town. And I suppose I should venture out on this day the Mayor has said is mine. But Im exhausted, more I think from the excitement of meeting and talking to new people than from the riding. So I say I think Ill stay home to write in my journal. In my downstairs room, I stretch out on the plush carpet, fully intending only to rest a minute before I try to collect my thoughts and commit them to paper. The next thing I hear is Jeff calling me to supper. He and Kayle have spent the day shopping and seeing the special exhibits set up for the fourth. They have come back, and Kayle has prepared a delicious Mexican dinner. After dinner, Kayle and Jeff have been invited to a friends house for ice cream. When we get there, the weather is too cold to be comfortable outside. The ice cream inside is still good, and I have an opportunity to talk with several members of Boyd Avenue Baptist Church. Ill be with them again tomorrow when I go to church with Jeff and Kayle. We end the evening by driving to a hill near Casper College to
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watch fireworks. The rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air all framed against the mountains silhouette at duskrouse my pariotism as is has not been roused in many a fourth. Jeff ran off 150 copies of my flyer for distribution at church. Entitled Eds BikeAmerica: A Two Penny Odyssey, this is the flyer that Ken Cardwell at American Reprographics in Kansas City printed 2,000 of for me without charge. Im able only to carry several hundred with me, and Jeff is afraid I may run out. The flyer asks a pledge of a penny a mile for Multiple Sclerosis and a penny a mile for the Human Family Reunion. Im not taking any pledges or contributions as I travel. Rather, they are to be sent to a bank in Liberty, whose address is given on the flyer. Pastor Jerry Polk gives me five minutes at the beginning of each of the two worship services to tell about my trip. Jerrys sermon is called, The Death of America, and asks how a nation dies. After church a woman comes up to me to tell me her son is handicapped; cant walk but rides a bicycle. One of the men in church is in a wheelchair from MS. He teaches a class; I ask for and am directed to his class but find when I get there that he is teaching another class today. I see him in the worship service, but Im talking to the womans handicapped son when he comes out and leaves. I see him out of the corner of my eye: I want to talk to him. But I hold back. Im not sure why, but I do know that I have just violated one of my cardinal rules: Never do a thing the safe, easy or comfortable way. I took the easy way out and now Im mad at myself. How Im going to get to Riverton I havent a clue. A hard two day ride across desolate county. Little water, few people, a gradual ascent into that ever present headwind. Slow going that will put me hopelessly behind schedule. I plan to start right after lunch. Im set, eager to get on my bike and ride off into the unknown. Then Jeff volunteers to drive me to Riverton. Im a little reluctant to accept because in the morning he leaves for Denver with a van load of his young people. He explains that I would be doing him a favor by letting him drive me to Riverton since he has never been
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there and probably wont go until some reason such as this presents itself. What can I do but accept. The 120 mile ride is pleasant. We listen to a tape Jeff made of National Public Radios Prarie Home Companion. Somehow Ive never heard Garrison Keilor tell his stories of life in Lake Wobegon. Now Im sorry for that omission, sorrier still because Ive just heard that Garison has moved to Sweden and will tell his stories no more. We stop at the Yellowstone Drug Store for malts and run into the only crowd of people known to exist in these 120 miles that separate Casper and Riverton. We pass through occasional towns of five, 10, 50 people. Shoshoni, home of Yellowstone Drugs Best Malts in the State, and to 500 hardy souls, is the local metropolis. Jeff delivers me to Willis and Iona Cook in Riverton between three and four. Then he jumps back in his car for a replay of that lonely, starkly beautiful stretch of road. Im in Riverton two days ahead of schedule thanks to the good folks who volunteered to drive me many miles over lonely stretches. I continue to be awed by the way this trip develops. Im still trying to figure out why Im doing this. Why am I out here on a bicycle when most men my age and everyone with MS is at home doing more conventional things. I still dont know. I dont know if Ill ever know. But I swear there must be some grand design to it. It works so easily. Why? I dont know. I can live without knowing. I cannot live with doing. My enthusiasm is waning. Im tired. Things are becoming routine. Im not surprised anymore when things work out. I expect it. I want it to be new again. What can I do to recapture my delight and excitement? I dont know. Maybe I just need to relax and let it happen. Looking at the map, Im overwhelmed by the distances. The distance Ive come. The distance still to go. The distance between me and all the people and places that give daily structure to my life. But why am I worried? The people Ive met have provided for all my needs so far. Why expect a change? Relax. Trust. All will work out. Jerry Polk, Pastor of Boyd Avenue Baptist in Casper, called Dan Hayhurst, Pastor of Hillcrest Baptist in Riverton to ask if his
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church could help me. So the first call I make when I get to Riverton is to find out what provisions have been worked out. Willis and Iona Cook welcome me into their home and take me to the evening service with them where we observe the Lords supper and end by singing Blest Be the Tie. Suddenly I am at home, back at South Liberty Baptist Church. The kids are small, Earl is preaching, and as the service ends we stand to sing the song that by now Brian, my youngest, has come to call the Baptist National Anthem. We leave our pews to join hands as we circle the sanctuary while Earls leads us in the first verse of Blest Be the Tie. As I am gone this summer, Brian has finished graduate work and moved to Tampa, Florida to begin his job at the University of South Florida. And when I return in the fall, Earl and I will begin our twenty-third year together as the Sociology Department at William Jewell. Our last year. Earl will be 65 in June and has decided to retire. As we sing Blest Be the Tie, in one of the few places Earl may not have been, Im painfully aware of how much I will miss him and how transient all of life is. After returning from church, Willis and Iona invite me downstairs for pumpkin pie and ice cream. While Iona is upstairs preparing it, Willis tells me about his first wifes death. They had been married 44 years when doctors found the cancer. After trying all the traditional treatments without success, Willis took her to Mexico. She worried about the cost of it all. She lived only five months after they found the cancer. Willis lived alone for three years after her death. He couldnt talk to anyone about her death for over a year. Their only child moved to Alaska. As Iona comes into the room, Willis stops talking. Iona had been a friend of Williss wife, but had not known him. When they met following his wifes death, they became friends. And friendship deepened into love. Willis didnt like living alone, and we decided to take care of each other for the rest of our lives, says Iona. Iona has two children from her first marriage. She is trim and
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attractive, befitting her occupation as diet counselor and appropriate advertising for the diet center she operates. Since they married a year ago, Willis has lost 25 pounds and started taking vitamins. The supper we had before we went to church was fat free and delicious. I find it easy to understand Williss improved health and outlook. Dan invites me to come to the mens breakfast this morning at the church. Willis doesnt ordinarily come, but Iona urges him to come with me so he can get to know some of the men. Over breakfast talk is of antelope hunting, how hard it is to get a licence, big horn sheep, running out of gas, the Colorado Baptist Convention and their financial problems, the Wyoming Baptist Association and their need for $80,000 to begin a building, and the help being given by the Atlanta Baptist Association from Georgia. For the first time on the road, Im able to get Justin on the phone this morning. Across Nebraska I kept thinking that Justin probably knew of Indians I could meet if only I could catch him in. But he doesnt know anyone in this part of the country he tells me. At the Riverton Ranger the next morning, reporter Barbara Bell gives me the name: John Washakie, tribal chariman on the Wind River Reservation. Its only a thirty mile detour from the route Ive planned, so Barbara gets John on the phone and he says he will try to work me in if I want to come. A couple of hours later, I am sitting on a bench in front of a little store in Kinnan, 20 miles west of Riverton, when Brian Allen and his son, 12 year old Shawn (not their real names), pull up in a pickup. Brian repairs pumps on oil wells; he has read about my ride. When I tell him Im going to the Indian reservation, he advises against it. Thats a narrow road. And the Indians just got paid. You couldnt pay me to ride a bicycle on that road. Shawn, too, doesnt want to see me ride that road: Its no wider than a pickup truck. Lots of blind curves, and the Indians will all be drunk. Youve come a long way without getting hurt. Put your bike in my truck, and Ill take you to Ft. Washakie. On the drive out
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(about 18 miles) Brian and Shawn talk about the reservation. As of a year ago, Indians on the reservation have to buy a hunting permit. They have killed off nearly all the deer and elk. Chinese and Japanese horn buyers were all over the Riverton area till recently, offering top dollar for green horn to sell as an aphrodisiac. To get green horn, the game had to be killed in the summer, so the Indians slaughtered animals for their horns and just left the carcas to rot where it fell. As we drive onto the reservation, Shawn points out the graffiti on Blue Sky Lodge: Its the Bronx plopped down in Wyoming. He also calls my attention to a string of trash caught along the road by the barbed wire fence: Thats the reservation for you. As we pass some houses off to our left, Brian and Shawn describe how the Indians that have woodburning stoves tear up their hardwood floors and burn them. They do that rather than going to the mountains to cut wood. I dont know why. Just lazy I guess. I ask about work on the reservation. Theres no work. The Indians dont do anything. Just get their money, get drunk, and make more Indians. Brian and Shawn do not strike me as bigots or racists, only as observers and reporters of what they see. They take no pleasure in what they tell me. I get the feeling they would like to have painted a different picture for me. I also get the feeling that they dont think about the reservation often. The Wind River Reservation is home to two tribes. I ask if the Shoshone and the Arapaho live in the same housing areas. They try not to, Brian says. They dont get along. They kill each other. Brian explains that these two tribes were not supposed to be together. The Bannock and the Shoshone were scheduled to live here. But a winter storm in the 1800s made it impossible to get the Bannock here. The Arapaho were put here temporarily. But they were never moved. And the two tribes that had never gotten along have lived together ever since. The buffalo (black) soldiers had to be brought in to keep peace. Indians were afraid of blacks; whites could not get anything
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done. The blacks intermarried with the Indians. Thats why some have curly hair today. Shawn chimes in to say, Before that, Indians didnt have black hair. They had brown hair. Brian and Shawn are reluctant to leave me in front of the headquarters building. Im grateful for their concern, but sad that Indian-white relations are such that its necessary. Sitting in the headquarters building waiting for John Washakie, I overhear three women talking about babies: one suffocated; another, premature. She weighed just two pounds, but shes okay now. Each of the women is smoking. Their conversation wanders over various topics, always again to sickness: bronchitis, soft heads, babies diets. John Washakie is the great-grandson of the Shoshone Chief for whom the reservation is named. John is a six-year member of the Business Council and last year was elected to a two year term as Chairman. John has a degree in history from the University of Wyoming. He may not run again for Chairman. May teach instead. The statistics John gives me are heartbreaking: 70 percent unemployment on the reservation; nine suicides last year, seven so far this year. Most of the reservation young people do not finish high school. The outstanding Indian athletes go to public school off the reservation and attend high school for the years theyre eligible. But they dont graduate. The one positive from Johns description of the reservation are the 150 new jobs created by taxing oil royalties. While we are talking, Johns secretary has to interrupt several times to finalize plans for John to fly to Denver and to Washington D.C. later this week. In Denver, John will meet with EPA officials about uranium tailings on the reservation and what to do about them. In D.C., he will attend hearings about oil and mineral rights on the reservation. John tells me at length about the sweat lodge and its significance but says there has to be a purpose to have one. None is planned for tonight. I ask if I could stay the night with someone on the reservation. John says that would be difficult. I tell him thats okay, that I dont want to impose or inconvenience anyone. I thank
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him for talking to me. And leave. It is 2:15 and 60 miles to Dubois. I soon understand why the mountain range off to my left all the way to Duboisthe one for which the reservation is namedis called Wind River. For the next four hours I pedal upstream into that fast flowing river. By 6:30, I have gone 30 miles: 30 more to go. No way! At Crowheart, a lone service station I finally come across, I ask if I can sleep on their floor. He says they dont have a place. He suggests Red Rock, 14 miles up the road. I dont see how I can possibly make it. Im so tired I can hardly think. But I thank him and leave. Back on the bike, I come about two miles later to what must be a mirage. Off to the right about 50 yards from the road is a compound composed of a church, a school and a house, all enclosed by a chain link fence. The gate is open and I enter. Parking my bike in front of the house, I step up on the porch and knock. No answer. At the church and the school? Nobody. Ill wait. Im out of the wind. And the last thing I want right now is to get back on that bicycle. Nightfall comes late as I sit on the porch and wait for someone to come home. In the distance off to my left at about 11 oclock I see lights come on and I can make out the sound of music carried on the still night air. The only other sound is of rushing water that I decide comes from a creek, though where it is from where I am I havent a clue. The house faces east as best I can figure. I reach that conclusion because as I sit here I look back along the road I arrived here on and because that west wind whistles around the sides of the house. The two-foot wall that encloses the porch affords some protection against the chill that invades this place as the last rays of the sun are swallowed by darkness. My teeth begin to chatter. I rummage through my panniers to find my insulated long-Johns, my stocking cap, my flannel shirt, and my wind breaker. Before putting on my gloves, I wolf down several peanut butter sandwiches, an orange, apple, some nuts and raisins. Then on with the gloves, I stretch out on the hard wooden floor of the porch, expecting any minute to see headlights swing
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into the gate and to have someone open the door behind me and welcome me inside. No one comes. Wearing practically everything I have and using my helmet for a pillow. I sleep. I wake often. And mash the button on my Timex that lights the read-out. Teeth chattering, muscles twitching, I change positions; sit up, lie down, stretch out, roll over on the other hip when pressure gets too great. One good thing about the cold: I can almost forget how hard the wooden floor is. When I wake up at 4:15, I feel like a tin man who hasnt been oiled, but I make spastic attempts at exercise to get warm. I repack my bike, stuffing things into whichever pannier will hold it, giving no thought to the filing system Ive carefully devised so Ill know just where everything is. I hit the road at 5:15, wearing thermal underwear, blue jeans, flannel shirt and rain suit, complete with hood. And Im still cold as I re-enter that infernal wind I thought had abated. I didnt hear it much last night, but its back this morning. No, its not back. It was here last night, howling down this highway. My being out of it didnt diminish it, only my awareness of it. The wind will still be here when I am home writing this book. The wind is still trying to push me backward like it did yesterday. The only difference in the wind this morning is that its colder. Hunkering down on the bike as low as I can, leaning forward until my chin rests on the handlebars, pumping as hard as cold legs and tight muscles allow, I inch forward into the wind on a dark, deserted road. After a few miles, the pavement ends; gravel of every conceivable size replaces it, and for the next seven miles I fight those rocks to keep from being up-ended or ruining a tire. And when an infrequent car passes in either direction, Im engulfed by dust and flying pebbles. Big earth moving machines wander back and forth across this boulder strewn trail that passes itself off as U.S. Highway 26. My speed drops to an average of six miles an hour; its 9:30 by the time I get to Dubois, 24 miles from my front porch bed. After asking at a service station on the main street for direc-
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tions to Wilderness Baptist Church, I meet pastor Larry Schoonover as he is driving away in his pickup from his trailer home behind the church. The folks in Riverton have called Larry. He was expecting me last night, but he lets me into the church, where I shower, shave, and wash my clothes. Larry owns a garage and does car and truck repair in addition to pastoring. He has a computer in his church office to keep track of his business. Larry is a high school graduate who has worked a variety of jobs. He pastored another church in Wyoming before coming here seven years ago. Larry asks me to look at an environmental impact study hes doing for the town. The U.S. Forest Service wants to shut down the sawmill in Dubois and close the forest to any cutting. The Forest Service estimates that 25 percent of the work force in Dubois would be affected. Larry thinks its more like 37 percent. Larry says child abuse is a serious problem in Wyoming. And every time there is talk of jobs being lost, it gets worse. Larry wrote the town of Duboiss response to the Forest Services plan to close the saw mill and close the forest to further cutting. He asks me to read it after I mention in conversation that I teach a course in methods of social research. His report is well done and I tell him so. Larry is apologetic for not having any education, and tries to learn all he can. Larry knows six people in Dubois who have M.S., and on his office wall I see two awards to him from the M.S. Society. The Daylight Donut gives me a grilled cheese sandwich, soup, and salad when I venture uptown. As welcome as the food is, I find the response of Manager Evelyn Truempler and her staff even more satisfying. They smile often and come to see about me as I eat. I hear them telling others what I have just told them. The first grocery I go to in Dubois gives me what I ask for: loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter, four oranges, and two apples. Packing all this into my panniers in front of the store, I meet seven people biking from Newport, Oregon to Virginia Beach: five members of one family, and two friends. Jerry Unble and his family start-
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ed biking two years ago and started planning this trip at the same time. Jerry arranged to get off work all summer. His wife is a teacher. They live in Pennsylvania and flew to Oregon to start. Their youngest, a nine year old boy, is pleasant and seems to be doing well. Back at the church tonight, Larry asks me if I usually stay in churches. Something I say causes him to ask, Youre a Christian, then? I had met Larry some 12 hours earlier. He had given me the run of the church. And he didnt condition his help on my spiritual status. I was moved. Here is a man giving to others because they need it and he has it. Up the mountain and over the pass today. And into the wind. From Dubois, highway 26 turns steadily upward; the grade is seldom severe, and I have to drop to Granny only half a dozen or so times in the 30 miles to the pass. About three miles out of Dubois is some of the most spectacular and beautiful mountains Ive seen. To the left, the mountains are heavily forested with breathtaking profiles. A jagged rock, openings in the near mountain, falling away to ripples of more distant mountains. To the right, the mountains are barren, desert-like, earth tones of every hue splashed profusely about. I understand the love people have for this high country. I can see why God was thought by earlier people to have lived in the mountains. I am wearing everything I can put on as I leave Dubois. A few miles out, Im pelted by a few random pellets of hail. As I near the pass, cold rain falls. I ride in it for the next two hours. Im surprised when I spot a sign to my left that tells me I have arrived at Togwotee Pass. I expected a harder ascent. But adjacent to the Togwotee Pass sign is another warning trucks of the severe downhill grade for the next 17 miles. Finally the thing Ive been wondering about, and if uneasy about anything, this is it: long downhill rides. Id rather go up, Ive been telling everyone. But its not hot, so there is little to overheat the brakes. And the
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rain makes it risky to let it all out for a free wheel down the mountain. Negotiating curves, slowing for the construction that has much of the road surface uneven and rocky, requires slower speed. So I ride the brakes for most of the descent. By 1:30, Im sitting in the Togwotee Mountain Lodge. Two Gwo Tee means from here you can go anywhere, in Mountain Crow Indian language. I hope there are mountains in heaven. And pizza. And bicycles. This combination strikes me as uniquely appropriate about 2:30 this afternoon. Just as I round a curve in the road, the sun comes out for the first time all day. And in the distance, framed by the trees to either side rising to heaven, I catch first sight of the Tetons. I gasp. Then I laugh for joy. Ecstasy is the only word I know to describe the state I am this moment living in. Thats when the heavenly ingredients come to mind. Theyve all been a big part of my living for the past eight weeks. Ive been as near to heaven during this time as Ive ever come. I hadnt thought of Coulter Bay as a short cut through the park, but so it is. To get to Coulter Bay, I have to get into Teton National Park. Surprise! And that costs money. Which I dont have. The young woman selling entry permits listens to my story. Well let you in here, but youll have to tell your story again at Yellowstone, 26 miles ahead. Fair enough. When I get to Coulter Bay, I drop by the visitors center to tell them Im here and leave my literature. At 4:30 Im sitting in front of Hamiltons General Store in Teton National Park, knowing I have to go in and begin the process of finding food and lodging. Im tired after a 70 mile day up and down mountains in the rain. I dont really want to do what I know I have to do. But no one will do it for me. And if its not done, Ill be cold tonight and hungry tomorrow. So here goes. Half an hour later, Im ashamed of myself. I walked into the store. I asked to see the manager. Right off, Stu Prouss says for me to go to the shelves and pick up the items and he will pay for them: a jar of peanut butter (natural and chunky, no less), three bananas
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and two oranges. For lodging Stu suggests I go to the cabin office. I do. Mike has no vacancies. But Mike calls Jack Zahler, manager of tent housing. Jack has a vacancy. He hands me the softest and most luxurious sleeping bag I ever touched and walks me about 30 yards to a tent-cabin, a permanent structure the size of some living rooms. Hence, half-an-hour after dreading asking and wondering what would happen, I am ensconced in a delightful little place and have food for tomorrow. The goodness of people is boundless. My ability to expect its full dimension is growing. Now to see what kind of supper I can find. I dont believe this. If I saw this movie billed as a true life adventure, Id laugh. Thats Fantasy Island, Id say. I walk back to Jacks office, and Jack shows me the location of everything in the park on a large wall map. At the sight of a restaurant, I mention that I could eat a bite. Jack says to go see Don Booth, chef at The Grill. Tell him I sent you. Tell him were putting you up; ask him to feed you. I find Don in his kitchen. He ushers me to the dining room just off the kitchen where employees eat. On our way through the kitchen he stops to pick up a skillet stew, hot bread, salad, fresh fruit, pudding, and all the milk I can drink. I eat til Im miserable. Then I stop by the showers. They are delighted to give me a free shower, plus towels, soap and shampoo. When Im finished, I spend about half an hour talking to the college student staff operating the showers, about their homes, their studies and the Human Family Reunion. Back at my tent, I am writing up how my day went when I hear a voice: Would you like some spaghetti? Its the woman at the tent just up the hill. I had overheard her and a young man earlier speaking another language. I would have earlier, but I just ate. Just then I remember my pledge never to refuse an offer of help. But just to be friendly, Ill have a little. She puts a little on my plate and asks, Is that enough? When I say yes, she empties the rest of the pan onto my
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plate, then all that sauce. When I have eaten all I can, she brings out blueberry yogurt. Marianne Wiedermann and son Oliver are from Germany. Oliver has just finished high school and will enter the army in October for a compulsory 14 months before going to the university. The two of them are touring the western United States. Marianne will go home after five weeks; Oliver will then ride a bus across the U.S. until he returns to Germany from San Francisco on Sept. 9. Marianne is a physical education teacher for grades seven through twelve. She explains to me that teachers in Germany are paid by the national government and assigned as needed. And the quality of education does not vary from one part of Germany to another. There are no local school boards and no variation on curriculum. I sleep warm and full tonight inside this sleeping bag in this lovely house that Jack built. Had to wash my bike this morning. Its filthy from the rain and construction yesterday; one quarter-mile stretch of fresh tar was really bad. The bike and panniers are coated with gooey globs of black tar. Kerosene would be nice, but all I have is hot water and dish washing soap that Jack finds for me. Even so, the bike gleams when I am finished, though stains on the panniers remain. Marianne and Oliver invite me over for breakfast. We talk about ethnic relations in Germany. Lots of Turks came when the country had a labor shortage. Now there is a job shortage, and German people blame the Turks. As Im preparing to leave and talking to Jack for the last time, he tells me that he wrote up the tent I slept in as out of order. Everyone knows about you and they approve everything were doing. But if we write it up, the auditors get hold of it. And auditors dont understand things out of the ordinary. So we do it all unofficially. About 10 oclock I pedal away from this gorgeous place. Such magnificent people among monumental mountains! Carelessness shouldnt be a problem today. Nearly everyone has warned me not to ride through Yellowstone. Too much traffic. Roads too narrow. The man at the entrance when I arrive about one oclock lets me in
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with no money and says: I have to warn you about our roads. Theyre narrow, winding, no shoulders, and campers with wide mirrors will run you off the road. I thank him for his advice. Shortly after leaving him, I see a sign beside the road: Watch for bicycles. I get to Grant village about 4:00. Its been cold all day, and when I alight outside the general store, the wind whipping across the lake is numbing. I need a warm place and some warm food. Fast. As I stand in front of the store wondering what to do first, I meet a group of 14 bikers going from Oregon to Virginia under the direction of a guide from BikeCentennial. I tell them what Im doing. They cant believe I travel without money and without a sleeping bag. They ask what I eat. When I tell them Im going in the store to ask for supplies for tomorrow and about a place to stay tonight, they ask if they can wait to see how I fare. I come out a few minutes later with the apples, bananas and fig newtons Id asked for. But the store manager didnt have a place to stay tonight. He thinks everything is full. He suggests I go to the visitors center. While Im talking to the BikeCentential group, a park ranger comes up to ask if I am the one biking across America by myself and without money. He says he might be able to help and asks me to wait until he gets back. A 71 year old man with the BikeCentennial group, who is carrying a tent, sleeping bag, cooking utensils, and everything else he needs for his cross country ride, says to me, You have more faith than I do, and wishes me well as he leaves. Waiting for that ranger for over an hour is harder than I expected. Is he coming back? Can he help? Should I be up and doing something. I wait. More than an hour passes. Another ranger appears. He wants me to follow him to a campsite. When he learns that I have no gear, he says that rangers have no provision for inside sleeping. He suggest I try the lodge. No luck. I still have no place to sleep, but Im hungry. So I go to the grill. They give me the two burritos and Pepsi I ask for. A man from Texas walks up and offers to pay for them and we get into a
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conversation about Texas. He is from Corpus Christi, just 30 miles from where my parents live in Sinton. I want to tell this man from Texas about you, Dad, how that as we speak, you lie in a coma in a Corpus Christi hopital. But I dont. Im not looking for sympathy, and God knows you would never want it, Dad. Youre a quiet man. Compared to you, John Wayne was a chatterbox and Howard Hughes was a publicity seeker. I want to tell this fellow Texan of yours that you have been in a coma since January, since the day I flew to see you in the hospital following your quadruple by-pass heart surgery. I want to tell him that you could not speak to me with those tubes in your throat. I want to describe for him that look in your eyes as you sat in that chair facing me: That look of a caged and dying tiger. I want this stranger to know that I told you about my plans to bike across the country, told you I would be back in the fall to give you all the details. Suddenly I want everyone in this little Mexican restaurant to know that when I left you, Dad, I went with Mother to Ship Ahoy for the shrimp dinner that is our family tradition each time I come home. Over dinner, I told Mother about my summer trip and why I have to do it. Her initial concern for my safety melted as she understood my reasons. She asked what I will do if you ... And her voice trailed off. I said I didnt know. After we had eaten, Dad, Mother drove me to the airport to catch my plane for Kansas City. I had hardly gotten in the door back home when the rang and Mother told me you had gone into a coma when she got back to the hospital. This man from Texas brings all this to mind. But I say nothing. I am your son, Dad. You never spoke much to me. Or to anyone. We knew you loved us by your actions. What would I give now to hear your voice? These thought of you, Dad, are through my mind in mili-seconds. Then I am back in Yellowstone and looking for a place to sleep. At the Visitors Center I hit pay dirt. Its almost closing time and few people are needing attention of the two young women
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behind the desk. When Chris hears that I have no place to spend the night and no sleeping bag or tent, she gets on the phone and locates a tent and campsite for me. Then she says she will go home as soon as they close to get her sleeping bag which I can borrow. Then she will take me to the campsite and help me set it up. At a little after eight Im standing on the sidewalk just in front of the Visitors Center watching Chriss car disappear and wondering how long she will be. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice someone approaching. He is walking fast and dressed for warmth, an aviators cap pulled low on his head and snapped under his chin, his leather jacket snapped all the way up, rain pants over his trousers, and wearing gloves. He is a little man, maybe five foot nine inches and 150 pounds, and much older than most of the people Ive seen in the park. He stops in front of me and asks where he can find a place for the night. I tell him that everything is taken and the visitors center is closed but that someone is coming back soon to show me to a campsite and he might follow along to see what develops. I go to my bicycle and notice that he is riding a motorcycle. When I get to the place I am to meet Chris, the motorcycle is not far behind. Chris arrives momentarily in her car and drives a short distance to a vacant campsite she has found despite the Campground Full signs up everywhere. Chris, the man from the motorcycle, and I are a long time getting that tent up. Several times we tear it down to start over when we discover poles and stakes, and assorted other parts we havent used and decide that they might remedy the sag, make that zipper work or somehow prevent collapsing canvas in the dead of the night. When the tent is up, so to speak, we discover that it is just big enough for two. The motorcycle stranger has become Brother Francis from Saint Michaels Mission on the Navajo Reservation at Window Rock, Arizona. He is 75 years old and on his way back from a California vacation to Saint Michaels and his job of 40 years as heavy equipment operator at the Mission. From somewhere deep in the bowels of his motorcycle closet, Francis pulls out an air mat-
