We could smell the ocean long before we could see it or hear it.
After a "Whoop!" of triumph as we entered the city, we pedaled in silence, concentrating on the complexities of St. Augustine's urban traffic. Above noisy Interstate 95, across the six busy lanes of U.S. 1, and finally left on A1A and straight into the parking lot of Castillo de San Marcos National Monument on the Atlantic shore. The odometer read 2,781 miles.
We had done it!
As if awakening from a long dream, we clambered stiffly off our bikes and hugged each other. Kisses and high-fives. Elation and letdown in equal measure.
A winter on our trusty old touring bikes, snow and cold and wind, mountains and deserts and swamps, cities and tiny towns. A journey completed on the first day of spring.
We had cycled across America. Pacific to Atlantic. Sea to shining sea.
A powerful mix of emotions for both of us: a rush of relief at having actually completed this daunting task; deep sadness that the wonderful journey had finally ended, that this was the last day of working together as a team to achieve an extraordinarily difficult goal; and a feeling of joy that we could now begin in earnest to plan our next adventure together.
We thanked each other, knowing that each had made the trip possible for the other. A winter-long team effort.
We had done it!
SUBHED:
Susan's Journal: San Diego, 12-2-98
Our gear made it in one piece. Bikes still in the boxes; reassembly is tomorrow's project. We looked carefully at the map, and it appears we face some incredible climbs as soon as we leave this campground -- multiple passes, the highest well over 4,500 feet! A man here cautioned us to carry lots of water and not to ride during commuting hours because the road is winding and narrow.
I'm feeling ridiculous. Old and unprepared and wildly ridiculous. Have we bitten off more than we can chew?
The idea for this adventure came last June during a fun ride on the Northern Central Trail in Baltimore County. Susan commented that it had been too long since our last bike tour (two months in Provence, France, in 1991).
The seed germinated and matured. Why not fly to California and ride back to Florida?
We had the equipment: touring bikes, tent, sleeping bags, a stove. We also had six months to get into reasonable physical condition, to choose a route, to buy incidentals, to rewrite our wills.
And so it happened. On Dec. 2 we flew, with two disassembled and boxed bikes and a pile of camping equipment, from Baltimore to San Diego. We pitched the tent in a campground near the Pacific, then took three days to assemble the bikes, pay a daylong visit to the nearby beaches and visit the famous San Diego Zoo.
On a sunny Saturday morning, Dec. 6, we packed the gear on the bikes, strapped on our helmets and rode east.
Journal: Alpine, Calif., 12-7-98
Threats of snow tonight. Made 25 miles in 3 3/4 hours, nearly all uphill (Alpine is at 2,500 feet, San Diego at sea level). The ride was hard; we got cold, so stopped for hot soup and Powerade. Looked for a motel ... too expensive ... campground is fine, and we're all alone. Spaghetti and broccoli for supper. Our route climbs another 25 miles to over 6,000 feet, then within 8 miles plunges below sea level in the Central Valley. Scenery today reminded us of Crete -- rocky mountains with olive and lemon trees.
Cold? The bottle of drinking water in the tent was frozen solid in the morning.
Our bikes were monsters -- 16 years old, heavy (30 pounds each), laden with full panniers (two on the front wheels, two on the rear), plus handlebar bags and piles of camping gear on the racks over the rear wheels.
We were equipped for virtually anything: cold-weather clothes for riding in sub-freezing temperatures, camping equipment that would allow us to survive 10-degree nights, and a full kitchen with stove, two pots and a 48-hour supply of food and water. We also had a small mountain of incidentals: photo equipment, writing and art supplies, books and maps, first-aid kit, a tool kit and spare parts for the bikes, and rain gear.
All this on two bicycles. In the winter. In the mountains. With 2,750 miles to go.
Journal: Gordon's Wells, Calif., 12-9-98
Had ridden only 12 miles this morning when the sandstorm hit. Powerful gusts from the Algodones Dunes to our west, filled with sand and rocks. We have the tent anchored to a squat tamarisk tree in an abandoned RV park. So we're hanging out, reading, writing, listening to the wind roar across the desert. We're only 20 miles from Yuma.
We had found our limit two days before the sandstorm. We left our campsite early, only to face a sustained, freezing 25 mile-an-hour headwind and a 9-mile climb from 2,500 feet to 4,200 feet. Then it got worse: a 7-mile drop, down to 2,800 feet, and another long climb to 4,500 feet. All this on the shoulder of Interstate 8, a busy, truck-infested superhighway and the only road headed east through these mountains.
Soon exhausted and frozen by the cruel winds, we were walking, pushing those monster bikes up the mountain, hordes of trucks and cars roaring by at 75 miles an hour. Not fun.
We had ample time to question our sanity. We asked each other, "Whose idea was this trip?" We pushed the bikes into a rest area and sat, frozen and depressed, on the guardrail, and shared an apple.
An old man in a beat-up old pickup pulled into the rest area and parked near us.
Ten minutes later, we were zooming up the mountain at 60 miles an hour, cozy and warm in the cab of the truck. We believe in angels.
Journal: Gila Bend, Ariz., 12-14-99
Yesterday was a true hell of a day: 5 1/2 hours of pedaling into a steady 25 mile-an-hour wind, on a horrible surface (the entire shoulder of Interstate 8 has been ground up by a corrugating machine). We limped along, occasionally daring to ride in the lane, which was stressful with those huge trucks roaring by at 80 miles an hour. The bulk of the day we took turns drafting each other, but for the last two hours Kirk led continuously. Stopped every mile to rest. 50 miles at 9 miles an hour, exactly like pedaling uphill for 50 miles.
When this journey was in the planning stages, we had talked to several knowledgeable people about our idea, and we asked this question: Can we do this journey in the winter?
The answers were consistent: Normally, the southern route across the U.S. is ridden in spring or fall. It is impossible in the summer (simply too hot in the desert), but possible in the winter if you don't mind the snow and cold and wind and rain.
So we had expected some problems, and had prepared reasonably well for the predictable physical difficulties.
What we weren't prepared for was the psychological beating we were taking. It seemed that every day presented some new torturous challenge. So we decided to shift gears a bit, to concentrate less on the biking and camping and more on the people and the land. We ate in more restaurants (a great place to meet the locals), stayed in more motels (affordable at $25 or $30) to conserve our energy for fun rides or walks around the little towns we rode through each day. Journal: Ajo, Ariz., 12-15-98
Left Gila Bend early under black skies.
Soon became light.
Rain and infinite sky filled with clouds of every conceivable shape and color. A double rainbow in the west. Horizon is jagged purple mountains; lots of lightning, then bright sunshine. Lunch among huge, many-armed saguaro cacti and dramatic rock formations. 42 miles. A great day, ending with a hailstorm as we approached Ajo. (Hail makes a terrible din on these new plastic helmets.)
We were out of the mountains and into true desert. Off the interstate and onto small, untraveled roads. Mile after silent mile, the forbidding winter landscape treated us to myriad unforeseen delights -- cactus wrens' nests in impossible thorny havens, curious hawks that cautiously followed our progress, glimpses of sullen coyotes and lanky jackrabbits and the fleet, long-tailed roadrunners.
The new pace suited us well. We wallowed in our good fortune. We rode side by side, counting our infinite blessings, intoxicated by the nature of our existence ... pedaling along, hour after hour, never sure where night would find us, but always sure that whatever happened next would be good.
Journal: Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument Campground, 12-17-98
This place is enchanted -- a huge cactus garden overlooking Mexico. Quiet and dark at night. The sky is immense, filled with purple, pink and orange clouds this evening. We hear thunder rumbling far off.
The 38-mile ride here from Ajo was beautiful and sunny despite a nasty shower. We were a bit concerned about all the lightning, and worried about flash floods (every dip in the road has a warning sign).
Met Ian yesterday, a young man from Quebec who's backpacking (walking mostly) to Chile. He's been on the road two years.
We gained confidence in our ability to deal with this out-of-season nomadic lifestyle.
We repaired thorn-flattened tires and deranged derailleurs.
We walked up the long hills, flopped the monster bikes on the roadside at the top, and shared an orange or apple. We rode happily in the bright, cold dawns, swaddled from head to toe in wool and silk and polypropylene.
We were pleased with our ability to provide for ourselves. We carried every necessity with us: transportation, shelter, food, clothing. Our definition of "reasonable comfort" evolved daily.
Journal: Tucson, Ariz., 12-21-98
I'm sitting in the laundry room at Motel 6, waiting my turn at one of the two washers.
We started early this a.m. -- 7:30 -- cold! Straight into a brutal headwind. By 9 we were zipping down the road at 60 miles an hour in the pickup truck of the jail keeper for the reservation. He was on his way home to a Tucson suburb. By 11 we were in our room at Motel 6, after a fun 15-mile downhill into town. We needed this break -- four days without showers, and camping was pretty yucky. Liv arrives in four days. Can't wait!
We took a much-needed 10-day break from the biking. Our younger daughter flew from San Francisco to be with us for the holidays. We hiked and camped (the three of us jammed like sausages into our little tent ... cozy!) in Saguaro National Park, Sabino Canyon, and the Chiricahua National Forest.