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tress of the sort children and senior citizens use to float in the waves at the beach. Made of plastic and inflated by mouth, it is some six to eight inches thick when full of air. After forty-five minutes of red-in-the-face huffing, Francis has his cushion for the night. This first use of this mattress has Francis surprised at the lung power needed and unprepared for the wavy surface resembling a rubboard of uncooked bread dough. When everything is ready for the night, Francis pulls out the burner from his cook stove that he has brought from home and hooked up to a small propane bottle. Lighting it, he takes a plastic bag filled with Chinese noodles and empties it into a pot. When this is done, he empties another bag and we have soup. Mexican from the Texan in the cafe; now Chinese from Francis from the Navajos: a quintesential Human Family Reunion in miniature in the world s oldest National Park. During the night it begins to drizzle. The plop, plop, plop on the canvas is a slow anesthetic as we talk about our day, our trip, our lives. Our voices drone on for an hour or two as sleep works its magic way from our toenails past our eyebrows and up through the thinning hair on both our heads. Before sleep has completed its journey, I learn that Francis joined the order of St. Francis in 1935, the year of my birth, in Ohio and that he transfered to Saint Michaels in 1937. He says several things to me in Navajo, and I can sense his love for the people he has been a part of for most of his life. Meeting Francis and hearing from him of the Navajo brings me into the orbit of Indian life and culture I have wanted to play a major part of my western jouney and causes me to believe that I will touch lives with other Indian people and communities before my journey is completed. Still raining this morning. And its apparent that we were as adept at choosing a site for our tent as we were at setting it up. The floor of the tent has acted as a wick during the night, pulling moisture that collected underneath the tent into the tent, and the bottom of my sleeping bag is wet. Franciss air mattress has almost become the float it was born to be, and his blanket is sopping wet where it
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hung over the edge of his mattress and onto the floor of the tent. Now we know where that piece of placticzed canvas we thought was surplus should have gone. Had we used it as a ground cloth and had we not set up the tent on low ground, we would not now need to examine our toes and our clothes for mold and fungus. Last night we put our food in a bear-proof steel box near the restrooms, some 50 yards from our tent. Bears have been seen in this area recently; Chris and the park ranger that came around latter told us not to have anything in the tent that might smell of food. So in the rain we make our way to the secured larder to get our breakfast. Chris brought half a jar of orange marmelade and most of a loaf of bread when she brought the tent. Together with the peanut butter, apples and oranges and raisins, Francis and I have a good breakfast while we talk to the biologist from an eastern college who has a van load of students from their nearby western field site on a week long tour of Yellowstone. The eating and the conversation take place as we stand just out of the rain under the overhang from the restroom, using the top of the steel box as our table. We take down the tent in the rain and pack it up wet. As we are leaving I notice that the hard plastic cover is missing from Franciss left saddlebag. When we get to the visitors center and out of the rain and are standing in front of the roaring fire in the over-sized fireplace, I ask Francis why he has a garbage bag tied over one bag. Mattter of factly he tells me how the bike fell over on him a couple of days back and broke the cover. He found the garbage bag and put it on. Chris has not come to work yet, so I leave a note thanking her and telling her that her sleeping bag is wet and where to find it. Francis promises to see me again. Here, and raising his hand, or up there. While Im buckling on my helmet in front of the center, I meet a young couple who invite me to stay with them in Seattle. I dread a ride in the rain over these narrow, bumpy roads. So I stand and talk to this couple until he pulls her away to be about their sightseeing. And off I go.
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Cold pelting rain falls all day. From Grant Village to Old Faithful is a harrowing 17 miles. The sign says Rough Road. Add no shoulder, bumps, and holes, and ragged edges where the pavement looks like it has been dynamited. When all the holes are water filled, as they are today, judging their depth and contour before plowing through or dodging is virtually impossible. And I say many a prayer of thanksgiving for those 48 spoke wheels, those Swiss made stainless steel spokes, those heavy duty puncture resistant tires Bob insisted I have. I had thought the rain and cold would keep people huddled around a fire and off the road. If so, how would a cyclist ever survive a good days traffic? Not exactly bumper-to-bumper, more like fired from a burp gun. I make up my mind not to look in my rear view mirror. The holes and bumps, the jagged edge, the rain slick pavementthese need my full attention. All thats accomplished by seeing a motor home bearing down on me from the rear, its side view mirrors protruding, is to make me nervous. This road is mine too. I have as much right here as you do. Saying this to myself, I hold my place. When I can look over the edge of a cliff to rocks or river below, I move even further to my left, into the line of traffic. You may hit me, but youre not going to force me over that cliff. Twice I hear a panic application of brakes behind me. Oncoming traffic prevents passing, speed and wet pavement prevent stopping. Luckily, both times the shoulder can accept me. And does. Fast. I choose not to think about what might have happened if Id heard those screeching brakes behind me when the shoulder was a guard rail or a graveled incline dropping into trees or a river. Such thoughts are not helpful when youve a country to cross and only a bicycle to get you there. I dont see Old Faithful. I see a sign pointing off to the right. I keep pedaling. Madison Junction, Norris, Mammoth Hot Springs lie ahead. My goal is to make Gardiner, Montana, the northern exit from Yellostone, before dark. I have stopped several times today to eat from my store of food Im carrying. Eating in a cold rain isnt
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pleasant, but I cant pedal on an empty stomach. Its about seven when I get to Mammoth Hot Springs and Im freezing. I stumble into a store on icy feet that have no feeling to ask how far to Gardiner. Seven miles. Downhill. Still cold. But what a sight. The road snakes back and forth down the mountain, awesome erosion sculptures in the mountain side to my right. A little before eight, I wheel into a motel. No vacancies! At the next, the clerk tells me of another where they can either give me a room or put me in touch with a church.
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The Hillcrest Motel has no vacancies, but the young woman holding a baby offers to call the pastor of her church. So she calls Bill Reily, the Baptist preacher. Bill takes me in, gives me a sleeping bag and a place to sleep in the church and anything I want to eat from the kitchen. He also calls a Baptist church in Bozeman and arranges a place for me to stay tomorrow night. The weather hasnt changed much this morning. Its only a light mist as I leave Gardiner for the 90 mile ride to Bozeman, but Ive again got on all my warm clothes, and ominous dark clouds hang low, hiding the mountains from me and acting as governor on the runaway good feelings I have been expecting in Big Sky Country. Bobbie comes home today from Europe. Thinking about not being there to see her would make me blue even on a sunny morning. Added to the natural depression of this day, such thoughts have me in tears which the occasional passing motorist cant tell from the rain in my face. I unpacked all my panniers last night. Even rolled inside plastic bags, all my clothes got wet, not soaking, but damp and clammy, unpleasant to touch and offering no warmth. To put on such clothes is as near to inhumanity as I would like the world ever to come. Out of Gardiner, highway 89 runs 52 miles to Livingston; from there I pick up I-90 for 25 miles into Bozeman. As I leave Gardiner about 8 oclock this morning, Bill Riely tells me he moved here 11 years ago from Abiline, Texas. Loves it here, meets people
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from everywhere coming to Yellowstone. He also tells me it snowed yesterday in the mountains, and I see the snow on the mountains as I travel today. Back home in Missouri, we cant imagine snow in July. The miserable weather as I leave has me expecting a repeat of yesterday. But a few miles out, the rain quits and by noon the sun breaks through. The road is suddenly beautiful. Smooth. With a wide paved shoulder. It twists and turns, in and out, up and down like a giant roller coaster for the first 14 miles or so, through Yankee Jim Canyon and Gallatin National Forest. Then into Paradise Valley, where the highway hugs the Yellowstone River for the next 30 miles. The road now is almost arrow straight and table top flat. The sky is immense. My spirits have lifted with the clouds, and suddenly I am overcome with the vastness of this place that gives space new meaning. The imagination is not up to taking it in. The Montana mindset must be infinitely different from that of other Americans, the result of living daily in infinity. No speed limit makes sense here; no limit of any kind makes sense. This is the Cathedral of the Infinite. But still the wind. Right in my face. I put on my windbreaker hood and jacket; the hood under my helmet and tied tight under my chin keeps the wind from roaring in my ears, the jacket keeps the chill away. Once when I stop to stretch, I spy a house across the way, smoke rising from the chimney; I see snow, the appearance of powdered sugar, on surrounding mountains. In Livingston I stop at the Enterprise, the towns daily paper. No one there. I leave a brochure and a note. Then I drop into a restaurant. The young waitress doesnt have the authority to give me a sandwich; the manager isnt here. She fills my water bottles, and I thank her. At a bar down the street, the young woman tending bar gives me a ham and cheese sandwich. I call Jim Parker in Bozeman; tell him Ill be there about 6:30. He says to meet him at the church. When I get there at 6:35, Jim is standing in the parking lot. Jim takes me to his house for a shower, then to Bonannza for dinner. After dinner, I try for hours to get
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Bobbie on the phone, but she has a lot of people to talk to, and her plane may have been late, so finally about midnight I give up when I think Bobbie would be tired and I would keep Jim awake. Before we leave for church this morning, I finally get Bobbie on the phone. In our 30 years of marriage we have never been apart for so long. Nor have either of us done so many things we want the other to know about. So what do we say in the few minutes we can talk? We might each have felt lonelier after we hung up than before the call. Strange as it sounds, I think the highlight of this past week was riding in the rain, first over Togwotee Pass, then through Yellowstone. It wasnt fun by any definition of that word Ive been taught, and at the end of each day I was bone weary. But I was in a life zone Ive never experienced before. The only comparisons I can think of are when we won the state championship in high school football and when I convinced the graduate school committee to admit me in spite of my poor scores on the Miller Analogy Test. Riding a bicycle is no big deal. Finding out what you are made of is. When you measure yourself against heroes, and dont embarrass yourself, the bicycle is important. It was not a bike ride I took those two days in the rain: It was a test of character. I could have waited. Or hitched a ride. But I didnt. No one would have blamed me if I had. Ill ride much farther than I pledged to ride anyway. But I would have felt defeated, the same way I would have felt if I had let people persuade me not to ride through Yellowstone. To set myself a difficult objective, and then to accomplish it: Thats what lifes about. At least my life. The most stalwart soul can be frustrated by inferior equipment. If Bob had not built a bike that would stand up to a Mack truck and climb a tree, I might not have made it to Montana. Not a single mechanical problem in 2700 miles, in all kinds of weather. Thus Im feeling deeply grateful as Jim and I have a bowl of cereal in his trailer home before we drive across town to Kirkwood Baptist Church. Bob Batchelder has been pastor here for four years; his
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Sunday School class this morning is a study of the second chapter of Revelations. Bob is a marvelous teacher; he knows his scriptures well; he has a winning smile and an attractive manner. Bob invites me to the pulpit during the morning service, puts his arm around me, introduces me to the congregation, gives me two minutes and announces that I will speak tonight for 15 to 20 minutes. After church every one goes to the city park for a church dinner. Church dinners must be the same everywhere: tons of good food, great conversation, and sanctified gluttony which I endorse with relish. When we get back to Jims, I call Bobbie again to hear more about her trip. Brian is at home and I talk to him about his new car and his new job. He leaves tomorrow for Tampa and his job in student affairs at the University of South Florida. I wish I were there to see him. And Bobbie. I miss home. I want to be with my friends. But I cant. Not yet! Ive got to finish this thing. For them and for me. Six more Sundays until I get to L.A.: 2700 miles completed; a minimum of 1500 to go. Jim is really excited about this mission of mine. Says hes going to try to rearrange his vacation so he can be at Disneyland when I get there. And he has thanked me several times for staying with him, the most exciting thing thats happened to me in years, he keeps telling me. On my way out of town, I stop by the Bozeman Daily Chronicle where Barb Smith types what I tell her directly into her computer, a story that is picked up by the Associated Press, which I hear about many times in the next few days, which spreads word of the Human Family Reunion far and wide. As Im getting back on my bike after talking to Barb, I discover that Ive forgotten my water bottles. I took them into Jims kitchen to fill them and thats where they are sitting right now. So I run by Jims office and get his key so I can go back for the bottles. Jim is the auditor and purchasing agent for Bozeman public schools, and when I get back to his office he introduces me to his staff and tells them what Im doing. Jim lives alone and spends much of his free time working with junior high school age boys in the Royal Ambassador program at his
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church. Jim has been a Christian just a few years and is eager to learn all he can about the Bible and about Baptist doctrine. Jims faith is an important part of his life, and he is a very active member of Kirkwood Baptist, teaching a boys Sunday school class, running the sound system during worship service, serving as a deacon and on several committees. Bozeman is an attractive city in beautiful Galatin Valley. The valley is about 60 miles long, Jim tells me, and nearly as wide. Jim mentions the mountains that rise to either side of the valley. The valley is gorgeous; so is the weather today: a Sound of Music ambiance as I pedal away, feeling I can climb every mountain. Jim tells me before I leave that Brother Bob has gotten in touch with pastor Roger Hill at the Baptist church in Three Forks. Hell be looking for you about 4 oclock, and hes excited. I stop in Manhattan and eat my lunch on the lone picnic table beside a Conoco station. I get to Three Forks about 2:15. The church is a nice brick building on the left hand side of the highway that runs through town, just 50 yards or so past the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. As I pull up to the church and am trying to decide which of the houses across the road is the parsonage, I see a man a little younger than I am hurry out the door of the newest and nicest house, headed in my direction. Its Roger, and he rushes me over to meet Patty, his wife, who is in the kitchen preparing dinner for a husband whose wife just had their first child. Patty has also made some cookiies that are on the table and ready to be eaten, a duty which I willingly undertake. Roger is from Corpus Christi, Texas. Another reminder of you, Dad. Roger has been pastor here for 25 years. When he came there were seven adults meeting in a lodge hall. Now they run over 100 meeting in a church they built, and they give more to the cooperative program of the Southern Baptist Convention than any other church in Montana. Roger has lost members since 1985 and the economic down turn. Seventeen men (one-fourth of the total male membership)
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have left because they lost their jobs. The feedlot in town closed last week, costing one of Rogers members his job. Every year or so, Roger visits family back in Corpus Christi. Or they come here. I havent talked to anyone about you, Dad in a long time; so I tell Roger that you lie in a coma in his hometown hospital and have been there since January. Roger listens and Im grateful. Because Roger knows the place where you are, Dad, and shares the faith you have, my pain is more bearable than Roger knows. Roger and Patty are packing their car this morning for a trip to Billings and a statewide church meeting, following which they will drive to the remote Canadian lake where Roger has often fished but Patty has never seen. They were getting ready for the trip last night but took me in anyway. Roger even took me with him when he drove to a members ranch to pick up the rod and reel he is borrowing, and all along the drive in both directions, Roger kept up a running commentary on the topography and geology, the agricultural and social history of the area. Its obvious this transplanted Texan loves this place and these people. I help Roger with a few things he needs from the garage before I wish them a safe journey and myself take to the road about nine oclock. Its nearly noon when I get to Whitehall and stop at a little service-station store with a picnic table along side. Already at the table are two other bikers, a young man from Japan who flew to Los Angeles and is biking to New York where he will fly back home and a man about my age from Oregon who is on one of his almost annual solitary bike tours of the Northwest. Im not feeling very energetic today, and I sit for a long time at the table mechanically stuffing food in my mouth and trying to explain to myself why I should not do the thing I know I must do next. I want to stretch out in the sun and out of the wind for a long nap. Then I want to ride into Butte unannounced, no one fussing over me and asking me questions I dont have the energy to answer. But I know I should call the Butte paper and T.V. station. Ive ridden
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too far, put out too much effort not to do the thing that gives it all purpose. So I trudge across the service-station driveway, past the young woman gassing her car and the pickup truck just beside the phone booth, and I make the call. The TV person is nice and sounds enthused. The Montana Standard is another story. Jim Tracy says the paper will publish my picture with a caption. But no story. So many bikers come through Butte the paper has decided to adopt a policy against cycling stories. This is a shot of adrenaline to me. I come awake. I tell Jim this is not a biking story and that he might want to reconsider when he hears what I have to say. I learn he gets off at five and I tell him Ill be there before he leaves. And all the 21 miles from Whitehall to Butte, Im thinking about how to approach Jim. Up Homesteak Pass, seven miles of long upgrade, I drop to granny after about a mile and have to stop twice to rest, drink and eat. Then atop the pass, I take off my shoes and socks and stretch out in the grass. Down the western side of the pass into Butte is a fast descent into barren and Gothic grotesques, man-made and natural, that mesmerize me. The leavings of mines and miners are everywhere in this brutal and unforgiving land that lures people and then turns on them. Even as I see it, I understand how those who came here before me, Indian and white and miner and missionary and soldier and trader and traveler could not stay away. The human spirit is not designed to resist the demands on will and ingenuity required to get here and to stay here. I get to Butte about four oclock, after meeting a young man from West Germany biking from New York to San Fransisco. I ask him to join me for whatever is in store for me in Butte, but he has his own agenda and declines. When the young clerk in the convenience store just off the interstate cant direct me across town to the Montana Standard, a bearded man who has just gassed his pickup in the driveway steps up to explain how simple it is to get there and how I cant miss it.
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By 4:30 Im in Jim Tracys office. Jim, I need five minutes to tell you my story. Then if you can say no, please do. Dont publish my story unless you have to. Five minutes later: Well, Jim, whaterya gonna do? Jims face lights up. His eyes get big. Im gonna publish your story, he booms. Lets go outside so I can get a picture. Jim directs me to KXLF-TV where Pat Kearney, the news director, gets excited and rushes me out to the graveled parking lot behind the station where he films a story and puts it on the 10 oclock news. Pat tells me about the giant white statue on the mountain top that we can see from the parking lot as we talk. Id first seen it from the interstate a few miles out of Butte. Pat says it was put there two years ago by a local man whose wife was dying of cancer. He promised that if she got well, he would put up the statue. When she recovered, he hired a sculptor and many workers to keep his promise. Pat made a video about he statue that won a prize in national competition, and as he talks about the statue, I sense an awe and a faith in him. I sense it, too, as we talk about my ride. From the TV station, I call Richard Smith, pastor of Floral Hills Baptist Church in Butte. Bob Batchelder had driven over from Bozeman to Three Forks to go with Roger Hill to visit a church member whose mother had just died. As Bob pulled into the driveway, I was sitting in the porch swing, enjoying the view of the distant mountains and the feel of the warm, sunny day. Thats when Bob had told me he would call Richard Smith in Butte to tell him I was coming. Brother Ed, Richard explodes into the phone. Wed love to have you come have dinner with us and spend the night. Richard is at the station in five minutes to pick me up. After a hearty meal and a hot bath, I make several phone calls: to Bobbie, Debbie, Mother. Lorice and Lowell, Rubylee and Dewitt, and Gladys have come down from Cleburne to visit Mother and to find out how Dad is doing. Seven months now, Dad, you have been in a coma. Im glad her sisters and their husbands have come to be with
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her for a while and to see you, Dad. I wonder if they will speak to you. I wonder if you can hear them if they do. And I wish as I hang up that I could do something, that anybody could do anything to end this hell my mother and father are living in. Then I sit on the porch and listen to Cindy Smiths mother tell about her Indian ancestory. Cindys mother is a Kansas Kickapoo and is visiting here from her home in Kansas to make sure that Cindy is recovering from her recent surgery and does not return too soon to her position as supervisor of nurses at a local hospital. As we talk on the porch I notice lights from passing cars on the interstate off to the left about half a mile, seemingly at the base of the mountains that loom high and dark against the evening sky. Directly in front of me some miles away, other mountains are silhouetted in the fading light that gives a garish glow to the neon Circle K disk that hangs just at eye level between me and the mountains and announces the location of a food store. Richard, Cindy and I go to breakfast with Nelda Thomas, Director of the Baptist Student Union at Montana College of Mineral Science and Technology here in Butte. Our conversation and the word picture she paints of BSU activities on the campus have me thinking of S L. Harris, my BSU Director at Sam Houston State back in Huntsville, Texas in the fifties and of Larry and George and Don and Dorthy and Sue, student friends I havent seen in years. Richard takes me to his office at the church and I spend a good part of the day calling people back home and back along my route. I talk to Judy Hellman at the Jewish Community Relations Bureau in Kansas City about Max Garrision who is signed up for an independent Race Relations course with me this summer. Judy and I worked it out before I left for her to work with Max while Im gone and for me to check with both of them now and then on the phone. Judy tells me Max is doing an excellent job. Then I talk to Yahya. And he cheers me up as he always does. Yahya believes in the Human Family Reunion as much as I do. We have talked about it often over the last several years, since that day
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I first talked to him in his office at Masjid Omar about my students who were to work that semester in the school for Muslim youth he operates. Bernie calls me back in the afternoon from Orlando after I leave a message on his machine when I call and he is out. And Margaret at St. Marks in Orlando tells me that David has gone back to Pennsylvania on vacation and will be back at the church in two weeks. During the Wednesday evening prayer service, Richard makes a transparency of my route and shows it to the congregation while I talk to them about my ride. They are with me from the moment I start; I feel at home and at peace talking to them. Several come up afterwards to tell me about friends of theirs further west I could stay with. Richard introduces me to Charles Stieger, a Jewell grad of 64, a PhD physicist who works for a power company in Butte. Charlie and I spend time telling each other stories about Dr. Hester, the legendary Bible teacher at Jewell and Dr. Hilton, equally legendary professor of physics. After we get home, Richard goes to the store to get the Adams Natural Peanut Butter, the three bananas, three oranges, and two apples Id told the church I needed. We are sitting in the Smiths kitchen eating some of the birthday cake Cindy has made for their daughter. As I get up to cross the room for some more iced tea, I feel a twinge in my back. Same pain in the same place as back in Illinios. Richard offers to take me to a masseuse he has faith in to work on my back. Forgetting my promise never to turn down an offer of help, I tell Richard I dont think I need it. That isnt true. I am afraid I do need it, and I certainly would welcome knowing hands kneading my muscles. But Richard has been so generous to me already. Cindy just had an operation and cant work. And preachers are poorly paid. So my fear of being a burden causes me decline Richards offer. Im sorry Richard. I didnt do you right. Richard bikes with me from his house through town to west I90 where I hit the road about 7:30 this morning for Deer Lodge, 45 miles away. Short day! And it will leave me about 80 miles from
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Missoula, where Im scheduled to be tomorrow night. I stop along the highway and call Mark Johnson at the Antioch Publication back home. As I do every Thursday morning, I fill Mark in on everything that has happened since I talked to him last. Mark is writing a weekly summary of my ride for my friends back home and will send a copy to all the people along the way who help me. After Ive talked to Mark, to Yahya, to Mary Spidel at the College, and to Bobbie, I find a picnic table in the sun and sit down to eat from the store I carry with me. As I finish, a young man comes out of the little store I called from and walks in my direction. He puts his can of Coke down on the table and takes a seat beside me. I discover that neither of us has a penny when he asks if I can give him some money. The difference is that I chose to be broke. Gary did not. Until two weeks ago, Gary pulled green chain in a sawmill in his Montana home town near the Canadian border. Made $10.88 an hour. Then the price of lumber fell and Gary was one of the 165 laid off. For two weeks now he has lived in the little motel just off I-90 in Warm Springs, Montana where we now sit. He has no money and hes looking for a ranching job. Gary asks about my ride and says several times he will pray for me. I get to Deer Lodge about two oclock. The gray stone walls of the old state prison rise on my right as I ride through town. The prison is now a museum. The newly built First Baptist Church sits in a field about a mile west of town. Crews from Mississippi and San Antonio, Texas have just left after working on the building, and as Pastor David Howeth shows me around the church, he explains the work still to be done by the men of the church. Bob and Hope come by the church, a couple near my parents age whom David has asked to come meet me because their daughter was told in January that she has M.S. Shes doing better, but still having a hard time coping with the news. After we talk for a while, I follow David to his house on my bicycle. Dave and Debbies three children are seven, four, and two, just where Bobbie and I were 22 years ago. Eating supper tonight with them brings a flood of memories. There is a circus in town for a one
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night stand, and Dave invites me to go with them, but I ask if he minds if I stay home and watch a litttle TV and go to bed early. A light rain is falling this morning and the forecast calls for more rain. Its 85 miles to Missoula. Right now Id like to be home in bed with Bobbie. Then bike up to the office. Get the mail. See my friends. Work on my Race Relations course. Today starts my third month on the road. Everything has exceeded my expectations. Still its hard to generate any enthusiasm early on a dreary day, with a long way to go before night. There is nothing to do but get on the bike and go. Everything depends on that. The people at home, the people here, the people up the road I have yet to meet: All our lives will be differentin ways we can never knowif I dont get on the bicycle. Im kept going by this feeling of responsibility. And by this strange awareness that something is waiting out there for me. Something grand. Mind, soul, and body stretching. Something awesome. Overpowering. Unbelievable. Incomprehensible. Yet simple. Warm. Beautiful. Loving. Totally understandable. I felt it last evening on the phone when I asked to speak to Dave after talking to Bobbie. I told this grown son of ours that I love him. And he told me he loves me. Suddenly I knew he was going to be okay. And so am I. Then when I wake this morning without that catch in my back, I am fully conscious of the miraculous nature of this thing happening to me. And through me. I must tell my story when this is over. Simply! And let readers and hearers make of it what they will. Yahya told me yesterday his daughter got the letter I sent. He urged me to copy my jounals and send them back home. I must do that. A chilly rain falls the entire 85 miles to Missoula; my yellow Gore-Tex rain suit keeps me dry and makes me visible to motorists. Its about three oclock when I pull into a service station just off the interstate on the eastern edge of Missoula. Its almost five by the time I make my way across town to Trinity Baptist Church, most of that time spent calling television stations, the newspaper and a num-
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ber I was given by one of my daughters friends back home. Pastor Ron Moore, another transplanted Texan, invites me to his home for a shower and a bowl of elk stew. I had told him I had a place to stay for the night with Kelly Brewster, a friend of my daughters friend. Ron tells me as we talk at the church that he and his wife Bonnie have somewhere to go after supper; but as it turns out, we sit around the table and talk for over an hour. Then they invite me to stay Saturday and Sunday with them. This weekend their church is celebrating its 30th Anniversary, with a potluck dinner Saturday night and again Sunday after church. Ron invites me to both. As I get up from the table to go to Kellys for tonight, Ron and Bonnie keep bringing up new things to talk about. They walk outside with me to my bike, and we talk about it for a while. I have the feeling they dont want me to leave them. As Im riding across town to Kellys, a man in a van pulls up to ask me if I need directions. I do. He draws me a map, says he is a biker and that people have done similar things for him. I get to Kellys and Pats about 8:30. Kelly is 29, works in a local hospital, in the records department. Pat is a construction worker from Wisconsin. He and Kelly have lived together for a couple years. When Pat leaves to play cards, Kelly says that she and Pat want to build a house, have kids, and live the American dream. Kelly and I talk for over an hour sitting in the kitchen while she makes chocolate chip cookies, most of which I eat. When I call Bobbie, she says Bob and Jean are flying to Missoula tomorrow and riding with me to Spokane. Eastern Airlines has agreed to fly them free of charge. Bob could fly with his pass, but TWA doesnt fly into Missoula, so the last time I talked to Bob, he told me they wouldnt be able to come. But Eastern came through again. I havent asked them yet to fly Bobbie and Mary and Yahya to L.A. so they can be part of the Disney reception, but Im sure they will. When I call Bob to find out how he pulled it off, he says, Audacious asking! You taught me how to do it. So I called Eastern, and they said I could pick up the tickets at the airport. Pat fixes breakfast this morning; baked potatoes, and an
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omelette with a variety of fresh vegetables in it. He doesnt do this often, he tells me; last time was when his parents came from Wisconsin. Pat wants to live the rest of his life in Missoula, but theres not much work here. Hes thinking hell have to move to Arizona or California, where he can work all year and get some money together. Then he wants to come back. I love the weather, the hunting and fishing, he says. After breakfast I spend a couple of hours in the yard cleaning my bike. The chain has crud all over it after the rain yesterday. Kelly gives me rags to use and Pat brings me the solvent he uses to clean the chain on his motorcycle. Bob and Jean will be here at 8:30 tonight and Pat offers to take his pickup to bring them and their tandem from the airport. Im going to the anniversary dinner at Trinity Baptist with the Moores at 6 pm. Pat and Kelly will pick me up there at 7:15. Well go see Kellys friend who has MS; then to the airport. Its unbelievable. Ive been in Missoula exactly 24 hours. I have never been here before and didnt know anyone before I arrived. And already I have two places to stay and two sets of people wanting me to spend time with them. Pat didnt ask if I needed him to go to the airport to get Bob and Jean, he just said, Well pick them up in my truck. Pat and Kelly are planning to come to the potluck dinner Sunday at the church. I dont think they go to church much. But they will meet the Moores. If the weather is decent, Pat, Kelly, Bob, Jean and I will go for a bike ride after church. Pat and Kelly drop me off at the Moores for the night. After Ron and Bonnie get home we sit in the living room and they talk to me about The New Age. Ron says, The New Age wants to destroy all the Christians. Well educated people are into witchcraft, and Satinism. They want to reduce the population of the world by 40 percent by the year 2000. Ron says he has been studying their materials. I have a stack this high in my office, he says, holding his hand about three feet from the floor. Ron also tells me about a recent discovery in Glen
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Rose, Texas of human footprints and dinosaur prints. But youll never see that on the news. They (the New Age) dont want it on. They dont want us to know that man was here when dinosaurs were. They dont want anything to upset their theory of evolution. Another man is staying here tonight, Bonnie told me last night. When I go into the kitchen for breakfast this morning he introduces himself: Im James Nelson, he says, Director of the Great Plains Baptist Convention. This is the man John Dowdy back at the Baptist Building in Jeffferson City, Missouri told me to look up in Montana. We have a long conversation about mutual acquaintances. When we get to the church, Ron introduces me to the Sunday School class and tells them what Im doing. The class gives me five minutes to talk to them. In church Ron tells the congregation all about my mission, and at the dinner afterward, many people ask about my ride. I tell the church I am representing Second Baptist Church in Liberty at their 30th Anniversary and give them our blessing. Earlier this morning I called Second Baptist and told them where I am today and that Trinity is celebrating its anniversary. During the worship hour at Second, word of Trinitys celebration and of my presence with them is announced and Second has included Trinity in their morning prayer. In his sermon, Ron tells his people that he doesnt expect the evangelical church to be around by the year 2000. We wont be here to celebrate our 50th Anniversary. Kelly and Pat come to the church dinner. Bob and Jean didnt make it to Missoula as scheduled yesterday. Their plane was cancelled. Now they are supposed to be here ast 3:30 today. They finally make it in at four oclock. Bob puts his bike together and we all go for a ride around town. After a cookout at Kelly and Pats, they drive me to visit Dee, who works with Kelly, and her friend, Tom. Dee is about 60, has had MS for a long time, is divorced and living with Tom. They take scenic photos as a hobby and sell them in shows. Then Pat drops me off about about 10:30 at the Moores. Ron and I talk for about an hour. Just after I go to bed I hear one of Rons teenage sons come
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tell Ron he has backed into someones motor home in the family van. Ron grounds him for at least a week, then well talk about where we go from there. Sounds like home. As Im leaving the Moores this morning, Ron gives me directions to Missoulas two television stations. The first one is not far from Rons house; when I get there, Ron has called to tell them Im coming and to encourage them to talk to me. News Director Dave Nixon welcomes me to KPAK-TV and wants to do a story. My early arrival has caught him without a reporter, and he will have Lori Raab meet me at 11:00 in the office of Bike Centennial, where I have told him Im planning to be. At KECI-TV Wendy Nineman , talks to me about my ride, then rushes me outside and onto my bike for an action shot. Only the receptionist is in when I get to The Missoulian a little after eight. I leave some information about my ride, ask her to show it to the right person when that person comes, and promise to return. An hour later, Im back. Brian Howell is in. I ask to see him. My stuff is on his desk, but he hasnt had a chance to look at it. I tell him Ill be back in an hour. When I return, Brian takes me into the conference room and we sit at a big wooden table with the door closed. I tell Brian briefly what Im doing and ask him to print it if he thinks his readers would be interested. Brian doesnt think so; he says no. Im disappointed. At the same time, Im glad. I think without an occasional rejection I would soon take things for granted, would think people owed me something. I would get a big head. I dont want to become arrogant and self important. If everybody responds as Brian, I would be crushed and quit. If nobody did, my ego would get the better of my judgement, and nobody would find in me the thing I most want to be there and for them to see: absolute conviction of the truth of what Im doing and total dependence on others to make it work. Lori finds me at Bike Centennial talking to Daniel Dambrosio, editor of their Bikereport magazine. Dan is interested
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in what Im doing and why. He will write a report of it for the magazine and asks me to send him something when its over. Bob is in heaven at Bike Centennial. He knows several of the staff from other rides but has never been here. Like a kid in a candy store, he runs from the maps and decals and books and other bike memorabilia, buying all he can justify to his frugal side and all he thinks can safely be mailed home from here. As Dan and I are about finished with our conversation, Ron Moore suddenly appears, an impish grin on his face, to announce that I have to come with him. Ron drives me across Missoula to a bike shop not far from his church, where he announces, Im gonna buy you a pair of shoe covers so your feet will stay dry. I dont want you catching flu in Oregon. I had told Ron about my ride through Yellowstone in the rain; I had mentioned getting my feet wet and having them turn to blocks of ice by night. Bob, Jean, and I eat lunch at the natural food bakery a few doors down from Bike Centennial. Missoula has worked its magic on us with its biking ambiance and its high mountain setting. Voluntarily extracting ourselves from this Brigadoon-Shangrala requires almost more strength of will than we can muster. By two oclock, though, we mangage. And we bid a reluctant farewell to a place which will in spirit live with us for the rest of our lives. Bob buys us all an ice cream cone at a little motel-gas-grocery combination alongside the interstate about four oclock. This is the first place we have seen since leaving Missoula, and we want to stay. But we cant stop this early and still make Spokane in time for me to keep my promise to the Indian community and for Bob and Jean to catch their plane for home. Its after eight when we come to Superior. We are starving and dead tired. After Bob checks us into the motel, we go across the road to the restaurant where we take a seat looking back on the motel and up the forested mountain at whose base it nestles. A Mexican dinner, several side dishes and a couple of gourmet chocolates filled with huckleberries transform our hunger from a roaring lion to a purring kitten.
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Ron tells me on the phone tonight that he called the paper in Missoula and chewed them out for not printing my story. The reporter told him they get a lot of people with MS biking through. That would be news to the MS Society. As we drove around Missoula yesterday in Rons van, Ron talked about witches and witchcraft. He has a permit to carry a gun because he thinks his life is in danger. They know Im after them. Then he told us about several people who had been killed, others missing, blood sacrifices. Ron first got into this a couple of years ago when, as President of the Missoula Ministerrial Association, he was asked to attend a school board meeting to consider a sex education program and give his evaluation. Eighty percent of the program was excellent, but I couldnt believe the other 20, Ron says. It was awful. Right in front of first grade children, this man ran his hand over this womans breasts and in her crotch. They were showing children about incest and what not to let their fathers do. It was terrible. It would make children distrust fathers. It would give little boys ideas about what they could do to little girls. Over the next couple of years, Ron studied all kinds of programs for public schools. His advice now to newlyweds is to start a savings account so their children can be sent to private schools. According to Ron, the National Education Association fosters programs that have nothing to do with education. They are occult, lesbian. Ron talked about a lengthy questionnaire given to school children about masturbation. Ron was critical of liberal churches. He attended a recent meeting where the invocation began: Our Mother-Father God. I knew what they were up to, he said. A haircut when I was 10. Thats the sensation that comes to me as I ride this morning. The hot sun on my back, the blue sky, the forested mountain sides, the clear air: all combine to make my scalp tingle and goose bumps race up my arms. Just the way I remember feeling as I sat in the barbers chair when I was a boy. That was the only place I ever got that feeling. A tactile sensation about my head
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as the barber ran his comb through my hair and the whir of the clippers sounded in my ears. I felt warm all over. And tingly. This morning on my bike is a total resurrection of that experience. The ribbon of road we follow today is practically the only accommodation this land has made to modernity. About me I can imagine Im seeing the same rocks and hills and trees the Indians and the pioneers saw. Billboards are conspicuous by their absence, a decided contrast to the state and federal highways I have come along back south and east. The exception to this pristine panorama is the overlarge billboard every 15 to 20 miles or so announcing that soon we will come to the Ten Thousand Silver Dollar Bar. About 1 p.m. we do. This stretch of Interstate passes nowhere near any towns, and we have seen only an occasional passing car since we left our motel about eight oclock this morning. We had come to the motel last night somewhere near eight oclock, a longer day than we had planned. But towns in Montana are a fur piece apart. We had wanted to stay in this place that had no other people about than the owner and his 10 year old son, whose time looking after about a dozen rooms perched on the bank of a beautiful little stream was not so filled that they were brusque to strangers. The mountain behind so close you could reach out and touch it. But we could not stay longer and still make Spokane in time for me to keep my promise to the Indian community and for Bob and and Jean to cach their plane for home. So we pulled ourselves away from that place of almost irrestible attraction and back onto our bikes. By the time we come to the Silver Dollar Bar today, we are ready for its food and companionship. And to celebrate. Just eight miles short of my goal when I started of 3,000 miles, we decide to announce to the owner of Silver Dollar Bar that this is the spot Ive been aiming for. Brooke Lincoln is an attractive young woman, daughter of the owner and today in charge. She makes us welcome, continuing the process begun as I wheeled up outside and was surrounded by occupants of a tour bus as they were coming out of the Silver dollar. They are full of questions and we talk for about half
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an hour. They are from the east coast, and very supportive when I tell them about the Human Family Reunion and hand them my literature. When someone says I dont look 51, I dont know what to say. I know the usual thing is to say thank you. But to say that would imply that I think its better to look younger and/or that I want to be younger. Neither is true. So I say nothing. Lincolns 10,000 Silver Dollar Bar is easily the most populated place we have seen since leaving Missoula and even busier than anything we saw there. The parking lot adjacent to the westbound lane of 1-90 is filled with cars and buses and two bicycles. Inside, everything is done in white pine: the floor, the walls, the bar, the restaurant. The surface of the bar and the room its in are inlaid with thousands of silver dollars, placed there over the years by customers who have also left their name and the dates of their contribution to the character of this place. After a leisurely lunch in this tourist sustained oais, Jean, Bob, and I are back on our bikes about two-thirty. Since Missoula the road has been steadily upward. The grade has seldom been severe, but sustained enough that we have never been able to use the biggest of our three chain rings. The first eight miles west from the Silver Dollar are no different. Precisely at 3:55 Mountain Time, the digital readout on my solar powered cateye shows 3,000 miles, and I pull to the side of the road to wait for Jean and Bob. Pedaling that tandem ever upward has them now about half a mile behind me and out of sight around a bend in the road. But we must celebrate our precise arrival at the orginal goal the three of us had worked out for Bike America. I have a giant Snickers bar from the Silver Dollar, and by the time Bob and Jean pull in, I have cut it in three equal pieces. Jean has in her hand a bouqet of mountain daises she has picked along the road since we left the Silver dollar. Alighting from her rear seat on the tandem, she presents me the bouquet while Bob snaps a picture. And as we turn away from the road to look off into the mountains to our right, our eyes seize on a big buck deer in full profile standing in the middle of a small clearing in the forest just below the
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summit. Before Bob can remember his camera and get it to his eye, the buck bounds from the clearing into the dense woods. Im glad, Bob, better we should remember him in our minds than on a piece of film we stick away in a drawer. The ride up Lookout Pass is long, steady, and slow. At the top is a sign warning truckers to check their brakes before beginnning the five mile descent. From that point the road snakes downhill at a maximum six percent grade, spectacular scenery all around, past two turnouts for run away trucks. I ride my brakes so hard that the rear one begins to squeak. I stop. The rim is hot, though the day is cool. And I think of the advice I read somewhere about letting rims cool after using the brakes in order not to blow a tire. After a short wait, I take off again. And repeat the process several times.
Idaho
Only occasional pedaling is necessary to get us to Mullan, Idaho and six miles past to Wallace, a Swiss-like town of 1,700 snugged into a pocket valley, pine-forested mountains all around, so close you can almost touch them. Riding down the main street, looking for the B&B we had called from the Silver Dollar, I hear a voice from a parked car: Where ya goin? I wheel around and pull up to the window. As we talk, a man carrying a pizza approaches the car from across the street; he hands the pizza to the woman in the back seat. You have M.S.? Its the woman in the back seat asking. My wife has M.S. Its the man with the pizza talking as he points to the woman in the back seat. I wish Id known you were coming, says the woman. Id like for you to talk to my friends so they could see that they dont have to give up. But Ill tell them about you. Im so glad we met. Bless you. Its a marvelous thing youre doing. Dont ever stop. A man on the tour bus back at the Silver Dollar had said essentially the same thing just a few hours earlier. Wallace, Idaho is the only town on Interstate 90: The highway
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runs right through town, giving this idyllic picture postcard place the distinction of having the only traffic light on the interstate. Wallace will lose this distinction in a year or two when the highway is routed around the town. The Jameson B&B is a remodeled hotel just three blocks down Sixth Street off the highway, directly across from the old train depot that is now a museum. The clerk at the Silver Dollar who sold Jean the chocolates filled with huckleberries recommended the Jameson, and Bob had called to make reservations. The moment I lay eyes on the place, Im back in England, Scotland, and Ireland, making our way in our 10 year old Renault to the dozens of quaint little bed and breakfast inns in quaint little towns. Bob has reserved a single room on the third floor, overlooking the depot and the mountain that rises behind as if coming from the door. We have left our bicycles downstairs in the rear of the dining room where waiters can keep an eye on them, and I am unloading my panniers upstairs in the bedroom before going down the hall to take a shower. Suddenly Bob bursts into the room saying Im going to have a room of my own. He has been talking downstairs to Marie Engebretson, the manager, telling her Im planning to sleep on the floor in their room. Marie tells Bob to have me take the room next door to them so I can sleep in a bed. After we are all settled in our rooms and have washed away the days grime and fatigue, we make our way down the steep and narrow wooden steps to the intimate little restaurant. A cheerful waitress seats us at a table affording warmth from the kitchen and quickly brings a hot dinner as pleasing to the eye as to the palate. The ambiance works its spell on us. We stay long, eat much, and talk to anyone who looks our way or walks near us. The light rain we can see against the window only adds to the feeling of sanctuary that comes over us as we sit in this warm place and imagine the chill just outside. Im glad Bob and Jean are with me right now. To have someone from home to share this cocoon experience with years from now makes me warm to my toes thinking of it. Bob has pulled out his wallet to pay so often and so willingly that Ive started calling him Dad.
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So has Jean. Bob grumbles and makes mock protest, but we both know he loves it. As he pays the check tonight, I say, largely for the waitresss hearing, Thanks Dad, tomorrow nights dinner is on me. After dinner I call Ron Moore back in Missoula. Since we left, Ron has called Jack Dawson, a member of Emmanuel Baptist church in Couer dAlene to see if the church can take care of us when we arrive. The church is currently without a pastor, and Jack is the one Ron is referred to when he calls. So I call Jack to explain about Bob and Jean and me. He will see that we are all provided for, he says. And I can speak in church tomorrow night at their regular Wednesday evening prayer service. Its hard! Getting out of the four-poster double bed that squeaks and groans at just the right times and with proper pitch to remind me of my mothers mother and my nights as a small boy. Leaving this room with its hardwood floor, high ceiling, no phone or TV and its door that opens with a brass knob is something my , grandmother would understand. As we pig out on pancakes to fuel our assault on the mountain in the rain, we talk to the waitress from last night who is on duty again this morning. She wants to call the newspaper so all the town will know we were here and what our purpose was. She comes back to say that they will see us at the newspaper office in Kellogg, the first town we will come to after we leave Wallace. I leave Jean and Bob at a little jewelry shop back along Sixth Street about a block short of the highway. I cant bring myself to call this tame little stretch of road lined to either side with shops of various vintage and architecture by the name it bears on the map. To call it Interstate 90 bestows an impersonality that seems out of keeping as I pedal along, talking to everyone I see and listening to the lyric of their response. Bob and Jean are intent on buying a gift for Amy. Too late now for her birthday tomorrow, they hope to have it there before she thinks they have forgotten. By noon I am in Kellogg and doing my best to follow the directions Ray Chapman gave me over the phone. Off the highway to the right, then back again to the left under the interstate and
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across a bridge lined to either side with potted flowers of brilliant colors and delicate feature. Together with the pastoral scenes of vivid hue and bold strokes painted on every building I see, I think I have taken a wrong turn and come to Bavaria. My reverie is interrupted when I hear, Ed! You lost? Here I am. I am late enough that Ray has come looking for me, and just as he pulls his car from the curb, he spots me passing through the intersection two blocks up. Rather than turning in his direction as he had told me, I have riden right through the intersection in the direction of the tall smokeless stack I see in the distance. When he hails me, Ray has come through the intersection, driven past me and pulled his car to the curb. We are on the main street in the middle of Kellogg when Ray and I meet and stand talking for half an hour. Ray Chapman is 65 and a part time reporter for the Shoshone County News-Press. For 30 years he worked at the huge Bunker Hill copper mine whose stack had led me astray. The mine has been closed now for several years. Ray took early retirement from the mine, but hundreds of his friends lost their jobs and moved away. The towns search for new identity and source of income was the genesis of the Bavarian theme. A gondala lift to the crest of the mountain is being considered as a carrying out of the theme and as a vehicle for skiers and an attraction for sightseers. Marie Engebretson back at the Jameson B&B in Wallace had slipped me a $5.00 bill as we left and told me about Father Mac, the former Episcopal priest in Kellogg. Marie was a physical therapist at the hospital, and Father Mac had Multiple Sclerosis. Marie said she would look forward to the days she worked with Father Mac because she always felt better. He was so upbeat, so positive and friendly that Marie looked forward to seeing him. Maries one request of me is that I go to see Father Mac when I get to Kellogg. Bob and Jean still havent come when Ray and I have finished our conversation, and Ray takes me on a tour of the town as we look for them. We drive back several miles toward Wallace. Still no sign of them, and Ray takes me to lunch. But before I can think about eating, I have to see Father Mac.
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Ray knows him and we are there shortly. Elizabeth McReynolds opens the door of the small frame house and invites us inside. Lauren, her husband, sits in a wheelchair just across the room. In his sixties, Lauren is unable to use his right arm and his legs. His speech is slurred. But Ray has told me that he does for all of Kellogg what he did for Marie. All over town in his motorized wheelchair Lauren goes with the bikers flag standing tall behind waving in the breeze. And as he goes, he calls greetings to all he sees. Father Mac is the term of endearment this town has chosen as its description of this community treasure. Father Mac is a constant reminder that no matter how dark the day, there is a sunrise tomorrow. However hopeless outward circumstance, hope lives within. When we get back to the paper, Bob and Jean have been there and have gone to look for us. Ray jumps in his car and I grab my bike to follow him. Ray figures that since its lunch time and they are likely starving, they have found their way to the Dorsett House, Kelloggs most visibly attractive and highly recommended restaurant. Bingo! We find them just sitting down to a beautiful lunch that looks good to me even though Ive just eaten. When I see the pies on display across the room, I willingly succumb to temptation. Miss Teenage Idaho, daughter of Joan and Wayne Dorsett, floats through the room on her way to one of her summer jobs. Rain starts to fall as I leave Kellogg for the 37 mile ride to Couer dAlene. As I ride, the rain comes down harder. And colder. Fourth of July Pass lies between Kellogg and Couer dAlene, and the ascent is so deceptively simple that I am shocked when I am at the top and about to go down. Sitting at the summit and looking down the mountain through the drizzling rain, my heart is in my throat and a knot in my stomach. I dont want any part of what I see, but I have no choice. How will Jean and Bob survive? I wish they were here to talk about this. I wish I could wait. But I cant stay here in this rain. Nothing to do but go. Just over the summit, the highway is torn to pieces. Under Construction: thats what the sign says. Obstacle Course: thats how I read it. Traffic is narrowed to two lanes rather than four. No shoulder.
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Hard rain. Slick pavement. Logging trucks, semis, motor homes and countless cars lurching by as I fight to hold my bike to the foot-wide strip of road available to me while braking hard to keep from plummeting out of control down the mountain. To my right, just inches from me: debris, rocks, sand, a guard rail, all of it ready to spill my bike and me onto the road if I make a single mistake. To my left, inches away, that caravan of 18 wheelers and vacationers rumbles by. Should I veer a few inches off course to the left, Im a dead man. Down that mountain for half-a-mile or so I follow that ribbon-wide path, disaster to either side. Then comes the four mile obstacle course. Marker cones, long concrete barriers set up to channel traffic away from the construction and into two narrow lanes, and all the while the road is twisting to follow the natural contours of the land. Where I can, I ride to the right, as far from the traffic as possible, through the construction, where cars and trucks cannot get at me. But the road is rough and strewn with tire hazards. Often the way is blocked by a concrete barricade, and I am forced back into the line of traffic. Nothing to do but go. Stopping, even hesitating, is out of the question. My bicycle has as much right on this road as big trucks and cars, and they will respect that right. Only I can exercise it, though. And I realize Im teaching as I ride, teaching motorists how to treat bikers. Talking is not teaching, listening is not learning, a saying I ran across somewhere years ago comes to mind as I compete for space on the road. When I come to the only shelter I have passed since leaving Kellogg, more than 25 miles back, I pull my bike up under that overpass. Standing straight after hours hunched over in a cold rain feels good. Arms over my head and touching my toes releases taut muscles, but Im not able to move fast enough to generate the heat I long for. My rain jacket on over a tee shirt, is glued to my arms from the rain. With an hour to go before I get to Couer dAlene, I have to get warm. So I pull out my flannel shirt and put it on under my jacket. I had told Jack to expect me about three oclock, but its 5:15 by the time I get to the church. No sooner have I pulled in than Jack
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appears. He shows me where to change my wet clothes. Then I call the police to tell them about Bob and Jean coming behind me. I also call the highway patrol to ask that they watch for them and bring them to the church. As people are arriving for the evening prayer service, Jack introduces me to each. When the service begins at 6:30, Im given the bulk of the service to tell about my ride and about the Human Family Reunion. When the service is drawing to a close and Bob and Jean havent come, I ask prayers for them out there on that mountain in the rain. After services, I call the police again. No word. So George House, Jack, and I get in Georges car to go look for them. As we round a curve on the edge of town just before starting up the mountain, I spot two heads barely visible behind a motor home sitting in a service station driveway. I cant tell who it is, but I have the feeling its Bob and Jean, and I yell at George to pull in. They are cold and wet and miserable and look like death wanting to be warmed over. But we are all so happy to see one another, so giddy from our sense of accomplishment at getting down the mountain and of conquering our fear that nothing else matters. Georges pickup wont hold the two of them and their tandem, so Bob and Jean have to ride another four wet miles to the church. George then takes them where they are to stay and Jack takes me to his house out in the country, stopping at Taco Bell for an order to go. Then to bed! According to the paper there was a flood yesterday in Smelterville, a little place I saw a sign for on the ride down the mountain. A small plane is missing and feared down in the area. Hayden Lake is only a few miles from Coeur dAlene. Thats where the Aryan Nations nuts are. Learning this, I want to stress the Human Family Reunion part of my ride. I get to the newspaper office as deadline approaches and wait an hour to see what I can help to happen. When he is free, Gail Wood and I sit and talk for half an hour or so while he takes notes. Gail seems supportive and sympathetic, though he cant quite grasp how people of various
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faiths can get together without trying to convert one another. I mention my friendship with Yayah. Gail asks if I think it is important to share Jesus Christ with him. I say no. Thats such a crucial part of this whole Human Family Reunion. It cannot ever, even for a moment, be seen as a platform for converting people of other faiths. Who is right is the wrong question to ask in this setting. Better that no effort ever be made to get people together than that it ultimately turn into an effort to blend all into a homogeneous mass. And God forbid that anyone ever attempt this program with a hidden agenda. The Bible condemns hypocrites, those who pretend to be what they are not. Know thyself is a Christian injunction. Also Jewish. And Muslim. The person who does not know her/his motives dare not attend the Human Family Reunion. And the only adequate motive has to be to learn to like people who are not like you. Like them. Not change them. To Gail I stress that I am a teacher, out on my bike to teach the country how to like people. To show them that we have done it in Kansas City; to encourage them to do it in their community; to show them how easy it is, and how doing it makes them into a better person, a more committed believer, a noble human being. Mistrust is the province of small minds and withered souls, and is never at home when the Human Family Reunion is in progress. We leave Coeur dAlene about one oclock and pedal the entire 37 miles to Spokane without stopping. The last few miles of merging freeways could have been tense if I had stopped to think about it. Half a dozen times dual lanes of traffic come in on my right, leaving me in the middle of four to six lanes of traffic, having to swivel my neck to the right, then cut hard across the right hand lanes to reach the shoulder.
Washington
I never stop or look at my watch. I swing off the freeway at Second Avenue and find the Indian Center at 810 E. 2nd without trouble. I pull up to the door at 3:30 on the dot. The door opens; half
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a dozen people converge on me: a photographer and a reporter for the Spokesman-Review; an M.S. staff member, an Indian Center staff member, and a couple of others. Right on time. You said youd be here at 3:30 and you are! After a few pictures on my bike, we all gather in the center around a table while I tell my story to Jennifer Price, the reporter. Jennifer is attentive to every detail and asks many questions. As they leave, Jennifer and Shawn Jacobson, her photographer, say encouraging and supportive things to me. Bob and Jean appear at this time. They had pulled off the freeway where youre supposed to and stopped for something to eat at a Mexican restaurant. They had seen a sign saying all bicycles exit now. I hadnt seen it. No wonder some of those drivers cussed at me: I wasnt supposed to be on that downtown freeway. But I arrived on time. Ignorance can be bliss. And maybe a blessing. Leonard Hendrix is Director of the American Indian Community Center and my host in Spokane. Justin Orr has arranged this. From his office in Kansas City, Justin had called his friend, Bill George in Seattle to tell him of my interest in spending time in Indian communities, and Bill had called the college to leave a message for me to call him from the road. I had done so several weeks back, and todays reception is the culmination of all these crisscrossing phone calls and these personal relationships. Leonard has arranged for the three of us to stay at the Gateway Inn, just across the street from the Indian Center, and he hands Bob a check to pay for two rooms. We ask the desk clerk if we can have one room and dinner. The waiter says when he comes to our table that they have huckleberry pie, but it is gone by the time we are ready. He apologizes; says they will have some by breakfast; we promise to return. Bob and Jean want to go home tomorrow; they think they are in the way. I talk them into staying by promising that we can all spend the night with an Indian family. There is no such thing as a problem without a gift in its hand. We seek our problems because we need their gifts. I saw this saying on a bulletin board at the Indian Center, and I cant quit think-