Beautiful days, beautiful hikes, beautiful daughter!
Journal: Benson, Ariz., 1-2-99
Tonight I've got my right knee wrapped in an Ace bandage after taking some arnica pills and massaging Care cream into it. It's the back of my knee. We may have to take a day off.
A good ride today -- 50 miles. Top speed 28 miles an hour, cruising down into Benson. My body bothered me today ... thighs aching as they haven't in the past.
But then we knew it would be hard to get back to biking after 10 days of hiking with Liv. It was a perfect vacation with her. Many, many beautiful miles. She's a great companion. Spent many evening hours taking turns reading aloud. Celebrated N.Y.'s Eve in Tucson with dinner at an Indian restaurant and "Patch Adams." Fun!
Back to the bikes! We both suffered a bit the first few days. Pedaling those monster bikes (Kirk's has about 70 pounds of gear and Susan's load was about 40) was never easy. We spent many hours massaging warm oil into sore thighs, backs, necks. Our 54-year-old bodies were constantly emitting warnings: slow down, relax, enjoy the here and now. We slept like stones, many nights for nine or 10 hours.
Journal: El Paso, Texas, 1-11-99
Great ride today -- 75 miles from Columbus, N.M. Beautiful new road, no houses, no traffic, no water ... absolutely deserted. Started very early and in the first 30 minutes saw a jackrabbit, a coyote, a slew of hawks, a desert cottontail, a roadrunner and lots of quail.
This is what this journey is all about.
Nearly a thousand miles -- one-third of our way across America. We parked the bikes in the basement of the El Paso Youth Hostel, walked across the bridge over the muddy Rio Grande at the Mexican border, and caught the first bus south to Chihuahua.
This began a traveler's dream: two wonderful weeks of hiking in the Barranca del Cobre, the Copper Canyon of Mexico. The bikes seemed a thousand miles away (they were, almost) as we explored the wonders of the Tarahumara Indian homeland with Kirk's sister, Leslie, and her husband, Val.
We were not in any hurry to get back to El Paso and those damned bikes. They were probably not missing us, either.
Journal: Van Horn, Texas, 2-1-99
A fun and easy ride today, ending with a 10-mile downhill run! We zoomed, breaking our speed record -- 33 miles an hour! Fun!
We learned a startling fact this morning: New York City sends sewage to this pitiful place! A trainload of sludge every day. It's spread on the desert. Wow.
So we did go back to El Paso and the bikes, and we rode out of that booming city into the vast rolling emptiness that is West Texas. After four stupendous days camping and hiking in Big Bend National Park, we chose a lonely and lovely route through sleepy, dusty towns. Like Alpine and Rankin and Big Lake and Mertzon.
Journal: Fife, Texas, 2-14-99
Sixty-five miles today, with a nasty wind blasting us from the south all day. We're camped in the middle of nowhere, on the top of a very windy hill, surrounded by plowed fields and very quiet neighbors (we're in a cemetery!).
We were struggling with the tent when the county sheriff pulled in. He chatted pleasantly for a few minutes; then he allowed as how he guessed it was OK for us to camp here (it was dusk and 35 miles to the nearest town). "You're not worried about sleeping in a cemetery?" he asked us. Very clearly, HE wouldn't sleep here.
Many people questioned our decision to free-camp along our journey. Typical comments were, "It simply isn't safe to do that in America," and, "Well, at the very least, you should have a gun with you!"
We had no gun, and we had no problems. The night in the Texas cemetery was as stunning as it was uneventful: howling, icy wind, black sky with a zillion sparkling stars, bright waning moon. We pedaled away in the morning after thanking our hundreds of silent hosts.
Journal: Hornbeck, La., 2-23-99
Yep, we got out of Texas (1,000 miles in Texas!). But are we glad? So far, Louisiana wins the prize as the most death-defying place to ride. We nearly died several times today.
Our situation is this: We're in a county with narrow, winding roads and no shoulders. It's home to scores of monstrous logging trucks, whose drivers think they own the road. A local shopkeeper told us, "They think bikers don't belong on the road because they don't pay a road tax."
In three separate incidents, we were run completely off the road by huge speeding monsters who started blasting their airhorns 500 yards behind us and then whizzed by just inches from us. One truck went off the road, too, even though we had already gotten off onto the grass. A horrible, shattering experience. And we feel trapped, with no better choices available. Remember the quiet, wide-open spaces of the Southwest?
Our paranoia increased daily. One positive effect was that we started asking locals for advice on our route, rather than just picking a road on the map. We saw many lovely little towns and some beautiful farm country as a result.