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ing about it. Maybe that is part of the reason Im doing this ride. Getting across the country on a bicycle without money might be considered a problem. And I certainly need the gifts of peace, power, purpose, love, and joy Im finding in abundance on every hand. This should be an exciting weekend. After the heros welcome yesterday, Leonard gave me a calendar of Indian pictures and events (gave Jean one too): Today, a tour of the center at 10:00, a TV interview at 11:00, then lunch, and a tour of the warehouse where Indian people work. Tonight we stay with Jim Bates and his family; tomorrow night with Loretta Wilsons family. Loretta is Indian and I met her at the Center yesterday. Sunday Ill go to church somewhere. Then Monday morning, Leonard will take me beyond city traffic to begin my trip to Seattle. After the tour of the Indian Center, Im having a very hard time walking. Its much the same every weekend. I get to a place, dont ride for a day or two and I feel terrible, wondering if I can make it. On the road, things are good. When I stop, things begin to fall apart. I only rode 37 miles yesterday. None scheduled for the next three days. I may have to get back on the road sooner simply to keep my body working and my spirits up. Lunch at the Center is potluck smorgasbord brought in by staff in honor of one of their number who is taking a new job. Both food and conversation are scintillating, due to the cosmopolitan character of those assembled: several Asian nationalities are represented as well as Anglo and Indian Americans. For the rest of the afternoon, Bob, Jean, and I wander around the Center asking about everything and being treated like visiting dignitaries. As we leave the Center about three oclock to bike to the Bates, Leonard, Nancy and the entire staff wish me well. Nancy gives me her blessing and promises to pray for me. We get to Jim and Betty Bates beautiful old home about four oclock. Jim is a member of the Indian Center board and teaches Sociology at Eastern Washington University in Cheney, about 20 miles west of Spokane.
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Ken and Martha drop by after supper and we sit on the porch and talk about my ride. And my problem. Ken then tells me about his heart problem, a rare heart disease with no known cause or cure. He takes dozens of different pills. It takes me a week to do what I used to do in one day, he says. Ken was finally diagnosed seven years ago but has had problems since his twenties. His life and Marthas have been devastated. They had to slow down. Live simply. They are both elementary teachers, and after a day at school, they are ready for a quiet evening and an occasional walk. After I say I have considered suicide, Ken says he has, too. I opened up the cabinet one day and saw 25 different kinds of pills Id been taking. I thought, why not take them all? I didnt, because I thought of Martha. After Ken and Martha have gone, Jean tells me I should say things Id said tonight more often. About what MS has done to me, considering suicide. Learning from MS. From the Bates, I call Tony Winslow, brother-in-law to Livia Millard. Livia works at the Indian Center and had tried to get hold of Tony while I was there. When she couldnt, I asked for his number so I could call him. Tony has MS, used to be a drummer. Lives now on social security and is a house husband. Hopes to be percussionist in a band. Tony took my name and address and promised to send me one of the photos he takes and enlarges. Tony has a sport-model wheel chair that sells for $2,000.00, but social security and supplemental insurance got it for him for practically nothing. Tony was a Vietnam protester during the war. Now Im more religious and very patriotic. If I had MS in any other country Id have nothing. If I was in some South American country or Iran they would say, what can you do for us? Id say, I can get you water but I cant bring it. Theyd say: Go stand by that wall. If we have any bullets left, well shoot you; if we dont, youll starve to death. Whats your preference? How fragile life is. Yet so tough. So tenacious. Ken and Martha
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cling to one another, think of one another, face death together, and find joy. Tony dreams of drumming and feels grateful to be American. When Ken thought of killing himself he couldnt because of Martha. He got into his car and drove to his school. If I could just get there, just have my kids around me, I knew I would make it. Dad in a coma now more than six months. Mother there every day. So little life in him, but he holds on to what he has. Mother always hopeful, always at the hospital. Why do we rage so against the dying of the light? We know we will eventually lose; why do we fight so? How do we do it? I dont think its the fear of death that is the ultimate source of our struggle for life. It is the joy of struggle. Fear does not motivate; it paralyzes. Joy! Joy is the only source of energy sufficient to fuel our ultimately doomed but momentarily magnificent struggle. Joy at each sunrise, each babys cry, each breath of life. Life is a problem to solve. A struggle to wage. Purpose is its goal. Death is not the dark at the end of day. It is the dawn. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. To those who do not fear, death is not defeat. To those who do fear, life is not victory. I ride along in the car when Jim takes Bob and Jean to the airport. A young man comes up to me as we wait for their plane. Hows the bike ride going? He asks. Where do I know him from? College? Liberty? Just as I am about to embarrass myself by having to ask, his name comes to me. Doug Zink! At least five years since Ive seen him. Hes in the Airforce, stationed in Spokane. Hes on his way to Omaha and S.A.C. But I remember Doug from that October Friday night I dropped Brian at his house in Liberty about eight years ago. Dont go anywhere, had been my last words to Brian as he got out of the car. The phone rang after midnight. Your son has been in a car wreck, the voice said. Please come to the hospital as soon as possible. Brians head had gone through the windshield. His face was cut to pieces and swollen the size of a basketball. When the doctor had sewed him up and we were leaving the hospital, Brian turned to the nurse and said, Well, I wont have to buy a Halloween mask.
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So as Doug and I chat about our common past, it is Brians face I see. Handsome. Without scars after two plastic surgeries and many a sleepless night by his mother. Its raining when I get back to the Bates, so I call Loretta Wilson and beg off the picnic being held at a nearby lake by her husbands place of work. Ill meet her instead at four oclock at her house. Jim has brought my bike into the living room to keep it safe and dry. As a biker himself, Jim is sensitive to such things. As Im sorting the damp from the dry in my panniers, I overhear an argument between Jim and Betty in the next room. It starts over washing clothes. Jim wants to put socks in; Betty doesnt. You take all the joy out of it for me, he says. They arent talking about washing. And its obvious they have argued before. Apparently they remember me. Suddenly I hear the TV. A cartoon. Then I catch only a word here and there. Jim and Betty have six children; the youngest in college. And suddenly I remember the arguments Bobbie and I have had. We love each other, but we have a hard time living together. She has quit her job, to be a better wife. Probably wont last long, she just said on the phone. But the effort: The effort! Thats the important thing. Now I hear Jim and Betty. Calm after the storm, like the rain storm that just passed through. After the rain has stopped, Jim bikes with me to what we thought was the CBS station. Turns out to be ABC. The CBS station in Kansas City is carrying stories about my ride and will pick up stories done by other CBs affiliates. As we leave his house, Jim tells me he has dyslexia and has trouble orienting himself on his bicycle and in the car. Jim lives on the western edge of Spokane and Loretta on the eastern. I get a close-up view of downtown Spokane as I bike from one to the other. And as I ride, Im grateful for this vehicle that takes me quietly wherever I want to go. At my own speed. And does not shut me off from the smells and the sounds. With an on-time record an airline would envy, I get to Lorettas
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exactly at 4:00. Back door is open. About 5:30 they get home from the picnic and have brought food for me. I meet Chuck, Lorettas husband, and thank him for letting me come. He had no choice, says Loretta. I told him you were coming. Both Loretta and Chuck are Choctoaw: Loretta from Mississippi, Chuck from Oklahoma. They met as students at Southeastern State College in Oklahoma. They married and moved to Montana, where Chuck worked for five years in the Bunker Hill mine in Kellogg, Idaho. Their oldest daughter was born there. Shes now twenty and mentally handicapped. Loretta thinks a cloud of copper dust from the mine that hung over Smelterville, where they lived when she was pregnant, is the reason. But they moved away two years before the class action suit against the mine. Chuck is now a supervisor for Washington Water Power. He is in the office from nine in the morning until nine in the evening and works about six hours on weedends. Chuck never finished college; because of that, he is driven to work harder. When I go to the mission and see those drunken Indians, I have to work even harder. Quahna has epilepsy in addition to mental retardation. She is almost 21 and Loretta and Chuck are reluctuantly planning to allow her to live independently in an apartment under supervision. They could have been getting social security for her since she was 18, but shes our offspring; were responsible for her. Chuck has three brothers, all in the northwest: all worked in the mines; all now unemployed. Chucks mother is 80, lives alone in a small Oklahoma town. Chuck goes down once a year to make repairs on her house. Lorettas mother is in Mississippi. Loretta grew up with an extended family, and she is lonely in Spokane with no family around. Lorettas brothers and sisters live is in Mississippi. Loretta finished her college degree and is a special education teacher. She doesnt think affirmative action has helped her. It got her on job lists, but didnt get her a job. Chuck thinks affirmative action has kept him from getting fired when women he supervises complained to his supervisors that he was sexist.
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Eleven year old Lisa regularly goes to church. She showed me a Bible last night that she won for memorizing scripture. As is fairly usual, Chuck has to go to work on this Sunday morning. He has a new boss who doesnt understand computers and wants everything handwritten. So Chuck spends this Sunday until two oclock converting computer data to handwritten forms. Busy work, except for the fact that Chuck wants to impress his new boss that he was not the reason his previous boss failed to get the job done. This manager doesnt know yet if he can trust me to help him succeed, Chuck says. Lisa, Quahna, Loretta, and I go to Sunday School and worship at the Minnehaha Covenant Church just a block from their house. Loretta introduces me to the pastor and explains my dream of helping people like each other. During a brief prayer time before the service, Loretta cries as she says she is now healed of the hate and mistrust that were the legacy of her childhood. She has never felt she could trust white people. Thank you for sending Ed to show me I can. Again in the worship service, Loretta stands, and with a quavering voice, tells the congregation how I have cleansed her life of hate. Hearing what Loretta says about our meeting and its meaning to her is a welcome demonstration that this bike ride is doing what I have hoped it would and that the Human Family Reunion is more than a crazy idea. The power to change individual lives and the conduct of community: Thats what the Human Family Reunion is proving to be. After the service, I grill steaks and wieners in the back yard while Loretta prepares corn on the cob and salad. Chuck said he would try to make it home for lunch, but he doesnt. Karl Van Amburg and Mike Gibson from KHQ-TV come at two oclock and film a story for showing tonight. I leave about 3:30 to go across town to spend the night with Don and Ann Barnett, friends of Chuck Johnson, who is painting our house in Liberty this summer while Im gone. Before I leave, Loretta and I talk about Hayden Lake and Aryan Nations. She tells me about the Catholic priest whose home
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was bombed in Coeur dAlene after he spoke out against the Aryan Nations. She drove alone to his house to lend support. Then she helped to plan the Festival of Friends to counteract the work of Aryan Nations. They held the Festival at the same time the Aryans held their national conference so the media couldnt focus on the bigots. Loretta does this out of a personal need to be counted on the side of law and justice. She says its personal with her. She carries scars. She is determined to make this world a better place. When I get to the Barnetts about five, Don is away fishing, He comes in before six with some silvers that well have for breakfast. Don and Ann have a house in Sun City, Arizona where they go in November and come back in April. Their son now runs the wholesale electrical business while Don plays golf and fishes and Ann gows flowers, fruit and vegetables in their yard. In her garden at the moment, Ann has carrots, onions, horseradish, cherries, apples and several other healthy looking food plants I dont recognize. Anns 97 year old mother lives about 10 miles away, and Ann goes daily to visit her. Anns sister is in the hospital with a rare illness, and Ann is spending much time at the hospital. No sooner am I in the house than Ann has me in the kitchen. I understand instantly that Ann loves to cook and is a master chef. Anns joy is for her son and grandson to call and ask whats for lunch. Then to come over. And bring their friends. Ann and Don have just the one son and loved the summers when school was out and he was home. She was lonely when he left. She is lonely still, as evidenced by her big heart and generous spirit that has her going and doing and cooking for all who come near. A month from today: DISNEYLAND. Before I leave at 7:30, Ann fixes me three sandwiches, four boiled eggs, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, five plums, a bag of cherries and two apples. When all of this is packed away, Im bound for Seattle, some 300 miles across the High Plains Desert and over the Cascades. Across the high plains from Spokane to Seattle, Interstate 90 passes near only three towns of any size. I dont relish the idea of riding 100 miles a day for three days straight, but I have no choice
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if I want to make Seattle on time. Leaving Spokane at seven-thirty this morning should put me in Moses Lake around five-thirty this afternoon if I can maintain my 10 mile per hour average. But out of Spokane I cant get on I-90. After several tries bring me to Bicycles Prohibited signs at the entrance to every on-ramp, I wheel into a service station where the attendant is just opening; he takes time from his morning ritual to point how I should go and where I can pick up I-90 about 12 miles out. High Plains Desert: Those words on the map back when I was thinking of coming this way did not conjure up any pictures in my mind. The only desert I could imagine was the Mojave out of Reno and into Bakersfield, California. Id been there, and I wanted no part of any such place on a bicycle. I had waited until night to cross the Mojave in a car, and when we had stopped for gas about midnight and stepped out of our air conditioning into the night air, our tennis shoes had stuck to the pavement. A few miles west of Spokane, it is not barren and blown sand I see, but a sea of waving brown wheat. The natural vegetation is minimal and miniature. Irrigation pipe is everywhere, drawing on the underground ocean of fresh water that makes this land productive. Sixty-five miles from Spokane, I come to Ritzville. Its early afternoon; Ive eaten from my panniers several times and have drunk my three water bottles dry. When I see the first Perkins Restaurant Ive come across since Missouri, I hustle in and up to the counter for several glasses of ice water. When the manager asks where Ive come from, where Im going, and why, I tell her Im from Disney World bound for Disneyland and for the Human Family Reunion. Back on I-90 at a rest stop about 20 miles later, Im standing beside my bike trying to muster energy to walk over to the faucet to fill my bottles again when a man about thirty, a little boy of about five in tow, walks up to ask where Im headed. As we talk, his wife and their small daughter join us. The man introduces himself and his wife as Rob and Cindy Caulfield, their children as Jeremy and Audrey and Rob offers to help when I come to Ventura, California
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almost a month from now. The wind and the heat have slowed me down today, and I dont maintain my 10 mile per hour average. Its 7:30 by the time I come to the highway sign announcing Moses Lake and ride the several miles of state road separating I-90 from the town. Its so late and Im so tired that I abandon my plan to go to the newspaper, and I stop at the first motel I come to. Terry Jordan gives me a room. Im so hungry I could eat anything, and I would trade my bicycle for a pizza. I know its not far to my choice of restaurants where whatever I ask for would be given to me. But Im so tired I cant leave the room once I get in there. Out of the wind and the heat, I cant muster the will to return, and I flop across the bed until fierce hunger pains drive me to the peanut butter and bread and fruit in my panniers. Then into the shower where I turn on the water as hot as I can stand it and sit on the floor while that hot water drills its soothing course into my aching muscles. I sit until I am limp and the water has begun to cool. Then sprawled full out and flat on my back on the bed, I eye the TV that I flipped on as I stumbled from the shower to the bed. Choices of the Heart, about a young woman who goes as a missionary to El Salvador to help the peasants caught in the fighting between the government and the guerillas. Though her life is in danger and she loves a young man in the States who is studying to be doctor, she chooses to go back after her furlough to care for the children. Shortly after she returns, she is sexually abused and murdered. If nothing is ever just coincidence, as my friend Dorothy back in Liberty persuades me, why do I happen to see this movie. Its the only thing Ive seen all of on TV since I left home two-and-ahalf months ago on my own Choices of the Heart. Earlier tonight, Terry Jordan said You have to be careful. Lots of people show up asking for things and claiming to be something. Yet he didnt hesitate an instant when I asked for a room. We can do that, he said. Why did he do it? Why did he say yes to me? Back in Nashville, Lloyd thought I would understand it all far-
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ther along. Well, Moses Lake is a fur piece from Nashville, and I havent figured it out yet. Does the answer lie between here and Anaheim? Back on I-90, I come at mid morning to one of the rest area oases found every 50 miles or so, and here I learn of Jimmy Lee Johnson. What I learn is that he is dead. And his death troubles me. From the notice posted by the state police on the bulletin board I learn that Jimmy left Missoula, Montana in late May, hitchhiking west on Interstate 90. Thirteen miles west of Moses Lake on Memorial Day, Jimmy was struck and killed by a motor vehicle at the Winchester Wastewater Rest Area. Jimmys blue backpack filled with welders tools and his killers are still missing. As I leave the rest area, I feel less safe than since I left home. Jimmy was killed at this very spot. Is his killer still about? What is he driving? Will my big red bicycle catch his eye? For the next few miles, I pay special attention to the traffic sounds behind me. I check my rear view mirror more than usual. I wonder if anyone has called the Sergeant Fox, whose name and number anyone with information about Jimmy is to call. Im tempted to hope the welders tools will malfunction and do to that person what he did to Jimmy. The sign in Moses Lake said 69 miles to Ellensburgh, but Ive gone 82 miles when I get here, and its again 7:30. I stop at the Best Western Motel, the first one I see, and Lynn Hutchins, the desk clerk, calls owner Marvin Conrad on the phone. Momentarily, I have a room. Across the street is the Red Lion Inn, where the owner listens to my 30 second account of my journey and fixes me one of the best hamburgers I ever tasted. But I get the feeling he doesnt want to. He hesitates a long time. I give him the flyer. He holds it. But doesnt look at it. He makes no comment. To ease the tension, I ask him to say no if he wants. Someone will take care of me. Ill be alright. Okay, Ill fix you a hamburger, he says as he disappears into the kitchen. In a few minutes, the young man who waits tables appears with my hamburger. I eat slowly and wait for the manager to appear so I can thank him. He never comes. Finally, I go to the
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kitchen. He is in the back, behind some pots and pans hanging on a rack. I can barely see him. I thank him and ask his name, explaining that I am writing a book, and will list all who help me. Thats all right, he says and he turns from me. I leave his restaurant wishing he had not given me that hamburger. He didnt want to. Or if he did, he couldnt show it. I wish for him more courage, so he can do what he feels he should. But if he did really want to feed me, I wish him the skills to feed the soul as well as the stomach. Dee, at the House of Coffee, where I had breakfast this morning in Moses Lake, could instruct him in that department. Her reply to my request was immediate, positive, and delivered with a smile. She came several times to check on me, and once with a $5.00 bill a customer had given her for me. Obviously she had been talking about me. I blew it today in the newspaper office where I stopped on my way out of Moses Lake. The two women in the office started making the same comments about the weather I hear everywhere about how hot it is and asking how I could stand to out on a bicycle. Back home is hot, I said. Humidity as high as the temperature. Im used to it a lot hotter. I was in that office several more minutes. Nothing more was said. Neither of them looked up. I left without a word. They did not wish me well. I wanted to apologize. I didnt. The Best Western is on the edge of Ellensburg nearest I-90. I ride in the early morning chill away from the interstate and into town. The 24-hour grocery has no manager at 6:30 in the morning, and the clerk cant authorize the three bananas, three oranges and two apples I ask for. Carlyles Caf gives me breakfast: oatmeal, and an English muffin. Chris Bach bought Carlyles two years ago. Kept the name because everybody knows Carlyles. Its been a neighborhood gathering place for 30 years. Carlyles is the only place open in downtown Ellensburg this early in the morning. Three men in a back booth are playing cribbage as Chris brings me breakfast. I have a
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good view of the cribbage players as I sit at the counter that runs across the front of the room just inside the door. They play every morning. They have been at it a while when I come in, and they leave while Im eating. Before their chairs can cool, a senior man and woman take their place at the table and at the game. I hear Chris telling the cribbage players about my ride: Hes got an 18 speed bicycle. That means we couldnt figure how to shift it, one replies. Id asked for oatmeal and and English muffin. Chris also offers juice. He stands and talks to me about his son and grandsons bicycle trip of several hundred miles. And he comes back several times. I get my fruit at a lttle store just before I pull onto I-90. Good thing. I dont pass another place to eat all day. And I eat everything I have in my panniers before the day is over. After pedaling all morning into that incessant river of wind, I pull off about noon in Easton, a little logging town. Across from the tiny postoffice, under a pine tree at the entrance to a mobile home park where half-adozen homes sit, I hunker down to eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and to escape that fierce head wind Ive been fighting all morning. After sitting as long as I think I can and still make Seattle before dark, I ride up the one street in Easton, past the abandoned service station, the closed and dilapidated seafood and steak restaurant to the one service station open. Where you goin? he demands as I enter the service station door. Can I fill my water bottle? He motions to an outside faucet. Could I use your restroom? Cross the street, he says, motioning again. Ignoring several signs declaring restrooms for use of our customers only, I follow his directions. Back on I-90 out of Easton, Im fighting uphill and into the wind for the next 30 miles to Snoqualmie Pass. As low on the bike as I can get, I pump as hard as I can and get pratically nowhere. An
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eternity Ill be in this place at this rate. As physically exhausting as this is, however, the breathtaking scenery is a natural high. The mountains carpeted in various greens, a trace of snow here and there reminding the imaginative biker that he could not be here at some seasons, the smell of trees, the sound of traffic, the rush of wind: stereophonic and panoramic life with all receptors open. Since leaving Ellensburg before eight this morning, I have pedaled into a gale-like headwind. Eight miles an hour is my top up hill speed; when descent allows a faster pace, treacherous cross winds make it unwise. The afternoon is passing fast, and I have some hard miles ahead, but nine miles short of the Pass, I have to dismount the bike and sit beside the road to control my anger. Off to my left is a beautiful blue lake, diamonds dancing across its surface in the afternoon sun. Reaching skyward from the opposite shore are hideous bare mountains, logs strewn like toothpicks down their sides. Suddenly I feel a different danger from the lumber trucks that have rumbled past all day. Hit me or not, the real threat is to the future. And to the earth. The occasional relief Ive had from the wind today came when I rode in the shelter of trees. What will arrest the wind when they are gone? What will become of these shorn mountains, their bare soil now exposed to wind, water, and sun? Why did it happen? Where is it happening now? I cannot pass them by without recording the emotions they arouse in me. I may be caught by the dark on this mountain, but whoever did this to these mountains lived in a life-long dark. My heart sinks as I labor up and over Snoqualmie. Everywhere I look, to either side of the road, desecrated mountains loom. Here I am on a cross country journey to teach people to like those not like them, and I am fighting back an instant hate every time a logging truck lumbers by. By the time I get to Issaquah near 7 p.m., Ive come 102 miles, and Im needing a massive infusion of the 10,000 calories it takes to get me through the day. When a clerk at the store tells me its three miles out to Lutheran Bible Institute, I decide to forget it. I havent
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been able to get Greg Thompson on the phone, anyway; Ive tried three or four times. So I go looking for pizza. I find Jay Berrys Gourmet Pizza. I lean my bike against the earth-toned wooden wall just outside the front door and rush in. Rich, the manager, is delighted to see me. I am seated overlooking the river, given a menu; told to order whatever I want. I get a large vegetarian pizza topped with fresh sliced tomatoes, and my Pepsi glass is kept full until I ask them to stop. Its about 8:30 when I finish eating and go to look for a motel. Only two in town, Im told. I stop to ask directions from five teenage guys when I think Ive gone too far. They want to know everything about my bike and my trip. Each shakes my hand; a couple give me a pat on the back. And they tell me how to get to the Holiday Inn. Im there shortly. The desk clerk is friendly, but the motel is sold out. Motel 6, across the street, he says, is also full. Nothing to do but call the Lutheran Bible Institute. The clerk places the call. Is Greg Thompson around? I ask. This is Greg. Lisa Clore was in the prayer group at Minnehahha Covenant Church back in Spokane. When she learned what I was doing and where I was headed, she said I could stay at the Seattle Lutheran Bible Institute where she is a student. She had called Greg Thompson at LBI to make the arrangements. But I hadnt been able to get Greg on the phone, so when I got in late, I figured I would just get a motel room. When the clerk at the store where I stopped for directions told me that LBI was three miles out of town and up a mountain, whatever interest I might have had in staying there evaporated. But when the desk clerk said there was no room in the inn, up another mountain didnt sound too bad. Where have you been? Greg wants to know. Weve got your room ready. Little light is left after Greg has finished his directions. The road is narrow: the traffic, heavy until the last right hand turn and
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up a long hill on what looks like a brand new road. As I turn left at the hill top, I can see the lights of Issaquah below, and I can understand why Seattle Lutheran Bible Institute chose this outlying smaller place as home. This hilltop affords a magnificent view of the fading sun and the emerging lights of the town. Jack Eichorst is President of Lutheran Bible Institute and one of the people Greg wants me to meet, though he doesnt know if he is in town. But Im standing in the hallway the next morning talking to the switchboard operator when Jack walks up. I saw you on TV in Spokane. And here you are. I cant believe it. Jack invites me to his office; we like each other immediately. Ive said only a few things when he asks if I mind if he calls the press and TV. I hear him say: Ive never called the media about anyone before. But I just met this guy. Im convinced hes genuine, and people need to know what hes doing. Jack calls the Lutheran Bible Institute in Anaheim, just a short distance from Disneyland and asks them to provide a place for Bobbie and me to stay when we get there. Then Jack introduces me to Rolf Goetzinger, the public relations director at LBI. Rolf photocopies and mails my journals back to Jewell. Before I went to bed last night I called Bernie Whitebear in Seattle. Bernie is a friend of Justin Orr back in Kansas City, and Justin had asked Bernie to look after me while Im in Seattle. Bernie comes shortly after lunch and we put my bike in his pickup for the 20 mile drive into Seattle. Bernie drops me downtown by the water front while he runs some errands before an out of town trip tomorrow. Bernie tells me to meet him at 2:30 in front of the Totem Pole. Bernie will not be coming for me in the same vehicle, so I take my bike out of his pickup. As Bernie drives away, he tells me I can ride around on my bike to see things. But I decide the best place to watch people in the hour I have is to take a seat across the street on one of the many benches in the vicinity of the Totem Pole. Must be at least 30 feet tall, this Totem Pole, with rows of small food shops behind and a busy bus stop in front. A varied collection of interest-
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ing people populate the benches at the moment. And as they leave, equally interesting individuals take their place. Spreading my clothes from my panniers on to the bench and spreading bread with peanut butter doesnt draw a glance in this setting. And as I eat, a black man I guess to be about 30 and who says his name is Tony Eaton from Chicago takes his place in front of the assembled bench population and begins to blow golden notes from his alto sax, At my request, Tony wafts All of Me and Stardust to work their magic on willing souls. Between numbers he banters good naturedly with residents of the benches and those walking by. A drunk gets off the bus and falls to the ground, then crawls across the sidewalk, yelling at his more sober friend walking away. Now and then he tries to stand and cannot. Finally he makes it to the Totem Pole, and pulls himself nearly erect. A policeman on horseback takes no notice. Bernie is back at 2:30 and we drive to his office on beautiful grounds on the shore of Puget Sound. As we drive, Bernie tells me about his life. Born in eastern Washington on the Challam reservation where five federated tribes live, Bernie has lived in Seattle for 30 years and is Executive Director, United Indians of All Tribes Foundation. As Bernie handed Rolf his card when we were leaving Lutheran Bible Institute, I heard Rolf ask about the language on the back. Thats Japanese, Bernie said, We trade with them. They appreciate it. The United Indians of All Tribes Foundation has a staff of 60, a $1.5 million budget, a full gamit of social service programs, a 70 acre tract carved by negotiation from a former military post in the early 70s when militancy was in and Indians occupied the site. They were arrested. But they got the land. A beautiful Indian museum that serves also as headquarters of the All Tribes Foundation sits on the land. Bernie is not optimistic about the Indian future, but he keeps working. Seeing Bernie at his desk, I dare to hope that his work is not in vain. Bernies office is a many windowed room with a mag-
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nificent view of Puget Sound. The door opens into the room behind Bernies desk. A drum, a rack of traditional Indian clothes, boxes of slides, more boxes, pictures, books, paintings: the office is a comfortable jumble of approppriate items. Bernie typically works a long day, and he has an evening meeting scheduled today. So he asks if I mind spending the early evening with his brother before we have a late dinner. About 7:30, Bernies brother comes, and I stick out my hand and give my name. Im Harry Wong, he says. Bernie Whitebear and Harry Wong are brothers; same mother, different fathers. Harry is half Caulville Indian, half Chinese. Harry is a runner, recently unto biking as a tri-athlete. As we drive around Seattle, Harry tells me about his job helping Asian immigrants find jobs, and he points out all the Japanese, Chinese, Korean and Vietnamese restaurants. We stop at a little Chinese restaurant for appetizers, and as we eat, we talk about running and cycling and the crucial role of mental attitude. I tell Harry that I dont believe anything bad can happen to me on this trip, I cant be stopped. Harry had earlier talked about his fear of cycling and the drivers who yelled at him and motioned him off the road. Harry is 41 and never married. He has a Chinese girlfriend. Indian girls like to party, he says. Hary is doing a triatholon on August 23. I promise to think about him and his performance that day. He will think about me. Gene Allen has been my next door neighbor for 23 years. In his job as an engineer for TWA, Gene has often flown to Seattle to design modifications for the interior of planes. Years ago Gene told us about Ivars, his favorite seafood restaurant in Seattle. And Bobbie and I had gone there on a camping trip with our kids when they were small. When I told Gene I planned to bike across the country with no money and would pass through Seattle, his first comment was, You wont get to eat at Ivars if you dont have money. Harry drops me at Bernies about 9:45. Bernie isnt home yet from his meeting. As he comes through the door about 10:00, his first question is, Are you hungry?
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Always, I reply. Bernie begins to describe this place he knows where they prepare king salmon the Indian way. The decor is Indian, a long boat suspended from the ceiling, Indian portraits in the entryway, and a superb view of Lake Worth. Twenty minutes later, Bernie pulls his car into the parking lot, and I look up at the sign to see where we are. Surprise, Gene, Im gonna eat at Ivars after all. Over dinner, Bernie and I talk about Leonard Peltier, his imprisonment in Leavenworth, his illegal extradiction from Canada, and Canadas effort to get him back. We talk about Indian sovereignity and the role of Christianity in destroying Indian culture. Bernie takes me to a Greek restaurant for breakfast. Then he asks Marvin, a security guard at the Indian center, to drive me to Rabbi Anson Laytners office. Marvin is from Ketchecan, Alaska and has lived in Seattle for eight years. Hes married and has six children. He and his father have plans to build a hotel in Alaska, so fisherman will have a place to stay. Marvin doesnt fish around Seattle. Too many people; he doesnt know the water. He has fished for 19 years back home and goes there now to fish, but he wont move back to Alaska. No opportunity there for him or for his children. Marvin has learned diesel engine repair and has taken on a variety of odd jobs, so I can learn and grow. Judy Hellman back at the Jewish Community Relations Bureau in Kansas City has arranged for me to meet Anson, Director of the Seattle Jewish Federation. He and I talk for half an hour or so about Christian-Jewish relations. Then he takes me to Seattles two major papers. To both editors, I say: Im teaching summer school and the whole country is my classroom. Im an antidote to the hate and Klan fringe that would do us in. I need your help to do my job. North by Northwest for two and a half months Ive been pedaling. Orlando to Seattle: 3,400 miles on a bicycle. I turn south in the morning. To Tacoma,. Olympia, Portland, Sacramento, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Disneyland. Ive turned the corner, geographically and emotionally.From here on in this haven of the world,
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the Human Family Reunion gets top billing. Seattle is having its big annual boat race this weekend, and thousands of people are in town. Anson says Seattle has more boats per capita than any other city. And the lowest church attendance. Anson announces a change in plans. The family I was to stay with in Bellview cant take me. So Judy Stein (not her real name) of the Federation staff volunteers to put me up. Kevin, her boyfriend, is a film maker and has a studio in a warehouse near the King Dome. Until recently he lived there. But Kevin now lives with Judy, and I can sleep in his studio. To get there I ride my bike from the Jewish Federation south on Second Street past the King Dome, to 95 South Atlantic. Kevin carries my bike up the long flight of stairs to his place and introduces me to Sue Cook, a painter whose studio and living quarters are across the hall. The Jewish Federation had hosted a luncheon meeting, and Anson had given me some of the sandwiches as I left. Kevin and I have them for lunch, and he makes pasta for supper. Afterward Kevin, Sue, Judy, and I sit at the kitchen table and talk about our lives while Judys two sons, about 9 and 12, watch the VCR in another room. We talk about my ride, how I feel invincible, along for the ride, in charge but not commanding, never worrying and never without. Judy asks if I would have done this ride if I didnt have M.S. I say no, that my struggle with M.S. has given me power and assurance Id never had before. I understand, Judy says. I have an illness; its called addiction. Ive just come from a meeting. Judy is from New York and has lived in Seattle for 14 years. Moved here with the man I was married to then. She says. Judys youngest son appears just then. Hes crying. Its nearly 11 oclock, and they go home. Sue and I talk about her dream to support herself with her art and to have people accept what she does and who she is. Fame and fortune dont interest her. To express herself through her painting is the thing that gives her life direction and purpose.
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Sue had put out cereal, muffins and a peach for my breakfast and made me a lunch. Its all on the kitchen table when I get up, and I dont see her before Kevin comes at eight with his pickup and we load my bicycle so he can take me out past the heavy traffic to start riding. As we ride out about 15 miles on old Highway 99, Kevin tells me about a friend of his. Hes an alcoholic, but he had quit drinking until they told him he has cancer of the larynx. I need to go see him, but I dont know what to say. Can you help me? So I tell Kevin about Bruce. Bruce hired me to teach at Jewell more than 22 years ago. We did not so much become close over the years as we developed a deep and abiding mutual respect. When I heard six years ago that he had cancer, I knew I had to go see him. And talk to him about things that matter. When I got to the hospital his wife Margaret, and married daughter Susan, were in the room. Quietly I asked if they could leave Bruce and me alone. When they were gone, I took Bruces hand. Bruce, if I had just been told I have cancer, Id be scared to death. Id want somebody to listen to me. Im here for you now, and Ill be here as long as you need me. Kevin, Bruce, and I visited often in the year and a half he lived. We talked about dying. And we grew close. Go see your friend. And listen to him. Highway 99 south to Tacoma is a pleasant ride. Now and then I catch sight of the ocean off to my right, and a gentle breeze comes from that direction, replacing the stiff headwinds I fought coming west. Highway 99 through Tacoma to Interstate 5 will take me to Olympia. The hills of Tacoma surprise me, but its nice to ride in a city of human dimension, one that isnt strangled, divided, and overrun with super highways. I get to Olympia a little after one and spend a couple of hours in the park across from the capital. Part of that time I spend making and eating peanut butter sandwiches, part of it stretching and exercising, and a big part watching the coming and going of people, especially one young man on a skateboard who comes careening off
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the street into the park and up to the bandstand with its concrete platform in front. Rocking back and forth on his skateboard, this aspiring acrobat flips himself and his skateboard in the air and lands on the board. Such was the plan. And he tries dozens of times before he gives up and walks away, board under arm. Just a few blocks from the capital, I find a crowd of cars at First Baptist Church. Inside is a wedding. The custodian listens to a hurried description of my ride, and I tell him I will sit outside on the front step for a while in case anyone wants to help. When no one comes, I walk across the street to a motel, one of three nearby. The clerks are friendly, but businesss is too good at two of them and they have no vacancies; at the other, the owner isnt available. It may be too early to get a motel room. Ive never tried this early before. So I leave Olympia about 3:30 for the 20 mile ride to Centralia. Its after five when I get there. At the Pizza Hut, the manager gives me the pizza of my choice and a Pepsi. I figure finding a motel should be easier after seven, so sit long over my pizza. Ill find a room here and go to church in the morning, then ride 40 or 50 miles or so to another town. I feel obligated to be in church every Sunday. I look forward to wearing my Ambassador, Second Baptist Church, Liberty, MO shirt. Im eager to call Second Baptist on Sunday mornings and tell them what church Im in. After tomorrow, I have three Sundays left before Im home. Im eager to be home. But I also dread the end of this adventure. After my pizza, I make the rounds of the four motels I can find; the first is full (or expects to be), the second has no manager present, the third has lines of people wanting rooms, the fourth says, Were just a small establishment. When I find the police station, its locked up. But the phone booth near the door has a sign that says to call 911 for assistance. I tell the woman who answers that I need a place to spend the night. Ill have hotline call you on that phone, she says. About 10 minutes later the phone rings. A womans voice says I can spend the night at Freedom House. She describes it as a nice
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big home now used by people who have no other place. Peggy, Steve, and Mac are there when I arrive. All have been living here for several months. Steve is 62, and was a truck diver for Beatrice Food until he hurt his knee. Now he has an artificial knee and cant drive, Unless I buy my own rig and pay for my own insurance. Steve has a wife and two daughters back in Ohio, But we couldnt get along. So I left them. He has two sons and one son-inlaw who are truck drivers. Mac doesnt say much. He tells me he is from Louisiana, and is the cook for the house. Half a dozen other residents, including two children, filter in, and we all sit around looking at my bike and talking about my trip. I sleep in the bunk above Mac. The room has two more double deck bunk beds, but we are the only two in the room tonight. Im up at 5:30 looking for something to eat. Im staying for church services at 11:00, then riding to Longview, 42 miles south. That will leave me 45 miles from Portland, and Ill get there by Tuesday afternoon. Mac and Steve are up a little before eight, and we each get a fried pie from the kitchen and go back to Steves room to watch Jimmy Swaggert on TV. From his crusade in South Amerca, Jimmy is preaching on Revelations and the coming of the end. Soon! He asks everyone to wait. Their problems will soon be over. Jimmy says he gets 50,000 letters a day in Baton Rogue and quotes one from an eight year old boy whose mother didnt want him. The boy asks Bother Swaggert to tell him why. Jimmy says he cant tell him why his mother doesnt love him. But he can tell him that Jesus does love him. When the program ends, Mac says he believes that the world is about to end. He asks if I do. I say no. Mac is from Baton Rouge. He grew up listening to Jimmy Swaggert and preachers like him. So did I. But it bothers me deeply to hear Jimmy say God told him all these things Gods going to do to the world. I dont believe it. I hope Jimmy believes it. I think he does; if so, hes sincere. But I can never believe his version of the gospel. I suppose it is Jimmys son who appears on the screen to ask
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for money for their childrens fund. He holds up a copy of Newsweek that quoted a former Swaggert employee who said Jimmy took in $20 million for the children and spent less than 10 percent on them. Then he holds up another copy, a retraction of that story based on an audit by an independent auditor. With the young man, there is a woman on the program. In the minute or two they are on screen, it seems like he calls her, Mother half a dozen times. It seems contrived. All an act, I think. I dont know why I feel uncomfortable here at Freedom House. They talk a lot about Christianity. Im a Christian. Why do I feel uneasy? These people have obvious problems, yet they say such certain things about their faith. Are they saying what they want to believe? Does their life in disarray draw them to such verbal certainty? This place reminds me of the one in Paducah, Kentucky that is also run by a fundamentalist church. And the man who got us a room at the San Quentin Motel and prayed with us in the parking lot. Good people, all of them. And yet? What is the connection between ministering to people and dogmatic belief? Ive been uncomfortable in liberal churches. And in conservative. Dogmatism does seem to have more internal energy. It can usually win. But I think of Greshams Law: Cheap money drives out dear. Surely the mind and soul dont have to be so narrowed. By eleven oclock, about 20 people have gathered in the living room. Services start as Paul Patterson leads us in singing choruses. With his guitar and beard, Paul reminds me of Kenny Rogers. We sing for half an hour, then Paul plays a record of a man having a phone conversation with God. A rather tense period follows when Bonnie Morris, Director of Feedom Center Ministries, talks about enemies of the ministry, gossip, and people living at the house who dont really want to be there. She invites one by name and to her face to get out. When the service ends, Bonnie and husband, John, invite me to their home for lunch and to try their tables that exercise and relax the body. In a succession of eight minute periods, I lie on six blue tables that move
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various parts of the body. The first mimics running. Another twists the pelvis; one firms the butt; another stretches the abdomen. I conclude with five minutes in a coffin-like sauna that prints out my pulse on a digital screen: 64/70. About three oclock I leave Centralia and a few miles out meet another cyclist. Gerald Collura is from France and has been in the United States since April. Until two days ago he was touring the country by bus. In Bremerton, Washington They wanted to charge me one-hundred-twenty dollars to go to San Francisco. So I bought this bicycle for one-hundred dollars. Gerald does not ride in France. And the bicycle he bought is not a touring bike. No pump. No water bottles or cages. No toe clips. And Gerald has no helmet, no sunglasses, no sleeping bag or tent. When I meet him about four oclock, he has ridden today from Seattle, a distance of about 100 miles. Through all that traffic. With no mirror to see behind him. Is he daring? Stupid? Both? I dont know, but I admire his sense of adventure and his resourcefulness. I give Gerald one of my water bottles, some raisins and peanuts. I tell him I have no money, but when we see a small cafe from the interstate, I try to get him to stop with me to ask if they will feed us. Gerald says hes not hungry. At a rest stop about six oclock, Gerald decides to stay the night. He will sleep on the ground and eat some bread he has with him. He prefers to stay at a place like this, where people come and go. No robbery. He is afraid of city parks in towns. Gerald is headed for the Napa valley near San Francisco where he hopes to work in the grape harvest and to extend his visa from October to December. He will go back to France then, to his job as a bartender in a winter resort in the French Alps. About 6:30 I roll into Kelso and stop at Motel 6 to ask for a room. Manager Gene Ayers says their national headquarters has a policy against free rooms. But he tells me how to get to a local motel he thinks might help me. I leave the flyer I had given him and head in the direction he suggests.
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I make a few wrong turns before I find the road Gene told me to look for. No sooner am I on that road than a white pickup passes going in the opposite direction, horn blaring, someone waving and yelling. At me? No! I dont know anyone here. At the next intersection, I have to stop for a red light. The white pickup pulls up beside me. A woman a little older than I am, leans out the window and says, Come back to Motel 6; we have a room for you. When I get back, that woman is behind the desk, and I cant resist. Im gonna violate a rule I follow and ask why. She smiles. My husbands a sweetheart. He did it for his wife. Then a pause. Theres more to it than that. After Kay Ayers fills out the paper work on me she says, We have something in common. M.S.? I ask. Im going to give you an address in L.A. My sister. Shes a big executive with a bank. She has M.S. and she would like to meet you. Completely out of food, not a thing in my panniers and not much in my stomach. Got to find a store and a restaurant. And fast. At the Safeway just across from the motel, the manager arrives a little after nine this morning, and Im there to ask if he can give me food for the road: two apples, three bananas, two oranges, a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. He tells me to get it off the shelf and he will pay for it. Then I decide to go back to the Dennys that turned me down last night. They were very busy when I appeared about eight. The manager had little time for me and couldnt help. This morning they are not busy; a different manager is on duty and happy to feed me. While I am waiting on my oatmeal, a waitress sits down at the counter beside me. Are you Ed? she asks. Would you mind if someone from our local paper came out to talk to you? While Im waiting for the reporter, I have a second bowl of oatmeal, and a piece of sour dough toast. And I think, first about the
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long bloddy scratch on my left calf. Just this morning I had finally discovered why for the past month my left calf had been getting all those cuts when I start off on my bike. The pedal has apparently hit something, making a small metal protrusion that rips my flesh when I push the right pedal to the ground in preparation for starting. I also think about whats happening to me this summer and wonder if I can keep it all in perspective. I dont want to talk about it in my classes back at Jewell. Thats not what I owe my students. Until I get my book written, I wont know why this summer happened; until then, I have nothing to say. While Im waiting on my second bowl of oatmeal, the reporter comes. My name is Wu Wei he says. We move from the counter to a table so we can hear better, and we talk for an hour. Wu asks me if Id ever been fearful on the trip. I say no. Why not? Because I dont feel in charge. Im just along for the ride. Hundreds of other people are as much a part of all this as I am. Together, we are invincible. Nothing can harm me. I believe that. This thing thats happening cant be stopped. That sounds crazy. But thats what I think. It doesnt sound crazy to me, Wu says. I feel like an athlete before a big game. I know I cant lose, I say to Wu. Thats not rational. It sounds boastful. I dont mean it that way. But I have to be honest with you. And thats the way I feel. Like Im in another dimension. Im impervious to hurt, immune to illness. Cars and trucks wont hit me. Im riding a wave, bouyed by a spirit I cant name. Cant resist. And nothing can stop it. As we are talking, someone walks up and stands quietly at my arm until I look his way. They told me you were here, Ed, my name is William Cheung, and Im the owner of this restaurant. Wu gets excited. Bill, Ive been trying to meet you. I was supposed to stay with you, but the paper already had a place for me. Wu is doing a summer internship from Stanford at the paper. He and Bill have been looking for each other, and in meeting me, they meet for the first time. Both are Chinese-Americans, and in making her
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call to the paper, Debi Christensen, the waitress, causes them to meet and me to know them both. Thats the way the Human Family Reunion works. Its a beautiful day for riding as I leave Kelso, and I know I could make it to Portland without any more food if I had to. But having food in my panniers frees my mind to think of other things. After I ran out of food yesterday and had to ride with none, I couldnt think of anything else. And I do stop twice to eat before I get to Portland.
Oregon
Just across the Columbia River from Vancouver is Jubitz Truck Stop where Dave Lerwick said to meet him. But after I cross the river, I cant find the right road. Finally I spot the highway Dave told me to take, but Im going in the wrong direction. About a mile later, I come to an intersection where I can turn around. And when I get back to the highway I want, I have to cross busy lanes of traffic to get into the left lane. I wait until no cars are coming, then pull my bike hard to the left. Suddenly I lose control. And go down. I look behind almost before I hit the pavement. No cars! Thank God! I grab my bike and run to the side of the road. The front tire is flat. I try to pump it, but it wont hold air. Bob put a spare tube in my panniers before I left Liberty more than two months ago. I hadnt wanted to bring it, preferrring instead to find out what would happen without it. And I had hoped to make it without using it. Right now, though, Im glad Ive got it, and Im back on the road in less than half an hour. But as I approach the highway Dave told me to take, the sign says Non-motor vehicles prohibited. For the next hour I pedal in circles, coming back three times to ask directions at the same service station. When finally I find the way, its under construction. After all this searching to find this road, Im not prepared to endure any more delays, so I by pass the under construction sign. Soon Im dodging barrels and piles of steel and mounds of sand. I hit a barricade and go down. I cant go this way. I wind up taking the route that I had first seen, the one that
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said Non-motor vehicles prohibited. Then I cant find Jubitz Truck Stop. After asking several people, I finally get there by a little road that winds past the race track and through the country. I was to have met Dave here at 5:30. Its after six when I arrive. When he shows up a little later, he has driven the freeway looking for me. He had thought Jubitz was on I-5 and that I could see it. When he found that it isnt on the interstate, he had gone looking for me. Dave is a policeman in Gresham, Oregon, a town of 50,000 near Portland. A month ago, he, Linda, and their three children moved to a home in the country on four acres surrounded by three nurseries, no other houses in sight. Quiet is all you can hear. Linda prepares a delicious Italian dinner, followed by homemade blueberry pie. She picked the blueberries out behind the house, and if I were a blueberry, I think I would want my final resting place to be one of Linda Lerwicks pies. Dave looks up phone numbers of the television stations and newspapers in Portland for me. And Dave is going to put me on the train into Portland tomorrow to make the rounds. After supper, Dave loads Julie, Scott, Andy, and me in the car and drives above the spectacular Columbia River Gorge just at sunset, then down into the Gorge and along the river, stopping at several waterfalls, and returning home at dusk as the last rays are casting shadows that touch the child in all of us. I call all the TV stations in Portland. ABC says, Everybodys doing that. We dont do bike stories. Its more than a bike story, but thats fine. Thank you. I say. Linda and the kids take me this morning to the Gresham Outlook where Christy True talks to me underneath a pine tree on the lawn; then Linda drops me at the depot and buys me a ticket to Portland. No one is around as I pull my bike onto the train and take a seat. Im sorry, Sir, no bikes allowed on the train. Its the conductor. And he doesnt change his mind when I tell him a policeman said I could ride with my bike. He rouses his supervisor on his radio to tell me my bicycle cant ride.
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So I bike to police headquarters to tell Dave, and Dave shows me how I can ride up Burnside all the way to downtown Portland, a distance of 12 miles. Its a nice ride, most of the way paralleling the railroad tracks. I strike out with The Oregonian and with the two TV stations that encouraged me on the phone to come by. All I can do is appear and tell my story. The paper in Gresham was receptive, and in Kelso yesterday they came looking for me. I get discouraged being turned down. But I cant quit now. Audacious asking still works. The Human Family Reunion is still the biggest story on Earth. I cant forget that. I dont want to leave this place and these people: these three adorable children, this handsome couple, the awesome environment. For this short time, I belonged here, but our time together was not meant to be long. Linda and the kids drive me just out of Gresham and onto the road to Salem. I take the bike out of the trunk, snap the front wheel back into place, attach the panniers, and say goodbye. I roll the bike across the street, push off with my left foot and place it on the left pedal. I make only half a revolution of the pedals when something snaps, and I scramble to keep my balance. I look down. The chain is broken. And when I am off, I see that the derailer is wadded into a ball. Linda had driven away before I realized my bike was out of commission. I am standing there, wondering what to do when I hear someone speak. I look up. There stand Linda and the kids. Scott had told Linda I broke my chain. How he knew Ill never know. Linda loads my bike back into her car and takes me into Gresham. The bike shop is just opening as we drive up. They have the same deraileur I have on my bike. In half-an-hour, its fixed. A new chain, a deraileur, and a mirror to replace the one I lost in Seattle, cost $39.50. Lyle Culver, owner of Shiloh Cyclery sells it all to me at cost, and Linda puts it on her charge card. I call Jean back in Liberty and ask her to mail Linda a check from the expense fund my friends set up at Commercial Bank for just such a need. Loma and Charles Taylor married in 1954. While she was pregnant with their first child in 1955, Loma was struck by polio
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and nearly lost the child; she could never have another. She has been paralyzed from the waist down for the past 32 years, her legs strapped into metal braces, walking with metal crutches. She has led a less active life than she would have liked. But she and Charles have managed to lead a satisfying life. They both worked at the state mental hospital in Salem; Loma, for 20 years, until her disabiblity interfered too much. Charles is still there. Soon he will retire and the two of them will move from Oregon. They love the natural beauty of this place. And the weather. But the liberal social, political, and religious environment is not suited for them. They are active members of the Free Methodist Church. Charles reads from the Bible each morning as he and Loma prepare to have their breakfast. They considered Texas, Minnesota, and several other places for their retirement. But they settled on a 120 acre farm in Nebraska, some 90 miles from where Charles grew up. They are negotiating the sale of their house in Salem, and plan by next April to be in Nebraska. Loma hopes to persuade Charles to move sooner, forgoing some retirement benefits he will get if he waits. Loma is anxious for the quiet. She has made peace with sitting, being content with sewing, reading, thinking. I am here in Salem with Loma and Charles because Charles is the brother of Harriet Thoman at home in Liberty. Harriet is recuperating from major heart surgery, but she deeply wanted me to meet her brother and his wife. Like the Thomans, the Taylors are quiet people, but there is a depth to the Thomans that I have seen over 20 years. Harriet and Darrell went to India for a year as lay Missionaries. As chairman of Jewells math department, Darrell has won the respect of his colleagues for his teaching and for his commitment to his faith. I pedaled up the hill and into the Taylors drive in mid-afternoon. Loma greeted me at the door. A small, trim woman with an easy smile, Loma exudes a warmth and a strength more noticeable than the metal crutches supporting her. She shows me down the hall and to the right, into a bedroom with mirror-bright hardwood floors;
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then to her kitchen, more immaculate and ordered than Good Housekeeping could devise. In the entire house, nothing is out of place, looks worn or dirty. To wash my dirty clothes, Loma ushers me through the garagewhere I see not a single oil stain on the floor nor any of the typical clutter and down a long flight of concrete steps to the basement, past the deep freeze and the lines of drying clothes to the far wall and the washing machine. After I have made several trips to do my laundry, I ask Loma if it wouldnt be easier on her to have her washing machine upstairs. Yes, it would. Thats why I had Charles put it downstairs when we built the house. Its hard for me to get out. This way I get some exercise. And I have to do it. Charles works nights in his security job at the hospital, but he comes home early this evening because Im here. And the three of us sit in their living room. As we talk, I get a clear sense that, like the Thomans, this quiet couple has a depth it would take years to fathom. Loma tells me in loving detail about a friend name Don who lives in Nebraska and has Multiple Sclerosis. He is paralyzed from the neck down. Moves his wheelchair with his chin. Types with a stick in his teeth. Just got a computer and writes poetry. Is a ham radio operator. Keeps up with everything thats going on. Inspires everybody who knows him and has a marvelous sense of humor. His wife takes care of him. Did not call the media in Salem. Dont feel good about that. But couldnt make myself to it. They havent been very receptive lately And Im tired. Im ready to be home. Plus, Charles and Loma told me how skeptical people on the coast are. I dont like being doubted. I need to be back where people know me. But I have to do what I came to do. I wont feel good about it if I give up. About 15 miles north of Eugene on I-5, I meet David Cano. We bike into town together by way of an alternate route David knows, a gently winding road past houses and dogs, with two-way traffic and at a relaxed pace. David offers me money for the Human Family Reunion, and I ask him instead to send a donation back to Liberty.
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David lives in Albany, back north on I-5 about 25 miles. I had stopped there in a beautiful little park for a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches and for a short rest. David has come to Eugene to find an 18 speed touring bike. He started biking a couple of years ago when he lost his drivers license. Now he bikes everywhere and wants to upgrade what hes riding. He is planning to camp tonight and go to bike shops tomorrow. We part company near the campground, and David tells me to come back and spend the night with him if nothing else develops. At the police station, the woman officer is friendly but not helpful. She directs me to the nearby Baptist Church. At 6:30 on a Thursday evening, I know it will be closed. It is. And she gave me a preachers telephone number in Cottage Grove, 20 miles south. Too far for tonight. So I go looking for a motel. After asking directions from a man on the street and pedaling through downtown, I pass a vegetarian restaurant to my left. The aroma grabs me. No time. Got to find a room. You can eat later, I tell myself. Half a block past, I have stop for a red light. Over my shoulder I glance at the restaurant. And I cant resist. I wheel my bike inside the restaurant and walk back to gawk at the beautiful food. I get my food and sit at the table next to the only other people in the place: a girl, a young woman, a man and a woman; sitting at the same table and all talking about health food. And I feel the same urge to talk to them that I felt to come in this place. I almost turn around and blurt out my mission. But I cant quite get myself to do it. I sit there long past the time it takes to eat, trying to talk myself into talking to them. Why is it so hard? How is it different from how its been all across the country? I dont know. But it is. Its past closing time. I cant figure out how to interject myself into the conversation of these four, so I walk up front to my bike. Theres no way out except past me. Ill stay here until they come past. Hopefully something will develop. But the door is locked; a waitress comes to say Ill need to come out the back door. So I roll
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my bike down the aisle between the tables, past where we have all been siting. They are standing to leave. The woman says, My, thats a good looking bike. This is my opening Id been looking for. Quickly I tell her all about the bike and my ride. And needing a place to stay. You can stay with me. she says. The loft in my garage hasnt been cleaned but youre welcome. I accept. Norma Corr draws me a map. The people with her are visiting from Chicago. They are out to see the town and not planning to be home for a while. But Ill need to get there soon or it will be dark. I find my way along the streets and the bike paths Norma has listed, but not without asking supplemental directions from two older woman walking their dog in the park. When I get to Normas, I take a seat on the bench in the small flower garden in front of her house. When Norma and the others get home, we spend an hour in her living room talking about health foods, sprituality, her moving from Illinois to Oregon eight years ago, recycling trash. From out of the blue, Norma asks, Have you heard of Peace Pilgrim? And suddenly I know why I could not pass that restaurant by and why I had to speak to Norma. Twice before in my life I had met Peace Pilgrim. Those two meetings shaped my life and the planning for this ride. Now this third meeting promised to make sense for me of this cross-country oddysey. This was not a rational and conscious notion that came to my mind as Norma spoke, more a spiritual understanding that settled over me, an assurance that I was now farther along and about to know what Lloyd said I would.
Peace Pilgrim 1960

I was just out of college and teaching English at Round Rock High. My wife and I were also house parents for a girls cottage at Texas Baptist Childrens Home. I was on my way to that home after
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school one day. Up ahead and to my right, I saw someone walking. As I drew close, I could read the words, 25,000 Miles For Peace across her back. As I drove past her, I turned my head. Across the front of her blue tunic, it said Peace Pilgrim. I had to know this person. I pulled off the road and stopped the car. I stepped out and ran back to her. Who are you? I blurted. My name is Peace Pilgrim, and I walk to tell people about peace. World Peace. And inner peace. I had heard people talk about peace before in my young life. But I had never been in the presence of absolute peace until that moment. Would you come home with me and talk to the girls in our cottage? I heard myself asking her. She did. The girls couldnt qite figure out what to make of this woman old enough to be their grandmother who walked around the country telling people about peace, having nothing, asking nothing, taking what was offered or doing without. They had never had this kind of visitor. And the next morning, I took her to school to speak to our students in a hastily called assembly. Peace Pilgrim told her quiet story with such authority that all who listened were transfixed. And transported to a place where gentleness and purpose and passion for peace are part of the real world.
1977
Over the next 15 or so years I would run across a news story now and then about Peace Pilgrim in Mexico or Canada or various states. I was teaching Race Relations at William Jewell College in 1977 when I read in the paper that Peace Pilgrim was nearby. I went to find her and brought her to campus to speak to my students. Her hair had been gray and pulled into a ponytail when I first met her. She looked no different or any older now. Her affect upon us all was just the same.
1987
Another decade passed, and when in the fall of 1986 I began to dream of BikeAmerica, it was the example of Peace Pilgrim that
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shaped and gave it direction, though so subtle had been her influence upon me that that I could recognize it only as I looked back to find the source of my plan to be penniless. Now three months into the ride, I had come to Eugene, Oregon. Passing that vegetarian restaurant in downtown Eugene, I had been overwhelmed with this irresistible urge to stop and go inside. Something would happen inside that restaurant that had to happen if my ride was to be complete. I laughed out loud at the craziness of that notion. And I rode past the restaurant. But the traffic light on the corner turned red, and I had to stop. While I waited for the light to turn green, I looked back at that restaurant. And when the light changed, I made an unthinking U-turn. My third meeting with Peace Pilgrim awaited. Do you know she was killed in a car wreck? Norma asks. I didnt. Have you read her book? she asks. I didnt know she had one Ive got a copy Ill give you, she replied. Im up most of the night. Reading. And thinking that I have ridden across America to meet Peace Pilgrim again. And at last I knew what it was that Peace Pilgrim could do that so attracted me to her. She could go anyplace at anytime and talk to anyone about anything and feel safe. She was a World Class Person, the first and one of the few I would ever personally meet. And because I had met her, I had long been on my way to becoming World Class. Since that first meeting, I had been on my way, though not until now could I put that longing inside me into words. Now I can say it, and now I must live it: My mission in life is to move daily in this direction and to take everyone who wants to go with me. I came into this world as a white male. I became a Christian. I have grown old. But color, gender, faith, and age are only the obvious descriptors of who I am. There are no boundaries on my soul, as there are none on yours. We are more than people see or hear or think of us. None of us is meant to be compared to any other; we are unique in the world. Those boundaries people draw cannot contain us. Boundaries are needed when we are new to life. We must learn one language, one faith. Essential, though, that is, such learning
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equips us only for the first part of lifes journey. This is not the full armor we must have for lifes long pilgrimage. Because we cannot learn a second language first or appreciate any faith until we are committed to one, we must be schooled early in our life in one language and one faith. Having learned well one language and one faith, we then are ready. Ready to move about in a world of 3,000 languages and dozens of faiths. Ready to become a World Class Person, able to go anyplace at anytime and talk to anyone about anything and feel safe. We will forever approach this world and its people through the filter of that first language and faith, but we can in differing degrees become multi-lingual and appreciative of other faiths. My approach to the world will forever be shaped by the fact that I am a white, male, American, Christian. But I now know that I am more than these names given to me by those who seek thereby to limit where I can go and who I can talk to. I want to be a World Class Person. I want to be at home wherever I go. All people are my people, all places on the planet are my home. This is the Declaration of Independence required of all who long to be World Class. Any person on the planet has the potential to become World Class, and in the world as I would have it, many millions of people would choose to do so. That might be too much of a good thing, though. Millions of people the world over are needed to maintain those first languages and faiths which nurture young life. Unless some, however, become World Class, these first languages and faiths become too exclusive and arrogant, too likely to war on one another. World Class Persons become ambassadors between languages and faiths, by their presence and behavior moderating the extremists in all camps, giving hope to all that even if they cannot personally endorse human differences, they can endure them. World Class Persons likely will never be widely popular, for their allegiance is to timeless and universal values. Since all of us live but a short time and in a peculiar place on the planet, we must devote most of our
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time and attention to local affairs and concerns. A few World Class Persons from each language and faith community are all we need. Knowing they are there and hearing now and then of what they do and think, millions of people will give grudging respect and will be less likely to heed the home-grown agitators who sprout like dandelions in every place. The message of World Class Persons lingers long in the collective human memory. In sacred books and political documents and oral traditions passed unbroken but transformed from that time when humans first talked, the words and deeds of World Class Persons buoy our hearts, minds, and souls amid the troubled waters which might otherwise overwhelm us. Our mission as World Class Persons is expressed in our motto: Red and Yellow, Black, Brown and White Christian, Buddhist and Jew Hindu Bahai and Muslim, too All are precious in our sight Now to sit in Normas living room and have her show me the book Peace wrotea book I didnt know existedis to me confirmation of my life and the direction it has taken. Lloyd was right. Farther along I am understanding why. After sleeping in the loft above Normas garage, she fixes me an early breakfast of millet and raisins, and delights in showing me the natural foods she uses. Norma was an elementary teacher in Illinois and owned a health food store for four years. She retired from teaching, sold her business, and moved to Eugene to find what I was supposed to do. She chose Eugene because, You can live here for nothing. Everything grows. And people are conscious of the environment. Norma shows me books and literature from a variety of spiritual sources and viewpoints. She is searching. For direction. And for relationships. For two years, a Downs Syndrome woman lived in her house. The house is always full of interesting people. The people in the house this morning are her daughter and granddaughter, and Howard, the daughters boyfriend, who has
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come out from Chicago to meet Norma. Normas husband died. Her daughter is divorced. The ride out of Eugene is hard. Eugene is bicycle heaven. People are so accustomed to bikes and have made such accommodations to them that I hate to leave, the way a kid feels about leaving a candy store. But I cant wait to see what lies ahead. From a little before eight this morning until a little after six this evening, Im on the bike, with a stop for about an hour just after noon at a rest stop alongside I-5. Stretched out under a tree after a hard ride, with some peanuts and raisins, alls right with the world. The sun today is fierce radiating off this black highway. Sweat pours in buckets. I love it. At a little restaurant where I stop for lunch about two oclock, a woman customer with her arm in a sling tells me she wants to ride across the country. She fell off her bike two weeks ago and broke her collar bone. But she wont quit. And she pays for my lunch. Charles Taylor had called Marvene Ellwood in Roseburg to ask for a place for me. When I get there about six, I call from a service station; she and Frank and their three sons pick me up in her van and take me to Rax for a Mexican buffet. I go through four times. Then to Franks parents. Marvene had called the television station, and Mitch Truswell comes from KPIC to film a story in the Ellwoods living room. Its on the eleven oclock news. Well done! Focused on the Human Family Reunion. After Mitch leaves, we get into a discussion of our faith and of the church. Frank Sr. and his wife Doroles were Latter Day Saints for 37 years until they learned from PTL that Mormons are a cult, teaching the church rather than Christ. It hurt to leave our friends. But we had no choice; we had to be where Christ wanted us. We visited churches until we found where God wanted us to be. Its a non-denominational comunity church. We havent joined, but we attend regularly. Their last pastor left them with a $480,000 debt, and I wont join until they can show me they are debt free, Frank says. I believe in giving, but we dont have the money for the kind of giv-
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ing they would expect to get them out of debt. Frank Sr. is angry about public education. They teach children not to obey their parents. Have they told you that? He asks Randy, his 16 year old grandson. Not in a military school, Randy laughs. Randys dad, Frank Jr. has just returned after 20 years in the army, the last three in Germany, where the boys went to schools run by the military. They will, Frank Sr. says. And he is upset about AIDS ads on TV that advertise condoms. Theres no place for that. Theyre telling people sex is okay if you protect yourself. No wonder this countrys in trouble. Frank is a ham radio operator and has a Commodore 64 computer. He has a software Bible program that lets him run all kinds of references. He was giving them to his pastor, but hasnt lately because the pastor doesnt give the tapes back. Frank and Doroles have cable television but watch only the news and the Christian channel. They are upset with news lately because of the ads they run. Frank tapes many of the Christian programs, so I can use them for reference. Frank and Doroles have another child, a daughter, who works in real estate. She divorced her wife-beating husband and is raising her 17 year old daughter alone. She should have divorced him a long time ago. When we get into a discussion of people who overcome their problems, Frank Jr. tells about a Vietnam vet he knows who has no legs and is a farmer. Frank Sr, tells about a ham radio operator who is blind. And we conclude that human will and spirit are capable of handling whatever comes. The next day is my hottest day since the celebration in Liberty. And Im going up another mountain, sweat pouring off me. I stop in Azalea at a little country store for some orange juice, yogurt and fig newtons. I pay for it with four of the seven dollars Frank gave me when I left this morning. The two young clerks, Yvonne and Melody, ask about the purpose of my ride. I explain it quickly and give them a flyer. Melody
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hands me $5.00. Yvonne sends Eddie across the road to their trailer to get two bananas and an apple. Before I leave, she sends Eddie out with a box of raisins. I stay at the store about an hour, but I dont go five miles before stopping at a rest area to take a nap under a tree. Twenty more miles to Grants Pass, but I hate to get back on the road in this stifling heat. Coming up off that black pavement, Im surprised this heat hasnt melted my tires. Ive ridden every day for eight days. Im tired. The heat takes it out of me. I had planned to get to Medford today, but I wont make it. I wish I were home right now. Asleep. In air conditioning. But if I were, Id want to be here. Twenty days and Ill be home. Right now that seems an eternity away. About four oclock, I spot a highway sign announcing Sunny Valley. I dont see anyone about, and I dont know what services Ill find, but I cant go any further. I wheel off I-5 and down a hill to the right. A lttle restaurant backed up against a mountain heaves into view, a gravel parking lot in front, a couple of old cars offering hope that the place is open for business. This place is far enough off I-5 to be invisible. But Im exhausted, and when I saw that exit ramp. I took it. No more of these mountains or this heat. Theres got to be something, somebody, to give me water and food and a bed. Im so weak and tired I can hardly move. This place was cast by Damon Runyon. Four at the table across. Young guy, shirt open; another with a van dyke beard; 40 year old in cowboy hat; guy with dirty gray goatee and beard, cussing royally. Guy at a table all alone. Dressed for winter on this inferno day. Head covered tight with scarf under an aviators cap, heavy leather jacket over a flannel shirt, one heavy pair of pants over another, hiking boots. Sunny Valley, Oregon this is. After downing three glasses of ice water and ordering dinner, I get into conversation with a trucker who sleeps in his truck and hasnt been to his Idaho home in five weeks. I ask about his family. Im single. That truck cost me three wives. That trucks my home.
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He talks to everyone who comes in. Always about his truck. His company has just bought 165 new rigs with bunk beds and closets, for $150,000 each. This guy has white curly hair and beard, blue jeans, running shoes, cowboy hat. Very trim. Moves easily. He goes behind the counter to get coffee for each new arrival and goes to pour at every table. When he comes to me, he says, The hotter the weather, the more coffee I drink. I decline and ask for lots of ice tea instead. A sheriffs deputy comes in to talk to the man dressed for winter. The owner had called because the guy doesnt have enough money to pay his bill. The conversation as I catch bits of it doesnt make much sense. After checking him out, the officer asks him to leave and not return. I tell the officer who I am and what Im doing and that I need a place for the night. He tells me about Grange Hall, where the community church meets tomorrow. A meeting of the Patrons of Husbandry is in progress as I arrive and I sit on the front porch. When they break for the refreshments I see in the kitchen, Ill go in and see what I can do about a place to sleep. Peggy Sartow, a Grange member, comes out on the porch for some reason, and I tell her I need a place to spend the night. She asks me to wait until after the meeting, and they will see what they can do. About an hour later, Peggy brings Jim out and we talk briefly. They both go back inside. I wait another 20 minutes or so. I can hear a discussion: whether it is proper to sing America the Beautiful as a salute to the flag, or if it has to be the Star Spangled Banner. Someone proposes a substitute motion to solve the problem. Then following the singing of America the Beautiful, Peggy reappears to invite me in to watch some slides about the choosing and care of a dog for the family. I dont think any of us want to see these slides. But we have to. Peggy says to me. When Im inside, someone suggests I move my chair up closer so I can see. A lady brings me a cup of coffee. After the slides, I move my chair to the back of the room.
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Im afraid well have to ask you to step outside until we conclude our meeting. he says. Following a short wait on the porch, I return for refreshments. Peggy has arranged with Joe Beaudro for him to drive me to pastor Mel Wilson in Wolf Creek, where a cot is available in the church. My gratitude is tempered just a bit by the fact that Wolf Creek is back north, the way I came. That means five of those uphill miles to do again. But I promised never to say no to help. So Joe can go home to get his pickup, I take his place washing dishes. As Im loading my bike into the pickup a little later and in the dark, I fall backward out of it. Hit on my butt. The bike tumbles out on the ground. As far as I can tell, neither of us is hurt. Mel puts me up in a house the church uses for Sunday School. No bathroom; otherwise fine. And Im soon sound asleep. First thing I do this Sunday morning is to find a phone so I can call Second Baptist to tell them where I am. When I get Dub on the phone, Im so pleased to tell him where I am and how I got here that Im about to bust. Dub, guess where I am? Youre at the Missionary Alliance Community Church in Wolf Creek, Oregon. Mel Wilson is pastor. And its beautiful. Thats what he said. I cant tell you what I said. I was so excited. For Sunday School I join the Pastors class meeting in his living room next door to the church, and I sit on the couch between Sylvia Bloom and Dick Converse. During church, Mel announces that I am here and what Im doing. Peggy is a member of this church and I meet several of the family when church is over. Betty Wilson has made me a lunch to take with me. As welcome as this is, Bettys question as a crowd of well-wishers stand in her yard is better: Since Ed has already ridden from here to Sunny Valley, shouldnt we take him back there to start? Jack Pugsley is quick to volunteer. And I return in his pickup to Sunny Valley. About three quarters up the first long hill out of Sunny Valley, I spot someone up ahead, walking. Even from this distance, I can tell it is the man dressed for winter. When I draw alongside, I speak.
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He asks for water. He drinks only a swig from my bottle, and I try without success to get him to drink more. He is dressed just as yesterday. I am wearing shorts. And dying. I cant stand to look at him with all those clothes on. He says he slept beside the road and hasnt eaten. I get him to take a cheese sandwich but he wont take an orange. I had planned to spend last night in Medford, but its after five oclock when I get here today. The heat hasnt let up. Maybe a little hotter. And it seems like Im going straight up. Im still not to Grants Pass by mid afternoon, and Im grinding one slow mile after another. In Medford I spot a Rax. Remembering that Mexican buffet in Ellenwood, I stop and eat for a long time. And the air conditioning is free. I pay for the dinner with the money they gave me at church. At the Valli Hai Motel, owner Paul Jehlo eagerly gives me a room and shows me a better route out of town that I can take in the morning. When I tell him after he gives me the room that his name will be in my book, he says he didnt do it to get his name in print. You give because your hearts in the right place, he says. I leave the Valli Hai and Medford at 6:30 the next morning so I can ride in the cool. Ten miles to Ashland; then starts the 15 mile climb to the Siskiyou Summit. Im there by noon. Now comes the hard part; seven miles of six percent downgrade. I ride the brakes. Hard. My biggest fear on this whole ride has been going down a mountain. Going up I can always stop. With this load and these winds and the traffic and things in the road, going down doesnt set well with me. I stop every mile going down to let the rims cool. If they get hot and blow a tire it may be the end of me.
California
About 12 miles north of Yreka, I pull into a rest stop. A man in his upper 70s tells me I can take the road behind the rest stop into Yreka and avoid the long steep hill on the freeway. Its no piece of cake, but I get there about 1:30, and I stop at Ma and Pas Restaurant for pie and ice cream. After I have eaten, and held the door open for
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the delivery man to bring the new ice machines in, I come to the counter to get water in my bottles. A question is asked about my destination and how far Ive ridden. In a couple of minutes, I have told the story and passed out my literature. Two of the three men who have been sitting at the counter join in. Charlie tells about his grown son and daughter, both of whom have MS. The other man says his wife has MS. Shorthly after he leaves, Sherry, a waitress, and Charliess wife, tells me his first wife died of MS. Angie had waited on me when I came in. Now she gives me a sack of donuts to take on my bike. Bless you, she says. Charlie hands me a $10.00 bill, and walks outside to see me off. You be careful. Im gonna send your flyers to my children. The crew in Ma and Pas said I would need to ride the frontage road from Yreka to Weed, a distance of 20 miles, then pick up I-5 into Mt. Shasta. They had drawn me a map on a napkin. You cant miss it, they said. I had drunk one bottle and was working on the second before I was 10 miles out. Angie had filled both bottles with ice, and they were still cold. Wonderful! But Id be out before I got to Weed. Then I see the sign: WATER1/4 MILE ALEX MOOREHEAD MEMORIAL FOUNTAIN A pipe in a rock. Running continuously. Cool! And clear! I dont know who you were Alex, but Im glad you lived. I drink long. Fill my bottles. Put my face down in the basin pool that flows over the edge and down the mountain. Eat some doughnuts. Drink again. I dont want to leave to go up that hill again. Up the hill I come to a sign announcing, Forrest Mountain Summit, 4000 Ft. Over the crest and down the other side, I see a bright red pickup parked on the other side of the road, a man in uni-
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form at the wheel. How far to Weed? I yell. You sure you want to go this way? Id had the uneasy feeling I was on the wrong road. Angie, Charlie, and Sherry had told me how flat the road to Weed is, and here I was going up and down Mount Everett. But I dismissed the feeling. I shouldnt have. Its all downhill going back, says the man in the pickup. He means to be encouraging. He isnt. Id climbed 1,500 feet in less than five miles. Up and winding Ill take anytime over down and winding. Id have to ride the brakes and worry about overheating the rims and blowing a tire. Id worry about not going so fast I couldnt make the turns. I would try not to see over the edge of these cliffs. I get back to Yreka, having been gone near on three hours. Back at Ma and Pas, Sherry and Angie give me a steak; they say a customer ordered it, then said it wasnt rare enough. They ask me if I will eat it as a favor to them. While Im waiting on the steak, I go out in the parking lot to use the pay phone to call George and Ginger Mattos in Mt. Shasta to tell them I took the wrong road, that I am still in Yreka, and wont be able to stay with them tonight. But Ginger wants to know where I am and says they will come and get me. Back inside, Im eating my steak when Charlie appears and asks me to spend the night with them, if you dont mind the dogs. I tell him I will if my friends cant find this place. But George and Ginger come about eight oclock, and I go out to the parking lot to put my bike in the trunk of their Honda Civic. Before we leave, I ask them to come inside to meet my friends. We all stand in the middle of the restaurant and talk so loud that the half-dozen customers hear us and join in a pep rally for the Human Family at Ma and Pas. The ride to Mt. Shasta at sunset is awesome. Suddenly as we drive, the mountain lurches onto the horizon. From nowhere, it suddenly dominates. Snowcapped. A classic profile against the evening sky, lingering rays giving its peak a glow not of this world. George says Mount Shasta lures people from all over the world. Just this
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weekend hundreds will meet on the mountain as the lead group for the Harmonics, a smorgasbord of people who will congregate simultaneously world-wide to be at one with the universe and with each other. George has taught choral music at the Junior College in Weed for the past 18 years. Ginger is an administrator in the Mt. Shasta public schools. And I try to imagine what it would have done to George to drive daily for those years from Mt. Shasta to Weed and back. As the sun comes up. And goes down. In every season. That mountain by now is part of his psyche. Making music in these mountains must mold the mind and adapt the person to a specialized environment the likes of which the rest of us long for. A little bit of heaven. Gingers father, in 1925 when he was 18, took a four month bicycle trip with a friend: 3,600 miles over rocky roads. Lots of flats. Sold postcards to get money to pay for his trip. Robert Bookwalter is a graduate student at the University of Kansas in Lawrence and a friend of my daughter, Debbie. When Debbie told Bookie about my trip, he told her he knew some people in Northern California who had a house with a fabulous view and would love to have me. Debbie gave me their number. Bookie wrote George and Ginger to tell them about me and when I planned to be here. I had first talked to them on the phone about two oclock from Yreka. Now as we sit in their kitchen, George is going over my route for tomorrow and telling me about some friends of theirs in Redding he will call so I can stay with them tomorrow night. We talk late into the night. And I want to hear what they say. But the view of the mountains through the sliding glass doors demands long and loving looks. Ginger packs me a lunch, and by 7:30 weve had breakfast and Im ready to go. The chill in the air has me shivering in my shorts, but I dont figure that will last long once the sun is up and Im out of the shadows of trees and mountains. What I havent counted on is the 40 miles of free fall down Interstate 5 from Mt. Shasta to Lake Shasta. Giant mountains and giant trees tower above and around me. The cool breeze in my face as I plummet down the mountain carries
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the scent of pine and fir and sawdust and earth and flowers. Giant trucks and luxury cars and jeeps and motorcycles and the full inventory of Japanese factories pass me by. But the road is wide and smooth and no cliffs dropping to nowhere do I see. So I let it go and feel simultaneously safe and scared. A mountain high has me in its spell. The spell now and then is broken when signs announce that bicycles must exit but are not so straightforward in announcing where they should go. These are usually the times I sit to eat and drink in the scenery. The 40 mile free fall is abruptly ended at Lake Shasta by a mile long climb thats like pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps to the next crest, followed by two miles of 5 percent downgrade. Up and down after that for another 10 miles, with the last 10 miles to Redding fairly flat. I have to exit I-5 some eight miles north of Redding when another sign tells me to; I have to travel bike paths the rest of the way. The path is not well marked, and I think I know why. If paths were well marked, the biker would not need to stop and visit with those who live in the houses and work in the businesses along the way to ask if they know where he should go. Many there are I would not have known if the paths had been better marked. When finally I come to the outskirts of Redding, I find a phone booth at a Quick Trip. And after I gulp a Coke, I call Mo Orwig, George Mattoss friend. Mo is still at work, and Rosemarie gives me his number after she decides she doesnt know the way by bike from where I am, partlyprobably, largelybecause I dont know where I am. About all I do know is that I can see I-5 from the phone booth. But I can also see the Bicycles Prohibited sign. Mo is a biker and a Redding native. He knows where I am and gives me careful directions to his house. I cross the Sacramento River three times getting there. Not that I mind, its wide and blue and fast flowing, but I cant imagine that it twists and turns so much that I should cross it three times on the most direct route to Mos house. The man at the service station sets me straight; Ive gotten to
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him thanks to the man selling boats at a big metal barn. Its 6:15 by the time I get to the Orwigs. After a swim in their backyard pool, Mo offers an open-air shower on the far side of the house. The breeze on parts of my body not accustomed to it feels good, and the bushes smell good as they screen me from the neighbors. Rosemarie has a beautiful dinner ready: chicken and potatoes in a cream sauce, corn on the cob, tossed salad, fresh bread, orange cake, ice cream, and all the tea I can drink. Mo was born in Redding and has been an executive with a steel company in town nearly all his adult life. Son, Chris, will be a student at Pepperdine this fall. Chriss friend, Danile Dannenburg, is from France. Chris was an exchange student in France when the U.S. bombed Lybia. The family Chris was staying with was threatened, so Chris left there and moved in with Daniels family in Paris. Chris visited Israel before coming home. As often happens with families I visit, the conversation turns to problems they have and are coping with. Son Chris is dyslexic; friend Shirley Nasons husband died a year ago, after living six years with a heart transplant: the heart of a 21 year old Marine. Rosemarie has been off work recovering from surgery on her feet to correct a genetic defect that twists her feet and makes walking impossible. Shirley lives in Ben Lomond, one of the towns I fell past coming down the mountain today. She says its beautiful and she loves it. Shes here tonight because her daughter is marrying one of the Orwig boys. All six of us sit long at the table and talk of things important in our lives. I talk about my family and my trip and my race relations class at William Jewell and the Human Family Reunion. Maybe I should go to Jewell, Chris says. Thats what I was thinking, his dad responds. Redding is an attractive city of 50,000. This is where George came after he dropped Larry and me off back in 1956. We had left Houston early on a Monday morning in Georges 1949 Crysler that he bought when he got out of the service and before he came back to school.
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George Murphy, Larry Taylor and I were all planning to enter the ministry and had volunteered to come to work in California Southern Baptist Churches. We were supposed to get a sercular job to make money and spend our spare time working in a church. That first day we got to Fort Stockton, way out in west Texas. We were young and we had heard that Texas was big, but we were surprised not to be in California by dark. So we stopped to eat in this cafe with wooden tables, and the sand blew through the cracks and across our table and we wandered what we were in for. Several days later, we dropped Larry off in Eureka, way up over the mountains on the northern California coast. Then George took me to Boonville, a logging town up in the mountains settled by Oakies and Arkies back in the 30s when the dust blew em off the land. George came here to Redding. George was the only one of us to stay the summer. Larry was the first to go. Took a bus home after a week. I lasted three weeks before I hopped an express bus that went non-stop to Tyler, Texas and let me out at two in the morning, leaving me to carry my suitcase out looking for the highway to Jacksonville past a big Boxer bulldog that growled down deep and trotted along beside me in the dark, and I was glad to be past him until I came to a sign that said I was on the wrong highway and had to go back. I dont know why George stayed and we didnt. Maybe it was because he had a car. Or he was older. Or had the G.I. Bill to help him go to school. Or because he didnt have a girlfriend back home. Larry and I married our girlfirends. Larry was Director of the Baptist Student Union at the University of Texas, El Paso for years after he finished seminary, and I have taught at William Jewell since I got out of graduate school. Last I heard of George he was back home in Alabama, but nobody knows what hes doing, and I havent heard from him in over 25 years. All this comes back to me in Redding. Mo Orwig tells me that George Mattos was a decathelete in college. Rosemarie chimes in to say, We call him Gorgeous George.
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I dont, laughs Mo. George is a handsome guy, and he told me about mountain climbing and skiing. Wonder why he didnt mention his athletic background? Im more impressed finding out this way. We all get on our bicycles and Mo leads us about a mile to his country club where he buys breakfast for Chris, Danny and me as we sit overlooking the river. Mo takes pictures and gives me money and the name of a judge he wants me to see in Santa Barbara. Out of Redding I ride a road parallel to I-5 for the seven miles to Anderson. Before I get back on the interstate, I call Charlotte Legg and Mary Spidel at the college; then Bobbie and YaYah. Hearing their voices is a shot in the arm. This close to the end of the ride, thats enough to keep me going. Then I call Milt, and he says theyre planning a reception and a victory luncheon when I get to Disneyland. No Bicycles Permitted I have to get off the interstate at every town now. That adds miles, but its pleasant. In Red Bluff about noon I find a locally owned Mexican restaurant. Good food. And Mexican music! A corn tostado, a soft shell taco, and five glasses of ice tea would be good anytime and most anyplace, but to down them to mariachis and mirimbas and castenets and Spanish lyrics is to take a good experience several steps up. Out of Red Bluff, I have an impossible time finding the bike path. I take one dead end road of several miles. And every one of the half-dozen entrances onto the interstate say no bicycles. Finally I ask and Im told to take Highway 99. At the first little town I come to on 99, I see a FREEWAY sign nailed to a tree and pointing off to the right. Doesnt say how far. Or if bicycles are permitted. And I dont see anyone to ask. So I turn. Two miles of winding country road past cows and grain fields bring me to I-5. And another No Bicycles Permitted sign. My patience is exhausted. Its three oclock; I still have 40 or 50 miles to go before dark, and I cant bring myself to retrace that country road back to 99. And I dont know that 99 goes where I want to go. Maybe it would help if I looked at a map. But why start know?
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So I ignore the sign and enter the freeway. Less than a mile later, a highway patrol car passes me in the northbound lane, speaker blaring. I figure I am the target. I keep pedaling. A few minutes later, the patrol car pulls up behind me. You cant ride that bike on the freeway. One of these 18 wheelers will mash you, and Ill have to scrape you up. I ask how this stretch of freeway is different from the others Ive been riding. He seems surprised that Ive been riding the freeway; I have visions of being loaded in this car, taken back to the California state line and told to get down the mountain some other way. So I listen. Politely. I want you to go back half a mile. Take that country road back to 99. Will 99 take me to Sacramento? That road will take you to Terra del Fuego if you want to go. But you cant ride I-5. I pick up my bike and carry it across the freeway and do as I am told. Its after 4 pm when I get back to the place Id been about three. And its 8:30 by the time I get to the Willows. George and Ginger had given me the name of a teacher friend, a counselor in the Willows public schools, where they thought I might stay. Id been calling the number for two days. Nobody home. Its almost too dark to be seen. Cars with headlights on have been passing for the last few miles. Just as I roll into Willows, I spot Willows Baptist Church off to my right, the parking lot filled with people. Today is Wednesday. Prayer Meeting just ended. I wheel in and start talking to a group of men. Pastor isnt here. Mike Stevenson says hes in charge. Mikes brother died at 35 of MS, having been afflicted since he was 12; diagnosed at about 20. So Mike is very receptive to what I have to say. Mike is about to invite me to his house for the night when Mark Munshausen gives me a card from Super 8 Motel where he is manager, and tells me they have a room for me. These mosquitoes are eatin me alive, I say to justify the frantic dance Im doing.
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Lots of rice grown here. This irrigation brings em in. Almost no light is left when I get to the motel. Mark pulls up right behind me and goes in with me to make sure Im taken care of. After a long soak in the tub and a lot of scratching, I crawl out of the tub and sand those bites with some vigorous towelling. Its been a long, harrowing day. Im exhausted and so hungry I dont have the strength to eat. On the way to bed, I flip on the TV. Its 9:42; Ill watch the last few minutes of this program and part of the next until I zone out. A movie is just coming on. The credits have run; I see the last name just rolling up the screen. Then the action begins. Ive watched about half an hour, and I still dont know the name. But Im wide awake. Then comes the name following a series of adds: BREAKING AWAY, a bicycle movie about four boys in Bloomington Indiana who finally make a statement and derive some hope when they win a bike race in competition with college boys from the university. I watch all that movie. Wide eyed! When its over, Im ready to go. Who needs sleep? Only the dark keeps me from hittin the road right then. And I think of Dorthy: Coincididence is Gods way of remaining anonymous. And of the Bible: All things work together for good to them that believe. Mike had asked me back at the church if I died Im sure Id go to heaven. Yes. May I ask you how you know? Because I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. Mike smiled. I had to ask, he said. Yes you did. And you should. I said. Mark comes by as I am rolling my bicycle out of the room and recommends breakfast at Nancys Cafe, just up the road that runs in front of the motel, to the right and under the overpass. Thats our little airport, and the pilots eat there. If everything is as good as the pancakes, Im not surprised. About mid-morning, I stop for brunch at a deli in Williams and for lunch in a Mexican Restraurant about 1:30 in another town. Im eat-
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ing everything in sight in every town I come to. And I still cant get enough. By five oclock I have made it to Woodland, after being passed by 18 wheelers filled with carrots and tomatoes and lettuce and cabbage and other vegetables by the ton. With the produce that passed me today, we could have salads at the Human Family Reunion until the cows come home. And then we could feed the cows. On the outskirts of town, I pass a metal building housing a business called Rain for Rent and surrounded by enough irrigation pipe to build an Eiffel Tower. Surface water is as common here as in the Saharra, but from an underground freshwater ocean pumps raise the water that Rain for Rent and its competitors deliver to the crops and transform this barren land into the Garden of Eden on steroids. I am a few minutes late to the park near the courthouse. No sooner have I pulled up than Katie and Emily White arrive. We load my bike in their white Suburban and they take me to their home in Sacramento. And I have another swim as we wait for Al. He gets home about seven and we sit down to a scrumptious dinner that Katie has made. Heather comes home from her summer job about 9:00, and we all sit in the living room and talk. Al White is a Jewell alum and Katie grew up in Liberty where her dad was a contractor and still lives. They have lived here since Al came to do his residency in San Fransico and decided to stay on the coast to practice. Hes a radiologist and has pictures to show me of the body made by an imaging machine, the latest medical technology he tells me, and I believe Al would make a good teacher because I think I understand what he is saying as he explains the pictures, though I am sure I see nothing. No riding today, first day in almost two weeks. Ive been 4,500 miles so far. Only a few hundred to go. Talked on the phone to Milt Albright at Disneyland. Hes planning big things when I get there. He loves the video Phil Maslin at Channel 4 in Kansas City shot. Milt wants to do a similar piece at Disneyland for showing and to send to Kansas City. I called Bobbie about her arrangments for coming to L.A. And I talked to Knight about plans for the big
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Human Family Reunion well have at Fuller Seminary. When Brian Davis comes at two to get me, parting is a little awkward. I shake hands with Al and Emily; just say goodbye to Katie. I want to hug them all. I wish I had. Ive done alot of hugging across the country. Why dont I? I hold back. I feel awkward and take the easy way out. I violate my own rule: Never so a thing the safe, easy or comfortable way. Brian had been grocery shopping and to get medicine for his two dogs before he picked me up. He and Lori just bought their first house; they moved into it in June. Brian and Lori both went to Liberty High School, graduated with my son Dave. Brian joined the Navy for four years while Lori finished her computer science degree at Nebraska. Lori now works in Sacramento for Rockwell, designing computer software that checks out the computers that fly the F-111 fighter. Brian has his AA, from junior college and is working on a math degree at Cal State, Fullerton: He wants to be a math teacher. Right now hes working at a Sears warehouse at night. Brian takes me in his open-top pickup on a quick tour of West Sacramento on the way to pick up his cable TV materials. When Lori gets home from work shortly after 5:00, Brian has cooked dinner. Delicious! He loves to cook. And does it well. Lori clears the table. After dinner we watch a little TV and play cribbage. Brian calls it the sailors game,and says he played it all the time on the sub. Six months at a time he was out and down. Brian is taking me to meet Dennis Fulton in San Franciso this morning. Dennis is Dale and June Harriss son-in-laws brother. I called Dale and June yesterday to tell them where I am and to let them know I havent forgotten them. Dale said they have played the tape several times at church, the one we made when I was there in Scottsbluff. From Sacramento to Marine World where Brian drops me off is about 50 miles of heavy freeway traffic, and I cant tell when we leave one city and come to another. Dennis and his two partners have a business renting video cameras to people who come to the
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park. He said for us to call him when we get to the gate so he can usher us through. Dennis asked Brian and Lori to come spend the day in the park as his guest, but Lori has some work to catch up on, and Brian drives me by himself in Loris Toyota. Brian discovers when we get there that he has forgotten to bring Denniss phone number, and the parking attendant wont let Brian drive up to the gate without a pass. So Brian pulls as much out of the line of traffic as he can while I scramble to get my bike out of the truck, the front wheel snapped back on and the panniers in place. A hurried goodbye to Brian, and I pedal off toward the main gate. As Im calling Lori to get Denniss phone number, a handsome and well dressed man about my age walks up to me. Ed? Im Dennis I dissassemble my bike, put it in the trunk of his Mercedes, and we drive into the parking area reserved for owners and operators of Marine World. Dennis grabs one of the Handycams he rents, and we take a quick tour of the park, making a film Dennis will send home with me. Marine World has been on this site less than a year, on what had been for years a public golf course. The place glistens in the morning sun, as whales and dolphins and monkeys and jumping fountains and aqua blue pools and throngs of people combine in optimal mix to retire the bonds that built it all. After Dennis buys us lunch in the employees cafeteria, we leave for a tour of San Francisco with the camera. The Giants are in town this weekend, but were too far north to be caught in that traffic. The As must be here, too, Dennis decides. Even so, hes never seen traffic so heavy this time of day. With Dennis driving, though, I dont mind the traffic. Going slow gives me time to take a long look at things. Oakland has taken the shipping business away from San Francisco, Dennis says. Oakland modernized their docks while Frisco stood pat. And Oakland marketed more aggressively. So the Frisco docks are just about shut down. Into the heart of San Francisco we drive. The sun roof is open, and Im standing with my head above the car, camera whirring, committing everything in sight to celluloid. Across the Bay Bridge
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from Oakland into the heart of the city, through the financial district, past the Fairmont Hotel, and a slow drive down the street where the Chinese shop, down the crookedest street in the world, by the Russian Embassy and all its listening devices, to Fishermans Wharf, where Dennis buys us a shrimp cocktail to go, and then to the Golden Gate Bridge. Then back through San Francisco to Foster City where Dennis lives with his wife, Nancy, and two teen age children. When I get home and view this film, I just know Ill hear Tony Bennet. In the driveway sits Nancys Mercedes, but she is away this weekend back in the midwest for a family reunion. Their home of earth tone wood and rock backs on a lagoon, and a small boat is anchored at the dock. The house is filled with artifacts collected on their trips to Africa, Asia, South America, Australia. The whole family has traveled a-million-and-a-half miles together. Dennis and Nancy married in their mid-twenties, each is now near 50. Until pregnant with their first child in her early 30s, Nancy flew for TWA as a stewardess. She was fired because of her pregnancy. Fourteen years later, a class action suit was brought against the airline. When it was won, Nancy was offered her job back. And her seniority. That was three years ago. Now the whole family flies free all over the world. Dennis is a lawyer. He practiced law for a short time. For 25 years he has owned a metals business which he just sold. He begins this coming Monday as legal counsel and partner to a major west coast developer, the same one who built Marine World. After we each take a nap, Dennis takes me to dinner about eight oclock at The Fish Market. The receptionsit tells Dennis it will be about 30 minutes before a table is available. Dennis says upstairs has the best view but he has never gotten to eat there because its always booked way ahead. Youre in luck, says the maitred. We just had a cancellation. Enjoy your dinner. And we get the up-stairs center table flush against the window overlooking the water. A long, leisurely, sumptuous dinner follows: shrimp and shshi for appetizers, followed by New England clam chowder, sturgeon,
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Australian lobster tail. Then dessert. Its 10:30 when we finish. Over dinner, Dennis describes his trip with Nancy and son, Chris, to the Kentucky Derby. With no reservations, they found a good hotel in Louisville the night before the race. They went to the track on the shuttle bus from town and bought general admission paddock tickets that got them on the grounds. Before the 10th race, which is The Derby, the three of them had worked their way from the sea of people in the infield, who would be totally unable to see the race, to the seventh of the eight floors of the main building. On the eighth floor was the governor and his wife, Jimmie Carter, Henry Kissinger and local aristocracy whose tickets for that vantage point had come down to them through generations of their family. Dennis left Nancy and Chris on the seventh floor to try his luck at the eighth. Wearing the tan arm band that authorized his presence on the seventh floor, Dennis knocked on the door of the eighth. My family is in here somewhere. Could I look for them? The guard gave permission. But went with him. After a few minutes, Dennis asked what it would cost to stay and see the race. Ten dollars and the guard was gone. Dennis watched the race one secret service agent away from Jimmie Carter. Dennis tells me of the places he has been. He loves India and would like to go back. Dennis talks about the Hindu three stages of life: student, householder, and sardu. In this last stage, one has learned, reared a family, and now renounces it all. People give to the sardu, because in so doing they are taking part in the spiritual quest that motivates the sardu. Dennis likens peoples response to me to that of Indians to the sardu. It isnt altruism that prompts people to give to you, Dennis says, Its their own search, their need to identify with good, their longing to believe, their gratitude to one who acts where they have not found the courage. When I tell Dennis about my need to visit a religious community on Sundays, he says, We could go to the Catholic Church we go to. He then mentions several other possibilities: the chapel at Stanford, the Russian Orthodox Church he often drives by but has
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never been in. The more he talks, the more excited he gets. My next to last Sunday on the road. Only one more time to wear my Ambassador shirt. So Dennis and I go to the Church of St. Timothy for 7:30 mass. The visiting preacher is Father Martin, whose sermon is about the mission he is helping to start in the mountains of Mexico, in a small, very poor, lumbering community. After the service, Dennis introduces me to Father Martin and tells him what I am doing. When Dennis tells Father Martin that Im from Liberty, Missouri, Father Martin says he attended seminary in Conception, Missouri and gave his first mass in Liberty. Dennis moved his mother to California from Michigan several years ago after his father died, and now his mother lives in a house just a few doors down from Dennis and his family. About mid-morning, his mother comes down in her Lincoln, bought when her husband was alive, and we put my bike in the Lincolns bigger trunk and leave for San Jose. We stop on the way for a tour of the Stanford campus as Dennis narrates a brief history. Following a minimum number of wrong turns, we arrive at Evelyn Bookwalters about 3:30. While Im here in San Jose with Evelyn, her husband, Don, is in Liberty with Bobbie. Sounds like a Dallas or Dynasty story line. In fact, its a one in a million chance that Las Vegas would never believe. The Bookwalters and the Chasteens have never met. Their son Bookie and my daughter Debbie are graduate school friends at the University of Kansas. Bookie has just taken a job at Marshall University in West Virginia. He and his dad are driving out in a UHaul truck. It got late before they were packed, and Debbie asked them to stay over to get a good nights sleep before leaving early in the morning. I dont know until I call home that Don and Bookie are there. Nor do they know I am at their house. Barbara comes over to her mothers for supper. Over steak, potatoes, some of the best tomatoes ever to grace human lips, apple pie and ice cream, we talk: about health. And faith. Evelyn takes care of three older women. Her mother is 85, in good health, but is not happy unless she sees a doctor once a week. Evelyn cant understand
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why her mother is so preoccupied with her health; she has had very little sickness in her life. Another older woman Evelyn cares for has a number of serious health problems which she largely ignores as she lives an active life. Comparing the two women persuades Evelyn that attitude has more to do with the way people live than whatever physical problems they have. Barbara is a student of holistic health and believes in the power of the mind to control the body. She affirms her mothers convictions that attitude is the key to life, and Barbara add several stories of her own to document that fact. After dinner Evelyn takes Barbara and me on a tour of San Jose. Evelyn grew up here and loves the place dearly, the way one should love the place they won a freckle contest when they were 10. Her feeling for this place and these people is contagious, and I feel the spell working on me, helped by Barbaras timely and enthused endorsement. Is good cooking endemic to America? Must be. Or maybe anything eaten on an adventure is by definition delicious. I havent had a bad meal all summer. Never an upset stomach. And Ive eaten everything put in front of me. In gargantuan amounts. Evelyns dinner last night was superb, as was breakfast this morning, eaten in the Japanese garden just off the living room. And what she says is my lunch today has my mouth watering and my eyes popping. This lunch would feed the 5,000. My bicycle was overnight in the downstairs garage. Now to get it and stuff my panniers past all prior definition of full. Once again the front wheel comes off, and the bicycle goes in the trunk as Evelyn drives me to Gilroy, some 20 miles out past the heaviest traffic to a place where bicycles are permitted. After the bike is reassembled and ready to go, Evelyn gives me a hug and a $20.00 bill, and Im on my way down 101. At 2:24 p.m. Im sitting at a picnic table behind a gas station just off 101. This has not been a good day. Everytime I come near a town, I also come to a sign saying bicycles must exit. Invariably theres a sign at the next entrance prohibiting bicycles. Back in Salinas I gave up trying to find another way, and got back on 101.
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There is a parallel road here I think Ill try. I need to get to King City tonight. Thats 70 miles from where I started near Gilroy. The sign in Gilroy said 348 miles to Los Angeles: 70 miles a day will get me there in five days. But this is not fun: 101 is noisy; the weather is too cool. I dont like riding in all this traffic. And Im tired. Three days off was too much. I got lazy and stiff. Hard to walk. Same thing happened in Atlanta when I was there for three days. Ill have to keep active in L.A. Ill be there from Saturday through Thursday; if I dont ride some every day, my legs will tighten up so I can hardly get around. I get to King City about 5:30 and have a Mexican dinner at City Cafe with part of the $20.00 Evelyn gave me. At the first motel I go to, the Indian clerk seems willing, but the owner is not here and he doesnt have authority. He directs me to the Palm Hotel across the street: the owner is there, he says. This is not a skin game, is it? the owner asks when I tell him what I am doing and ask for a room. I say no. Heres your key. Number 10. And he vanishes into another room where he picks up a conversation I had obviously interrupted. He had left my literature on the desk; I hadnt gotten his name. Brian told me on the phone last night that he was proud of me. To have your grown son voluntarily endorse the core of your life is greater reward than all the recognition from those who know you less. He likes Tampa and his job, but we both miss home and each other. Debbie left last night for Grand Forks. She is to stay the night in Omaha with Beth Heine and get to Grand Forks today where she will begin the life my mother would like to have lived. With a PhD and a university professorship, Debbie has the education and the opportunity Mother wanted. But Mothers father was not educated and distrusted those who were. He refused to let her go to college even though she had a scholarship. So like many women of that time whose anatomy took precedence over their heart, mind and soul, my mother got married rather than educated. That my daughter not suffer the same artificial limitations as my mother I would have moved
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heaven and earth. That business called Rain for Rent in Woodland could as well be the theme of everything Ive seen growing from western Nebraska to here. Things made of pipe that look like a small child went wild with an erector set can be seen in fields across the West. Miles of pipe of various diameter laid in rows the length and breadth of fields. Pipes that move on wheels like giant spastic Praying Mantises eight feet off the ground, spraying water high over head and for many feet in the chosen direction. In other places, irrigation ditches and canals carry warm brown water to thirsty crops. Here in California in the last few days Ive seen an edible paradise, made so by the diversion and ingenious delivery of water: rice, almonds, olives, apricots, tomatoes, peaches, onions, brochilli, garlic, carrots, lettuce and a cornucopia I dont recognize, but would love to eat. I had planned to get to San Luis Obispo tonight, but three months on the road have me a chronic tired: I can go only so far. And no farther! I understand what marathoners mean when they talk about hitting the wall. So I stop instead in Paso Robles, 25 miles north of San Luis Obispo. Chalma Archuletta, mother of the manager of Tree Motor Lodge, gives me number 18. The shower doesnt work. But you can sleep there. No phone. Black and white TV with a picture that rolls over constantly. Cigarette holes in the stained brown carpet. When I go out on the street in front of the motel and find an out of order sign in the phone booth, I decide to ride up the street to see about a nicer place to stay. I still have all my things in my panniers, and no one will know I havent stayed here. But as Im walking into the lobby of a very nice motel a couple blocks up the street, I think of someone who will know. Me! Havent I promised never to refuse any offer of help? Dont I owe it to Chalma to let her help me? So when the desk clerk appears, I say, Im just passing through, and I dont know anybody in town, but I wanted to tell someone what a beautiful place this is. Must be lots of good people here. Have a good life. And I shake his hand and go back to my
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room which now looks like the Ritz. For the third straight morning, the weather is uncomfortably cool and overcast: I put on my blue jeans for the third morning in a row. Last two days it warmed up by noon. Hope today follows suit. I order two bowls of oatmeal at Wilsons, next door to my motel; then I go to my bike to get a box of raisins to spike my oatmeal. Viola! They serve raisins and brown sugar with the oatmeal, first place that has. I dont know which feeling is stronger. I want to see Bobbie, to go home, see my friends teach, write about this trip. But, on the other hand, I dont! Part of me wants to go on, to meet new people, live without money, never quite knowing how things will develop but knowing beyond question that I will have no problems that will not be resolved. The end will come, though. Nothing I can do will delay it. And I would not if I could. Im glad some things are beyond my control. Life has a context to which living must be shaped. I love it. The excitement is never ending, like a chess game: Always responding to moves that seem to come from nowhere: multiple moves from all directions, with self as their focus, then as their opponent. To find your self up for this game is a satisfaction beyond all others. To know that one day self will lose, but never to expect it today: To see ones self as the master of the moment: That must have been what Jesus had in mind when He said, I give you life more abundant. And Fear not. Fear is impossible to one who lives in this condition. From Paso Robles I have to take roads through open country and small towns. I cant ride on 101. Im not sorry. These winding, hilly roads past farm land are so peaceful and so beautiful. But meandering is not first on my mind at the moment. Im thinking of the Human Family Reunion Knight is planning at Fuller and the parade Milt is planning at Disneyland. I dont want my mind focused on the future. I want it here. Now! But its a struggle to keep it here.
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Im helped at this when I meet Pat Kingsten about six miles north of San Luis Obispo and we ride together as far as the hotel where he works. To say this place is beautiful is like calling the Grand Canyon nice. The hotel gleams white high on a hill overlooking the bluest water any artist ever painted, awesome under a sun that is not hot, a golden orb in the sky radiating the scene below with an unearthly light. And I burst out laughing with pure joy. Gods in His heaven, alls right with the world. Pat listens to a breathless description of my ride as he directs me on the back roads he knows. And as I finish, he begins a description of his ride just completed from the West Coast to the East Coast. He carried a sleeping bag and camped along the way, but people were good to him everywhere. Pat did the ride to raise money for cancer. And for his father who recently died of the disease. Pat also is tired of the Yuppie me, too and wanted to demonstrate the willingness of young people to do hard things for good causes. He wanted to see for himself what this country is like. And what he is made of. Pat borrowed the money from his mother to finance his ride. Now he works to pay her back and to get money for his last year at the University of California, Santa Barbara. About 4:30 Im standing beside the road gulping water and watching heads of cabbage being loaded into their own individual compartments in big wooden crates, like eggs into cartons, in a giant field that stretches to the horizon off to my left. This morning I was wanting to be home, thinking Ive done it all, that nothing is new. That feeling is still with me, in some ways stronger because I am weaker after all day in the heat and on the bicycle. My fear of cliffs and my determination not to be a tourist kept me from taking Highway 1 out of San Francisco. Everyone told me I should go that way because of the view of the ocean. But they also told me there are fewer towns along Highway 1, and that most of the people I would meet would be tourists. Since my purpose is to know the natives, I prefer almost always to take the road less traveled. A truck loaded with cabbage drives across the field and out onto the road; it turns in the direction I have just come from; the
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driver and I wave, and I turn to follow his departure. In the distance I can see two specks moving my way. Too small to be cars, too slow to be motorcycles. Cyclists? Company! Going my way? From where? Two young women arrive shortly and bring their bikes to a stop. Each introduces herself. And I think I have heard them wrong. You both have the same name? I spell mine with one L and she spells hers with two. Michele Connaughton lives in Whittier and Michelle Embury lives in Ojai. The towns are both near Santa Barbara, and the girls have been close friends since they were little. They have taken their bikes to San Francisco and are riding back home; they have been on the road for three days and will take two or three more getting home. Michelle and I ride along together for the next few miles. She asks a lot of questions about my ride, about Multiple Sclerosis and about the Human Family Reunion. She tells me that Michele was in a serious car wreck ten months ago, about the time I was first thinking of making this ride. Michele had several ribs broken, a severe head injury, and extensive internal injuries. Her memory was destroyed. She suffered deep depression; months of physical and mental therapy followed. As I peer up the road where Michele is disappearing over a hill, Im amazed to think that this young woman with the powerful pedal stroke and the look of a Sports Illustrated cover recently escaped from a hospital bed. When next we meet atop a long hill where she waits for us, I mention my admiration for her. She smiles. And Michelle said the two of you camp out every night. She invited me to join you if nothing else develops.Again she smiles. Michelle had asked me to stay with them when I told her I travel without money and depend on people I meet to take care of me. My first response? Automatic and instant? Panic! What would Bobbie think? Could I ever say to her, I spent the night in the park whith two young women. I didnt think so. So I had said thank you to Michelle, intending to make sure something else developed. But that was the easy way out. Too simple. I wouldnt find out anything
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about myself that way. I hadnt ridden across the country to do the easy thing. So the next time the three of us come together, I tell them I will accept their offer. The next 20 miles into Lompoc are like a giant roller coaster; we labor up and fly down one hill after another. At Vandenburg Air Force Base, we make a hard left for the remaining five miles into town. Thankfully, the road is a little flatter now. Even so, its almost dark when we come to Lompoc and stop at a shopping center so the young women can buy groceries. I stay outside to watch our bikes and to make some phone calls from the row of payphones mounted on the outside wall. I also stay, though I dont offer this as a reason to the young women, because I have to walk so slow, have to think so hard about moving my leg that I have no energy for other things, and because my gait is so spastic I fear people will wonder or will feel sorry. They might think I am drunk. Or handicapped. Why should I care. I will never see these people again. But I do care. And Im mad at myself for doing so. As I wait, a man I guess to be fifteen years my senior comes from the store. As he passes by he asks about the bikes. His name also is Ed, and 15 years ago he had a heart attack. The doctor recommended exercise, and Ed bought a bicycle. He got hooked on the bike and wound up making a 60 day ride from coast to coast. Still rides. Ed takes one of my flyers and promises to send a donation for the Human Family Reunion. As Ed and I talk, three guys in their twenties wheel into the shopping center and up to where Im standing. Wherere the girls? They ask almost in unison. At this moment, the glass doors swing outward and Michele and Michelle, their arms loaded with groceries, step out. I dont believe you guys. Last time we saw you, you were fryin on the beach. You guys are Kamikaze. Jeff, Dan, and Quinn grin. The girls give them quick directions to the campground; and the three of us leave. The sun is gone; dark envelops us. We have made it through town and almost to the campground when a police car stops us.
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I cant believe youve come this far and none of you have a light, he says. The camp is just over the bridge about 100 yards ahead. He cautions us about traffic and lets us go. M&M have bought lots to eat, but none of us has matches. We are eating cold potato salad and pita bread when the guys roll in. With their lighter, the girls soon have a good fire and then a feast. The aroma of food on the cool night air is mind bending. Eating by flashlight conjures childhood memories. As we sit together to eat, the girls get me to tell the guys about my trip. Quinn asks lots of questions. Then Dan tells him to tell me his story. Quinn had a kidney transplant when he was 16. From his sister. The drugs he takes to prevent rejection dried out his hip. He developed a bone disease and was told he would never walk. He tells it all matter of factly. Briefly. No self pity. No dwelling on it. After we have eaten and pigged out on the chocolate cookies the girls bought, Michelle gives me her sleeping bag. She and Michele open the other bag and spread it on the ground. They give up trying to pound tent stakes into the rock-hard ground, and using their ground cloth for cover, they go to sleep. No bugs are about. Not a mosquito or a lightning bug or a fly. The stars are blips of neon on ebony. My stomach is full. Every muscle in my body is exhausted, relaxed, and ready for rest. Sleep comes quickly. And deep. As the sun comes up, so do the six of us. The guys will be off in a while for Mexico, hoping to be there in about a week. Then they will fly back to Montreal in time for school this fall. Michelle is due back in school soon, and Michele will return to her job with a power company where Michelles brother works. The two young women will soon be sisters-in law. Our campground is a mile or so from Lompoc, and as I get back to the main road, I turn right toward the tall stacks that blotted out the lights from town last night. Before I come to town, I see a sign pointing to the left and announcing that Santa Barbara is 54 miles away. Sometimes two abreast, often four or five in a row, these 18wheelers roar by like bullets from a giant burp gun. Just three feet
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to my left, these racing convoys carry everything used by humans, and as they pass, they create a suction that pulls me dangerously near to them. About an hour after leaving Lompoc, Im passed for the first time by Dan, Jeff, and Quinn. Again in mid-afternoon just above Santa Barbara they pass me again. Between ten and eleven, Im passed by Michele and Michelle. I see them once more as I try to find my way to the bike path around Santa Barbara. We wave and I expect to talk to them again. But I dont turn at the right place, and by the time I am back, they are gone. And there are so many ways to go. I dont run into them again. About noon, I pull off in a rest area and try to call Bobbie. Shes not there, but I talk for a long time to Dave about everything that has happened in the last few days. Several hours later, just north of Santa Barbara, I come to a narrow bridge. Im uneasy in this heavy traffic as I see that bridge ahead. Im too tired to mess with impatient drivers. But just before I get to it, I spot a bike path to the right and off into the woods down a paved road wide enough for cars. The path winds up and down, trees to either side and heads into a house with several old cars in the yard. As I get to the house, the road turns sharply to the left and soon comes back to the highway. And the traffic. But Im past the bridge. Im a hundred yards or so past, and steak is not on my biking diet, but Im so hungry I cant go any further. So I wheel around and go back to Sizzler, the only place to eat Ive seen on my side of this busy four-lane highway. When I tell the waitress I dont have money, but need one of their fish dinners, she goes to the manager. Anything you want, he says. And she takes my order. Im still a few miles from Santa Barbara. But its a beautiful day, and on a full stomach now, I can appreciate all its glory. After wandering a while in and around Santa Barbara, I come abreast of another biker at an entrance ramp to 101. But again the bicycles prohibited sign. How do I get through Santa Barbara and on the road to Ventura? After telling me to go this way and that, he apparently reads the incomprehension in my face and says, Follow me.
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Down several pleasant streets with bike paths wide and clearly marked, the good Samaritan leads me. Then pointing to a busy cross street dead ahead, he tells me to make a left at the corner and keep on pedalin. As I turn left, Im running parallel to one of the most beautiful beaches Ive ever seen just a stones throw to my right. And the water is gorgeous. So is the shopping area on my left, facades a pleasant combination of Mediteranen and Spanish, all in earth tones that compliment the natural beauty of this place. Just in front of a city bus stopped to discharge its passengers, a Bike Path sign ushers me to the right and onto the beach where a paved bike path divided down the middle for two-way traffic awaits. The sun is high overhead, the ocean breeze is cool and gentle. The volleyballers and the strollers are out in force, dressed in ways that make it hard to watch where Im going. The bike path after a while on the beach comes to the parking lot of a restaurant and crosses the street to run along for a mile or so in front of those beautiful shops and through a park before crossing another street and putting me back in traffic. The bike route from Santa Barbara into Carpenteria follows a road through forested hills and small communities. I can hear the traffic on Highway 1 most of the time and now and then catch sight of it off to my right. About 5:30 I get into Carpenteria. I try a couple of motels. At the first, the Indian clerk doesnt have the authority and at the second, there is no vacancy. I havent looked at the map. I havent carried one except now and then when those who helped me thought I should take one. Somehow, though, I didnt keep them long. So I dont know how far from where I am Rob and Cindy Caulfield live. But when we had met back at that rest stop on I-90 a month ago, Rob told me to call when I came to Ventura. I figure Im closer now than I will be tomorrow night. And I need help. Im too tired to look any further. So I call. Cindy answers. Rob is in the yard. Cindy doesnt know how far Carpenteria is from them. I tell her Ill be okay. And we hang up. Now what do I do? And I think of a map I think I remember at the
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bottom of one of my panniers, buried under a bunch of stuff and all wadded up. Some searching and I find it. Talking to Cindy, I learn that they dont actually live in Ventura, but in Santa Paula. And looking at the map, I see that Carpenteria is about 15 miles from Ventura. I think maybe I could make it in to Ventura if Rob could drive there to get me. So I call back. Cindy answers again. Before I can explain my plan, Cindy says, Im so glad you called back. Rob said he will come get you. Its only 30 miles. Im talking to Rob from a phone booth in front of Super Taco. He isnt sure how to get to me, so I run inside and ask the man behind the counter to come outside and give Rob directions. Half an hour later, Rob drives into the parking lot in his white pickup, and we load my bike in the back. Before we drive away, I dash back inside to thank Hector for his help. Five year old Ryan has come with his dad, and he sits between us on the drive back to his house. He is too shy to say much, but I saw how big his eyes got as he watched us load the bike. I heard him ask his dad, Whatre those? as we took the panniers loose and swung them up onto the bed of the pickup. And he eyes my helment as it lays between my feet as we drive. And what a drive. Along the ocean for much of the way just as the sun is going down. Gazing into the ocean at sunset conjures hosts of poetic images, and I think because I have satisfied my muscles needs this day for stretching and bending and work, my mind is able to feast on the aesthetic abundance around me. When we get to their house at eight, Cindy has chicken enchiladas and other good things waiting. Cindy asks me to take the seat at the head of the table thats perfect size for five to pass food and to talk. Just to my right sits Rob, and to his right is Ryan. Across from Ryan in her highchair sits Aubrey, a little blond angel with the light of a thousand fireflies in her blue eyes and the radiance of moonglow in her presence. On my left, between Aubrey and me, sits Cindy, who divides her time four ways during dinner. She negotiates with Aubrey what and how much to put on her plate; she jumps up
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for the three steps into the kitchern as the table runs low; she eats her dinner; and she takes an active part in the conversation. During dinner, Ryans mother comes over: She lives nearby. Rob and Cindy have been married less than five years, and Ryan is Robs son from his first marriage. Aubrey is almost three, and Rob and Cindys daughter. Ryan calls his real mother Mom, and calls Cindy by her name. Aubrey copies everything she sees or hears; so she calls her mother Cindy. Rob works for Sunkist, designing and maintaining the equipment that sizes, grades and packs the millions of oranges grown in Southern California and elsewhere in the world. Rob has made two trips to Isreal as a consultant to their citrus industry, and he talks about the Spanish and his interest in the equipment they use. And I learn about oranges more than I ever knew there was to know: that Florida oranges are more for juice, while California oranges are grown to eat; that Sunkist is a cooperative agreement between growers and marketers; that Sunkist does not own trees or land; that oranges are cleaned and waxed so they appeal to the eye; that to bring top dollar, oranges must pass taste tests, be of the most desirable size, and without brown spots; that Sunkist stands ready to advise and counsel its client growers; that competition to sign up and keep the top growers is fierce. Gene and Sally Caulfield, Robs parents, live a few blocks away. Robs dad has worked most of his life for Sunkist and this weekend is in charge of the companys annual golf tournament at a nearby country club. And tomorrow night he hosts a barbecue to award prizes. Rob is going and invites me to join him. This morning Im sitting at the desk in the kitchen making phone calls. Aubrey is right beside me with her toy phone. She dials as I do and carries on a parallel conversation. After a while I notice that Aubrey has a pencil in hand and is gently tapping on the desk. Odd! Then I catch sight of my own right hand beating out a stacatto rhythm with my pen. I havent been up long and Im barefoot. A while later, I go to the bedroom. Aubrey pads after me. Whatcha doin? She asks.
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Puttin on my shoes, I answer. She wiggles her toes and holds up her small foot for me to see. Then she disappears. Im at the desk again making phone calls when Aubrey reappears to ask her mother to tie her shoes. Dare I hope that people across the country have been responding to the Human Family Reunion the way little Aubrey has picked up my unconscious behavior and off-hand remarks? Aubrey notices everything and immediately plays it back. She is not yet sophisticated enough to provide variations on a theme. What she sees is what she does, and ones influence is immediately obvious. The hundreds of the more-worldly-wise whose lives I have briefly entered in my trek across America: what has been my influence on them? And theirs on me. What did I give to others on this trip? I asked for food and lodging, but what did I give? If nothing else, I gave the gift of being available. They were at that moment the center of my life. They had my total attention. Because each of us instantly understood that for the moment no one existed but the two of us, we found small talk unnecessary. We saw to the heart of the matter; we spoke from the heart and touched the soul. Almost from the moment we met, we opened a line of credit between ourselves. In return for the food and lodging I asked, I gave them the chance to become part of a daring venture and an opportunity to demonstrate their goodness. And I was awed by their response. More than willing, they were eager, often doing more than I asked. With such a smile, a twinkle in their eye, a glow radiating from them, warming the vast inner space in me. Much more than apples and oranges and bananas and pizza and peanuts and a bed did they give. Anyone watching would have seen only these things change hands. But the Bible says that faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. By that standard, our momentary encounter was eternity itself, an eternity of heaven. For in that moment, the hope in each of us blazed as we instantly and intuitively understood that the other was sufficient to our needs. More than before in my life, I glimpsed God. For I see God, not in people, but between them. Present in the response
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of one human being to another. The phone calls I was making that Aubrey mimicked were to Knight and to Milt and to Yayah. Knight has everything set for our Human Family Reunion at Fuller Seminary on Tuesday the 25th. He is excited about it, and has spent many hours over the summer getting it together. He has enlisted the help of several campus organizations, area churches and organizations. Milt said Disneyland is planning a big production, much bigger than they had planned at first. I think youll be pleased and excited, he said. My only disappointment comes when I talk to Yayah. And I cant really feel right calling it a disappointment. Yayah loves children, and their new baby is due just about the time Im due in Disneyland. But Yayah has worked so hard to make this ride a success. As Chairman of the Faith Committee, he organized support from the various religious communities. And I had talked to him by phone at least once a week all summer. Without his constant encouragement, I might not have made it. And when I passed through Kansas City, he had organized a reception in the black community and a ride for the children from Gregg Community Center out to the Freedom Fountain. I had counted on Yayah being with me at Disneyland. After we have both had naps, Im sitting on the living room floor about three oclock when Aubrey brings a cardboard box full of toys and begins to take them out to show me. What a wonderful world it would be if all children were as loved and alert and cared for as this dear one. About 4:30 I go with Rob to the Sunkist barbeque. Rob introduces me to several of the men he works with and tells them how we met and what Im doing. Robs dad makes an announcement as he begins the evenings program about my ride and its purpose. Several men come to me afterward to say encouraging things. The barbecue ends about 9:30, and we make our way back home by anouther route, past still other groves of orange and lemon trees. And as we drive, Rob tells me about the owners of the land. And though it seems to me that the whole world here is citrus, it is but a
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fraction of what Rob remembers from his boyhood before highways and houses and shopping centers and urban sprawl. But to me, this is a fairyland of mountains and trees and beautiful weather and hospitable people. And I wonder. If I had not stopped at that rest area on I-90 out of Spokane, if Rob had not been there, if we had not spoken, if he had not given me his phone number and asked me to call, where would I now be and how would I feel about this place? The Caulfields are having a family reunion tonight, and Im invited. Rob asked me to go to an air show this afternoon, but I begged off to call people I had met all along the way. When we stopped by Robs dads last night on the way home from the barbecue, Robs grandparents and an aunt and uncle from Arizona had arrived, and they were all planning to go to the air show. When I ask Rob this morning if he would mind if I dont go, he decides not to go either. Rob has a mountain bike and a 10 speed in his garage, and he had mentioned going for a ride when he picked me up. Now he renews the suggestion, and early in the afternoon, I get on his mountain bike and he rides his 10 speed over to Gregs, a friend of Robs who also works with citrus and lives in a trailer in one of the groves. Cindys brother, Danny, is waiting for us at Gregs, and the four of us ride for a couple of hours through Sunkist groves where Rob knows people and up into a canyon on the outskirts of town. Returning from the canyon, Rob and Danny pick up goat heads in their tires and have to stop to fix their flats. About six oclock, Ryan and I ride our bikes up the street to his grandparents; Cindy is already there, helping with the dinner; Rob and Aubrey will be along shortly. Harry and Kate Voehl, the grandparents, and Helen and Bob Voehl, aunt and uncle, I know from last night. Uncle Ed and Aunt Irma from Conneticut have just arrived. As we are introducing ourselves and getting acquainted, Ryan bursts into the room in tears and holding his finger. He has fallen off his bike in the driveway. Gene looks at the finger and thinks it is
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broken. Cindy calls Rob, and Rob rushes him to Ventura where they see the same emergency room doctor who was on duty little more than a month ago when Ryan and Rob were playing softball and Rob misjudged a fly ball and broke his nose. And with his broken nose, Rob left with his family the next day to drive to Bozeman, Montana and a fishing visit with Cindys brother. Rob and Cindy had been on their way home when we met near Spokane. Its after nine when Rob and Ryan return. The pain is somewhat offset by the attention his splint gets from a house full of relatives, and Ryan is content. And Rob gets to eat as he gives a detailed account of everything that happened at the hospital and what the doctor said. Robs Aunt Helen is delightful to talk to. She runs an art gallery in Scottsdale and one in Wickenburg, the Arizona town of 4,500 where they moved from Conneticut sixteen years ago when Bob bought into a local insurance company. Bob has since bought the company, and Helen has discovered and nutured an interest in and talent for buying and displaying western art. Tonights conversation and last nights, too, gives me an appreciation for the spiritual insights of people who dont mention church. They all seem genuinely touched by my oddysey and interested in my welfare. We hug when its time to go. Helen says, We love you. I say, I love you. Why would we say that to one another after only a few hours together? Something in each of us was touched. But how? And so fast. The next day dawns bright, cool and gorgeous. On our early morning ride, Rob and I stop for breakfast at the Airport Restaurant, where we are surrounded by the small planes that area ranchers and business men use to avoid the California freeways. Then Rob leads me to Art and Phylis Salkas home. Art also works for Sunkist, and Phylis was diagnosed with MS over 10 years ago. Phylis has trouble walking, her energy runs low, and balance is sometimes hard. But she takes care of her house, and their pickup camper sits in the driveway. We have talked a few minutes when
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Phylis takes a book off the coffee table and hands it to me. Youre the first person with MS Ive talked to, she says. I didnt know what to expect. I always figured I would just get depressed from other peoples problems. This book did a lot for me. Its by a prize winning author who has MS. This is her story, and Id like for you to have it. Before we leave, Art invites us into the living room to see his collection of citrus labels going back for years and including many that are now collectors items. Phylis gives me money and takes my picture on my bicycle. Then Art takes a picture of Phylis and me together. This is the first Sunday all summer that I havent been to church. I had planned to go and Rob and I had talked about the various ones I might attend. He had pointed out several as we rode to breakfast. Rob had even told Phylis as we entered that we couldnt stay long because I had to go to church. But as we talk and I sense Phyliss faith and determination, I feel as if Im in church, the Church of the Unconquerable Spirit. So we stay longer than we had planned. Cindy has lunch ready when we get back, but Ryan and Aubrey want to go for a bike ride. So Rob straps Aubrey into a seat on the back of his bike, and the four of us ride over to Cindys mother, Pat. Pat lives in a trailer home she and her husband intended for their retirement. Now that she is a widow, she has taken a job in an avocado plant where they make guacamole. Its only a short walk from her house to the plant. She works as much to have something to do as for the money. After lunch Cindy and Aubrey hug me. Rob, Ryanm and I leave for Pasadena. Rob says it would be suicidal for me to get on my bike and try to negotiate the 50 miles of freeway between here and Pasadena. So we load my bike in his pickup for the ninety minute drive. En route we are treated to a vehicular symphony of percusion instruments at a decibel level that drowns out conversation. Apparently, also, this maze of road and grating noise in this arid environment is hard on ethics. Since Montana, people have been
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warning me against L.A. freeways because motorists are shooting each other, and snipers are randomly cutting down passers-by. A gray cloud hangs in the air off in the direction where Rob points to L.A. The San Gabriel Mountains disappear into the haze, and I can only imagine that the Wilson Observatory is up there where Rob says it is. Having heard all my life about the farms of California, I am unprepared for the lack of greenery and water. Up through the South and across Missouri, I had seen lakes and farm ponds everywhere, making the land lush and giving it sparkle. Across Nebraska, Wyoming, Montana, and the high plains desert of Washington, I saw and heard hundreds of pumps bringing water from deep underground and carrying it to otherwise impossible crops. Seldom did I actually see water. But after Rob has driven for most an hour, off to the left, cascading down a concrete mountainside and into giant pipes that carry it beneath our freeway and into a huge holding tank below and to the right, I see a Niagara of water, brought, Rob says, up and over the mountains by acquaduct from the Colorado River many miles away. We arrive at Knight and Tina Hoovers small second floor apartment about 2:30. Knight shows me where I can put my bike in a locked utility room out back next to the carport. Then Knight, Tina, Rob and I sit and talk for about an hour in their living room, while Ryan and the Hoovers two boys play in the yard. Rob has to leave about 3:30, and I walk him to his pickup parked at the curb. Rob has spent much of his time with me since he picked me up in Carpenteria last Thursday evening. I hate to see him go, and I can tell hes not anxious to leave. We hug each other, and I stand watching as he pulls away. As he rounds the corner, he waves his hand across the back glass. Then I cant see him. And I stand there for a while before I go in. Knight and I first met in Chicago about three years ago. He was organizer for a session on Undergraduate Teaching of the Midwest Sociological Society. I had submitted a paper to him describing the race relations course we teach at William Jewell, in
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which students are assigned new identities as famous Indian, Black or Mexican Americans. After reading their biography, they then become this person in class as we discuss such issues as housing, jobs, education, racism and discrimination. Students are called in class by their new name and must respond in character to everything that comes up. Knight had accepted the paper for presedntation at the Chicago meeting, and we had become friends as we talked about our notions of good teaching and our views of life. Knight at the time was on the faculty of Augustana College in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Augustana fell on hard times not long after we met, and Knights position was made half-time. When Tina, herself a PhD in Psychology, was awarded a fellowship at Fuller Seminary in Pasadena for post doctoral in counseling, Knight became a house-husband and a full time parent. Currently he is also manager of these student apartments and takes an active part in campus and church life. When Milt said more than four months ago that Disneyland would let me be in a parade and meet Mickey Mouse when I got here, I thought immediately of Knight and the possibility of having a Human Family Reunion here in Los Angeles. Where better than the City of Angeles for such a heavenly gathering? Knight had said an immediate yes and has been working all summer to make the day that dawns on Tuesday the day when the Human Family Reunion takes a giant step beyond dream and into the consciousness of this city and perhaps this country. Bobbie comes today! Cynthia Killian will pick her up at L.A. International and bring her to me. I have never met Cynthia, and she lives in Aptos, a town just out of San Francisco. I was supposed to call her when I passed through nine days ago, but when I decided to take101 rather than Highway 1, I would not be close enough to spend the night, and I had not called. I had gotten Cynthias name when I called the college one day in early July and received a message from Larry Schumake saying that I should get in touch with Cynthia. Larry is Executive Director
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of the Black Economic Union in Kansas City. He has spoken to my Race Relations class many times, both on campus and at various locations in the Black community. Larry and I have worked on several projects together to improve our little place on the planet. And I knew that anyone Larry recommended was someone I should know. But I was south of Cynthia before I realized where I was. I was deeply sorry but thought there was nothing to be done. When I talked to Larry from Robs house the other day, he asked about Cynthia, and I had to tell him I had not met her. She had called Larry a few days ago wanting to know if I was alright and when she could expect me. I explained to Larry that I had not gone through Aptos. But I promised to call her to let her know I was okay and to thank her for her offer to help. I called Cynthia immediately. When she learned I was in Santa Paula, she wanted to know what she could do to help. She offered to come get me and drive me to Pasadena whenever I wanted to go. When I told her I was taken care of, she wanted to know what else she could do. How is your wife getting from the airport? When I didnt know, she said she would take care of it. But youre in San Francisco! No problem, she said. I have friends I can call. Give me her flight number and where she needs to come. Ill make sure she gets there. A chauffered and shiney new car pulls up to the Hoovers about 6:30 Monday evening, four women inside, three I recognize: Bobbie, Jean Watts, Mary Spidel from the PR Department at Jewell. But who is the fourth woman? Hello Ed, Im Cynthia Killian. After we hug and stammer and stumble over each other in our excitement and amid the baggage, we make our way up the stairs and sprawl all over the living room and into the kitchen. Knight turns kitchen chairs toward the couch, and Tina and I find a place on the floor. Weve been waiting to order pizza until everyone arrived, and now Knight calls in our order for a vegetarian large to go. We pick up the pizza half an hour later and wend our way to Jeff Utters home on Edgewood Lane where Mary, Jean, Bobbie and I are to spend the next two nights. Jeff is pastor of the church Knight
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and Tina attend. His wife is out of town, and he has offered his hospitality. What a place! Swimming pool, guest house, and set on a hill overlooking Pasadena. A million dollar property, Cynthia says, and she sells commercial property. Someone says that Jeffs wife has an eye for real estate and that they bought this property when it was run down. Bobbie and I have been given the guest house, a cozy four room bungalow with a living room that doubles as an office for the counseling practice opeated by Jeffs wife, a kitchen, a bed room and a bath. Im glad to see Bobbie after all this time. I think shes glad to see me. Its a good night. This Human Family Reunion has been billed as the Peace and Justice Festival here at Fuller. And well it should be. As in each of our own individual families we seek peace and justice, so in the Human Family is it crucial. Just as small children are ideally pictured dressed for bed in their pjs, so do we adults flower in the sunshine of peace and justice. And Im overjoyed to find that the very first event of the day has me showing my bike and talking about my ride to a group of children ranging in age from five to twelve and coming from seven countries. The children are all enrolled in the LEAP summer program operated by Fuller Seminary for children of their students. LEAP stands for Learning and Exploring Around Pasadena. Coordinator of the program is Sheryl Guernsey, assisted by Min Kim. Sheryl and her husband are cyclists and have ridden across Europe. As I take my bike apart and turn it upside down and answer the childrens rapid fire questions, Sheryls bicycle knowledge saves me several times. In a family everyone knows everyones name. So in the order I met them are these children of the world: Yasub Isaiah from India, age 9; Timothy A. Abbas, USA, age 12; Ndunge Ndonge, Kenya, age 7; Stephen P. Abbas, USA, age 8; Mukonyo Ndonge, Kenya, age 5; Christine, Tiawan, age 7 going to be eight; SzeLyn Lim, Malaysia, age 7; Judd Hoover, USA, age 6; Esther Kim, Korea, age 6; Ashita Pallil, India, age 8; Johnny, Korea, age 6; and
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David Chao, age 6 After 90 minutes the children are still asking questions. We have talked about mountains and deserts and what I ate and who took care of me and if my mother worried. Lunch time comes, and they must go. But first they come to thank me and gives me hugs. How can the day get better? The children and I have been standing in the sun on a grassy quadrangle of open ground at the center of Fullers campus.To one side is the administration building and just beside it is another building where on the main floor is a small and fascinating sandwich shop called The Catalyst, where all sandwiches are named for theologians and spiritual leaders. The menu proclaims A Tradition of the Best in Theological Sandwiches. Perusing the menu, I anticipate food for heart, mind, soul and body.
ECLECTIC STUFF Jack Rogers inter-generational sandwich ......................1.00
Peanut butter and jelly
Marabel Morgan sweet & hard to swallow...................1.20

Peanut butter honey banana
Bill Bright four spiritual ingredients ..............................1.50

Cream cheese tomato sprouts on a bagel
Martin Luther King, Jr. dream of a sandwich ................3.95

Choice of: 3 breads, two meats, 2 cheeses, 2 vegetables
VEGIE C.S.Lewis the mere sandwich .......................................1.50

Tomato sprouts cumber lettuce on whole grain
CHEESE St. Francis a humble sandwich .....................................2.10

Provolone tomato sprouts cumber on whole grain
John Wesley the perfect sandwich................................2.10

Swiss provolene tomato sprouts on whole grain
Reinhold Niebuhr a sandwich of light & darkness .......2.10

Cheddar provolone tomato cucs on sour do & pump
Hans Kung on being a sandwich..................................2.10

Jonathan Edwards hot from an angry microwave .........2.10 St. Anthony half a sandwich .........................................1.65
Choice of cheese tomato sprouts on pumpernickel
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TURKEY Rudolph Bultman demythologized...............................2.85

Turkey swiss sprouts cucumber on pumpernickle
Albert Schweitzer a quest for the historical sandwich........................................................................2.85

Turkey provo tomato lettuce on sour do
Harvey Cox the secular sandwich ................................2.85 Bob Jones a pure sandwich ..........................................2.85
Turkey provo tomato sprouts on a French roll
HAM John Calvin made for two lips .....................................2.85

Ham swiss tomato lettuce on a French rool
Harold Lindsell the inerrent sandwich..........................2.85 Georg Hegel dialectably delicious ...............................2.85
Ham provo tomato cucumber on pumpernickel
Jaques Ellul the meaning of the sandwich ....................2.85 Karl Barth a sandwich in outline ..................................2.85 ROAST BEEF Martin Luther sin & eat boldly.......................................2.95
Beef swiss tomato lettuce on rye
Dietrich Bonhoeffer its come of age ...........................2.95 George Eldon Ladd sandwich of the kingdom .............2.95 Letha Scanzoni all youre meant to eat.........................2.95 PITA POCKETS Lee Edward Travis an integrative experience ................2.10 Gustavo Gutierrez a liberating sandwich......................2.95 Hudson Taylor the evangelistic sandwich ....................2.85 Mother Theresa treasures you know not of...................2.10
I choose the Martin Luther King, Jr. dream of a sandwich. As we eat, tables and booths are being set up on the quad, and people are gathering. The Orange County Chapter of the M.S. Society
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is here, along with the Pasadena Chapter of the N.A.A.C.P. The Chinese club has set up a food table. To open the festival a young man comes to the microphone to sing. All across the country, under my breath and off-key, I have been singing Amazing Grace, a habit I got into a couple of years ago when my car radio quit. Its still not fixed, and now its almost automatic that I break into song as I slide behind the wheel of my little Rabbit diesel that no one but me will ride in because of the noise and vibration. I think of this as the young man begins his rendition of Amazing Grace. Its not the version I sing. But of all the songs, why this one? Is it simply coincidence? Dorothy wouldnt think so. If not, though, what am I to make of it. Back in Nashville when I had asked for help in understanding why I was making this ride, Lloyd had sung his answer: Cheer up my brother, walk in the sunshine, farther along well understand why. Were all these coincidences part of the answer? Am I so dense that Im destined never to know? When the song is ended, Dan Bright comes to entertain with jokes and stories. Then Judy Wolfe comes in her wheelchair to make a presentation on behalf of the Mayor of Pasadena. On a table I have laid out the literature I mailed to Knight before I left home: several copies of How To Like People Who Are Not Like You, a book we developed at Jewell for use in the Race Relations course, and copies of the 20 page booklet called The Human Family Reunion that explains what it is, how it got started and how it works. About 3:30, Knight introduces me and invites me up to address the crowd. My one opportunity to help others understand my dream of reunion that has drawn me across the country.
BRIGADOON
My address to the Human Family Reunion Meeting at Fuller Seminary
Two weary American travelers wandering across the Scottish moors come upon a quaint little village that does not appear on their
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map. They quickly fall in love with the place and the people. Its early morning when the town seems simply to appear out of the mist. By nightfall one of the travelers has fallen in love with a young woman from the village and is looking forward to spending the next few days visiting her family and getting to know her better. Our American friend has sensed from first meeting a sadness in his young woman, a quality which he cant understand. But there is also a radiance about the girl which somehow he knows comes from the sadness. Without knowing what it is and without wanting to resist, our friend, Tommy, is caught in its spell. As night comes, the girl is unusually quiet; her mind seems to be elsewhere. Reluctantly, and with pain in her voice, she explains to Tommy that the village of Brigadoon is not like any place he has ever been. Each night when the lights go out in the town and the villagers lie down to sleep, they draw the covers about them for a hundred years. The reason Brigadoon is not on Tommys map is that the village appears and the people awake only once in a century. To those who sleep the night seems no longer than for any of the others who go to sleep around the world each night. But each time Brigadoon awakes, nothing and no one that existed the night before is still around. Should Tommy not be in Brigadoon when sleep comes, he will never see his love again. If he does sleep here this night, nothing he knows of the outside world will remain in the morning. Today we are Brigadoon. We have come to the Human Family Reunion. Reunion does not ocurr often. Never are exactly the same people here. And when we come, we cant stay long. Too much that is meaningful to us is pulling us back to our separate places. Life in the long run cannot be lived here together. But because we are here now in one anothers company, we will appear in the morning back in our homes as people whose hearts, minds and souls have been tuned to a different and higher pitch. We will now hear the music of angels. We will see God in all those spaces between people. We will be filled with a sweet spirit so attractive to those we meet that they will welcome us into their families and will care for us as their own.
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And we will be at home wherever we go. It is my soul, I now understand, that made me see the need for this Human Family Reunion and that drew me across America and brings us together today. For beter than ten years now we have been coming together at my college and in our town. As long as I live we will continue. And my dream for a summer from now is to do by plane around the world what I did this summer on a bicycle across America. Audacious Asking is the only way I know to help this happen. John and Barbara Lim arrive at the festival about seven in the evening. Bobbie and I havent seen them in years, only once or twice since John graduated from Jewell. They have been in California since John came here to minister to the spiritual needs of Malasian people. He had been a pastor back in Malasia for years before he came to the States to finish his college and then to study at the seminary. Barbara, Grace, and Paul had stayed behind, intending to see John at the end of his studies when he came home. John had been here better than a year when people in the church brought his family over. They had endeared themselves by their gracious manner and their unsurpassed skills in the kitchen. To be invited to the Lims for dinner came to be the most coveted invitation in town among those who knew them, a number that was increasing rapidly. John and Barbara want to take us to dinner tonight. And I would love to go, though I know wherever and whatever we eat, I will be wishing John had done the cooking. But we cant go. When the worship service is over tonight, it will be too late to eat. So we get a bite at the Chinese table, and John and Barbara join us for the service. The outdoor service begins as the sun is setting. Its conducted entirely by women and tells the story of Moses mother, sister and Pharohs daughter, helping us all to glimpse the character of God apart from the usual male imagery. Jean, Mary, Bobbie and I sit in our apartment after John and Barbara take us home and talk for awhile about Bobbies visit this summer to the death camps at Dachau, the relocation of Japanese Americans here in California during World War II, the role of
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women in the church, in America and in the world. John is coming back at 9:00 this morning to take us to Anaheim. Tomorrows the big day at Disneyland. Saying goodbye to Knight after the service and at the end of the Human Family Reunion he had organized is one of the hardest things Ive had to do. He is one of the people I would like to be around every day for the rest of my life. What would our lives be like, I wonder, if the people who bring out the best in us were always there in person to work their magic? More than a year ago Knight had, out of the blue, sent me a copy of M. Scott Pecks The Road Less Traveled. And that book had bridged the gap for me between my commitment to science as a way of understanding trhe world and my faith that draws me ever intro the fight to make the world what it shows me it ought to be. John Lim, Jonathon Lim, a businessman and deacon in Johns church, and Eddie Sutyahja come to drive us to Disneyland. Just before we leave, Jeff brings the Pasadena paper out to our bungalow for me to see the picture of my bike and me taken at yesterdays Reunion. Its a nice picture, with a long caption that says Im a former teacher at William Jewell. We all get a charge out of that. On the way, Mary wants to know about my ride for a story shes writing for the campus to read. A bus has wrecked on the freeway and we are just a few minutes late when we get to Milts office a little after eleven. I like Milt immediately. In his 70s, with a full head of shining silver hair, ruddy complexion, booming voice, ready smile, pearly teeth, eyes that twinkle, and a firm handshake, I know in an instant that he loves his job and has fun doing it. If cast by Hollywood, the Disney persona could not be better captured. Milt knew Walt personally, having come to his attention when he designed and built the car that is still used for Disney rides. When Walt drove the first one built, he had a wreck. And a good laugh. Milt walks me from his office to to the parking lot and locks my bike in his van where it will stay until tomorrow. On our way to the van and back, Milt maintains a running commentary on this
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place he knows so well. Main Street is modeled after Marceline, Missouri where Walts parents moved when he was five years old. But it had to be scaled down to accommodate the space available. Disneyland covers only 40 acres, a Magic Kingdom surrounded by freeways. The street is designed so that to arriving guests it looks longer, giving the illusion of more space than actually exists. To the guest walking out Main Street at the end of an exciting and exhausting day, the street appears shorter, less an obstacle back to their waiting car. Walt had a private club over the fire station where he could keep an eye on everything. His club is now a reservations only restaurant, where we will have lunch tomorrow. Walt was a joy to work with, Milt says, always a kid at heart. Milt and others had worried about all those cigarettes Walt smoked. Walt died in 1966 of cancer. We miss him terribly. I get the feeling that more is afoot for tomorrow than I expect. To be in the parade Disneyland has each afternoon and to meet Mickey: thats what I asked Milt if I could do. When he said yes, I was in Heaven. Milt had said it would be good if I could be here in September for the State Fair Day they are planning, but I had to be back home to start a new school year on September 1. Milt expected 80,000 people in the park on August 27 and my arrival would not be as big an event as it would later. But you come ahead. Well make it nice, he said. As I called Milt every week or so from the road, I could feel his excitement growing. Milt had called the college about a week ago to say that he would need for Bobbie and me to stay in the Disneyland Hotel so we would be close enough to coordinate the activities Disney had planned. I didnt know about this development until yesterday when Bobbie told me. Since Seattle I had been planning to spend our nights in Anaheim at the Lutheran Seminary here. Jack Eichorst had called his fellow president here and arranged our lodging. And last night on the phone to Bobbie, Milt had told her he needed a private meeting with her when we got to Disneyland. I was
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not to attend. After Milt takes me to lock up my bike, he and Bobbie, Jean, Mary and several Disney people disappear up the stairs for about an hour. Bobbie then floats down the stairs, glowing as if what she has seen and heard has transformed her, much as might occur in Cinderellas Castle at the heart of this Magic Kingdom. You wont believe what they have planned for you, she says. Then she falls silent. I see in her eyes what I saw when she was seventeen and stole my heart. Milt is bubbling as he tells me about it, though he gives me none of the details. But if he aims to get me excited, he could do no better than one thing he does say; Ill pick you up in the morning at 5:45. We have rehearsal at six. Rehearsal! Rehearsal? Me? Robert Redford, eat your heart out. When I was a little boy, I looked forward all week to Saturday mornings and to that half hour radio program that transported me to a land of castles and kings and noble deeds and the inevitable triumph of good. Lets Pretend! A program still in my mind some 45 years later. I have pretended before that I am here at Disneyland riding up Main Street and meeting Mickey. And now its happening. What of my other dreams? What of the Human Family Reunion? Can feelings and thoughts in the heart and mind for a lifetime project themselves into the world, like the friendly ghosts in the Haunted Mansion? Is it really a small world after all, where children sing in all the languages and Tiki birds weave their spell? Lets Pretend! Milt walks us to the tram stop. The tram takes us to the monorail. The monorail takes us to the hotel. The woman at the hotel desk makes me feel like King Arthur as she asks about my ride and says she is proud of me. She hopes the Human Family Reunion fires the imagination of all the worlds people.Then she up-grades the already nice room Milt has reserved for Bobbie and me into a suite on the twelfth floor of Bonita Towers. A living room bigger than our apartment when we got married. And more furniture. A two-room bathroom, closets big enough to sleep in, and the bedroom has a king size bed, a second TV and a fantastic view of a waterfall, a swimming , pool and a paddle boat lagoon, some shops, another hotel, and
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Disneyland at about one oclock from the balcony window. While we sit in the hotel lobby waiting for our room, Milt shows me the script for tomorrows TV filming. They are having a parade just for me, and all the Disney characters will be there to welcome me. Milt said Disney is spending a lot of money and time on this. We want to do it for you, he says, but of course theres something in it for us. If that films as good as we hope, itll be seen all over this country. D-Day! Disney Day. The day my bike was built to get me to. The grand finale, the icing on the cake. My dream come true. And it has grown like Topsy, from Raggedy Ann to Snow White, Don Quixote to King Arthur. Chivalry, honor, nobility, beauty and daring are alive in this place as in no other. This is Camelot and Brigadoon and Finneans Rainbow and Oz. And I am here. The Human Family is here, drawn from around the world by our wanting to believe that innocence and trust and love are alive and well, waiting only to be embraced to work their magic. When I meet Milt outside the hotel a little before six, the sun is coming up into a cloudless sky; the air is cool and clear. Just inside the front gate, half-a-dozen people are busily arranging the stage. Following introductions all around, Milt drives me back into the parking lot, explaining as we go the route and the speed I am to ride at ten oclock when the ceremony in front of the train station is to take place. And now they tell me that I am the only one in the parade. Its all for me! I will ride my bike in the main gate. Chip and Dale and Goofy will entertain the crowd as I ride through the parking lot, commenting on how long it will take me to arrive. As I approach the train station, I will ride onto a red carpet, lined to either side by cheering spectators waving American flags. And when I make it the length of the carpet, I am to dismount. Someone will take my bike and I will grab Bobbie and give her a big kiss. Mickey will shake my hand and usher me onto the stage where I will be officially welcomed and presented a trophy from the Orange County M.S. Society and one from Disneyland, a statue of Mickey Mouse, appro-
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priately inscribed and handed to me by Mickey himself. Then Ill make a short speech and be interviewed by the media. Everything will be filmed and put on TV for all the country to see. Then well go to lunch in Walts private club, followed by an escorted tour of the park with the Disneyland Ambassador. If Im dreaming, please dont wake me. Ever! As active as my imagination has always been, I never in my life thought something like this would happen to me. But it is! It is! And all I did was ride a bike and talk to people about my view of life. If heaven is better than this summer has been, I think the excitement will beam me up at better than warp speed. For two hours we rehearse, and as I hear the Disney characters talk about me in their whimsical and irrevrent way, I am one of them as they have all of my life been one of me. And when Milt drives me out to the marquee in front of Disneyland and shows me my name up there for all to see, when he tells me that this is something they just never do, that the last time they did it was for Richard Nixon more than 20 years ago; then, at that moment, I am in a dimension of life I have never known and cannot describe. Ten oclock comes. Everything proceeds as planned. This cant be real. All these people cheering for me, with their eyes embracing the day and each other and me. People of different colors and cultures and creeds standing to welcome and to listen to me. And though I was too excited to say it just as I say it all the time to myself, the words that follow capture the spirit of what I said and is the message I delivered to America this summer.
An address to the Human Family at Disneyland

Until I was legally a man, I had lived in only two towns, one on the flat lands in the shadow of Dallas; the other, nestled among the towering pines and rolling hills of East Texas. I was in heaven. These were my people, and nothing but good ever happened to me
DOES THE CAGED BIRD SING
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there. Years passed before I would look back to see that I had spent those years living in a cage. I never knew a Jew, though somehow and from someone I had come to mistrust and fear them. I went to segregated schools and heard my classmates describe the evil things they did to niggers across town. I voted against John Kennedy in 1960 because all around me my family and friends feared that electing a Catholic would usher the Pope into the White House. I witnessed the abuse of Mexican mill workers who lived on the edge of my town, though at the time I did not see the abuse. It was the way things were. The natural order of things. I went to college in my second town. But I was learning little more than superstition dressed in its Sunday best. My college was in the cage with me. Ideas, I later learned, were as foreign to that college as non-white, non-Christian, non-Protestant students. Six years after graduating from that college, I returned for a visit. This college of 3,000 students had just that semester admitted its first black student and built a new student center. While walking through this just completed building, I cam across a rest room marked colored. My college had spent thousands of dollars to reinforce the bigotry surrounding it in the town. Does the caged bird sing? Is there joy and contentment when one is not free to know people who are different and to be part of their lives? Yes! For me there was. But that was before I knew I was in the cage. It was the music of a single song I sang. I was Johnny One Note. I had never heard the music beyond my cage. Today we have all flown our cages. We have momentarily escaped our racial, religious and cultural cages. To the one beautiful song native to our own cage we momentarily add today the marvelous music that comes from many other cages. When night comes and we leave this Magic Kingdom, all of us will return to our cages. We will again make the music of our own people. It will be beautiful.
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We cannot live our life between cages. The reason is that there is no life there. Every human being lives in a cage. It has always been that way. It always will be that way. Some of us venture beyond our cage. This is a rare privilege and takes a special courage. If we make wise use of it, we enrich our own lives and the lives of those who live in the cage with us. I want all the people I met on my bicycle this summer to know I love them for their eagerness to hear my story of the Human Family Reunion and their willingness to think that all the people in all the other cages are afraid, too. Afraid of venturing outside their cage. But afraid, also, of staying in their cage. They had only my assurance that they would not be harmed when they entered an unfamiliar cage. I am humbled by their trust in me. Now my summer odyssey is over. I will not wander across America again. Im returning to my cage. Familiar pattrerns of faith and culture will reassert themselves, and that is as it should be. These are the things that give my life meaning. Until I die, I will be a Christian and a Baptist. You will be Buddhist, Hindu, Jew, Muslim, or another of the worlds religions. Our being together today and across the country was not designed to persuade any of us that we should change our faith, only that we could enlarge our acquaintance. We are today outside our cage, in an environment that rarly is seen and never lasts long. I once saw a movie about a place that appeared every hundred days for only a day. Brigadoon it was called. Im reminded of that place as we stand here in this brilliant sun in the company of Mickey Mouse. Mickey is the most recognized symbol of childhood and innocence. In Mickeys presence, we all sing a song of joy. If I were planning g to make a world, it would be one where we would spend so much time planning events like our gathering here today that we would have no time and no reason for nuclear weapons. Or any weapons. In the name of the One each of us holds holy, I bid you a fond farewell. Individual ones of us will meet in the future, but this group
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will in a moment disappear, never to be seen again. Only in our minds will we ever again be part of one another. I will not forget you. Because of you, my cage has a brighter light. I can sing harmony. May it be so for us all. Gazing into that sea of salt, pepper and ginger faces as I talk, seeing the smiles and the endorsing body language, feeling the energy and the good will that has us caught in its spell, believing for one brief shining moment that the whole world is the mirror image of this place: The Magic Kingdom come alive. Now I do understand, Lloyd. Farther along, I have found the answer. Peace, power, purpose and joy are meant to be our constant companions. Life is supposed to be a glorious adventure. To become a World Class Person, able to go anywhere at anytime and talk to anyone about anything and feel safe: This is our destiny. Each of us intuitively knows all of this. If we can find the courage to talk to people about our our mutual dreams of becoming World Class, then we shall together be swept upward in a benevolent commingling of beautiful thoughts and noble deeds, elevating us and all of life to the heroic dimension we long for. Life back to normal, thats what we plan. If life can go back to normal after a summer like this. Thats what Bobbie tells the TV reporters when they ask her what I will do now.
Dads Trip
What a coincidence if Dad should return from his trip on the day I am at Disneyland, maybe at the very moment Mickey hands me my trophy. If I ran the world, lifes lessons would be punctuated with exclamation points so even the densest of us might understand. But Im not in charge. So when I am just home and still getting my students started in a new year, Mother calls to say that Dad has gone all the way home, and I wont get to tell him about my trip. But if I somehow could talk to him, it is his trip I would want to know about. One day maybe I can ask him. Farther along, Lloyd!
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You think? Until then, Ill keep pedalin. And thinkin. Maybe I can go up and over the ridge and avoid the tunnel. At least for awhile.
HATEBUSTERS
Box 442 Liberty, MO 64069 www.hatebusters.com ph. 816-803-8371 e-mail: hatebuster@aol.com www.greaterliberty.org
Connecting People across Racial and Religious Lines We HateBusters never say no when asked to help where hate has hurt. We charge no fees. We are all volunteers. No one gets a salary. We give membership cards to folks everywhere we go. Since no one is born hating, everybody is a natural born HateBuster. We have no dues and no meetings. Only work to do. We keep in touch by email. We raise money for victims of hate crimes. We write them love letters from around the world and across the country. We go to court with them. We help in any way they need. We teach our book, How To Like People Who Are Not Like You, in schools and faith communities. If we can help overcome hate and teach people how to like each other, we go anywhere were asked to come and do anything were asked to do. And we never ask for money. But we do have expenses. Monthly we have to pay for utilities, our computer, our internet, our web site, our phone, postage, office supplies. And we have to have a little money in hand so we can respond quickly when needed. We make a bike ride a part of everything we do. Its fun. It draws interest. The media come to ask about our ride. We talk about overcoming hate and liking one another. It works. Weve been at it now for 20 years. Help us keep it up. Please make a contribution to HateBusters. We are a 501 C-3 non-profit. Your contribution is tax deductible. Send your check to HateBusters, Box 442, Liberty, MO 64069.

Thinking &amp; Living

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Thinking &amp; Living

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Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

By Ed Chasteen The Pedalin Prof

Book design and layout by Sharon Hanson

GREATER LIBERTY BOOKS Box 442 Liberty, Missouri 64069

WHY THIS BOOK IS 23 YEARS LATE

Once There Was A Spot

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

Background For Bobbies Concern

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Spirit Trail Begins

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof

Thinkin and Livin by Bicycle

Thinking & Living

Thinking & Living