Journal: St. Francisville, La., 2-27-99
A rest day today, after six long days of riding 370 miles. Beautiful slow walk through town this morning. Historical district very pretty and well-preserved from the days of riverboats and slaves ... huge homes (dates and builders noted on brass plaques) and prosperous-looking churches. Huge ancient live oaks draped with graceful Spanish moss, blooming azaleas, camellias, daffodils. Pink and purple and gold decorations left over from Mardi Gras.
Met a priest named Ken at his lovely Episcopal church on the hill above the river. We chatted for an hour about the history of this area -- Cajuns, Creoles, Indians, Spanish, French, Napoleon, cotton and money and slaves and tobacco.
On we went, day after beautiful day, mile after mile, celebrating this spring season as a highlight of our 34-year partnership.
In fact, we two felt as if we were an important part of the season: energized daily by bright sun and puffy clouds and warm winds, growing together and bonding as one with the purest nature of our chosen path.
Journal: Van Cleave, Miss., 3-2-99
Eighty-five miles yesterday... biggest day yet! Treated ourselves to a restaurant dinner and the owner refused our attempts to pay after we'd talked about this crazy trip. Her explanation: "This is my small part to make this journey a wonderful experience for you!" So many nice people!
Incredible storm last night. We were off the road in a pine forest. Amazing intense lightning and thunder. Trees crashing and moaning and cracking for hours. Two inches of rain. Learned this morning that a nearby school lost its roof. Tent stayed dry and no branches hit us. We were very lucky.
Friends and relatives warned us before we left home: "Be careful! Watch out! There are SO many nuts out there!"
Maybe.
But we learned again what we already knew: that the American people are kind, generous and friendly. We weren't surprised, ever, when total strangers went out of their way to help us. And this happened on a daily basis.
We invited kindness. We created opportunities for people to be generous. Our very tight budget ($50 a day maximum) meant that we frequently put ourselves into situations where our fellow humans could help us. And we were never disappointed.
Journal: Dauphin Island, Ala., 3-3-99
We've found a sweet surprise: Dauphin Island, a sliver of sand between Mobile Bay and the Gulf. We're camped on the edge of an Audubon bird sanctuary close enough to the Gulf to hear the waves crashing. Rode into town for a completely decadent breakfast of fresh pastries and coffee, and had a good chat with a local guy who was very nice and friendly.
We spent about $1 a mile on the biking portion of this journey. We averaged 50 miles and $50 per day. Much of that expense was for food and drink -- we each consumed nearly 5,000 calories a day (and lost weight) and drank gallons of sports rehydrating liquids.
We cooked scores of kilos of pasta and wolfed down hundreds of apples and bananas and oranges. We went to bed hungry and woke up hungry and ate all day.
Journal: Lake City, Fla., 3-17-99
We made it out of Live Oak after three VERY long days. A short ride today (20 miles), but plenty for the patient. He's confident that the riding and bumping through potholes will force the kidney stone to pass. Since the doctor said not to ride with codeine in your system, he went without his morning dose. But we took it easy and all went well.
One-hundred-forty miles from the Atlantic -- almost close enough to smell the salt spray -- and Kirk gets a kidney stone. Dang! It could hardly have been more depressing. So close to our goal. After two days of awful pain -- days of grotesque TV in a dingy, airless motel room -- we rented a car, bought a bike rack and prepared to drive the last leg to St. Augustine.
Journal: Starke, Fla., 3-18-99
Beautiful day! Beautiful ride! Life goes on!
Another major crisis with the kidney at 4:30 this a.m. He took more codeine, and at 8:30 -- thank heaven! -- the stone(s?) passed. We packed up and started down the road. A GREAT day for riding -- light traffic, no wind. We quit after 40 miles and Kirk fell asleep instantly when we got this room.
The stone passed.
Words cannot describe the little celebration that accompanied this event. You really must use your imagination.
So we rode on, albeit gently, in the Florida sunshine. We laughed a lot that day... at life in general, and at the inevitable obstacles that so frequently come between travelers and their goals.
Journal: St. Augustine, Fla., 3-20-99
It was with a sense of euphoria that we pedaled into St. Augustine. A glorious day, and the ride was a delight to me, probably largely because I didn't want the trip to end and was so glad to be riding again after the kidney stone episode.
And I think Kirk was feeling euphoria mixed with a large portion of relief.
The odometer reads 2,781 miles.
We did it!
So we shipped the bikes and camping gear home, spent two fun days in St. Augustine as "normal" tourists, then walked to the Greyhound station and took the overnight bus to Baltimore. We got home in time to see the crocuses blooming along the brick walk to our house. The spring we had been cycling through for five weeks was just coming to Maryland.
And then it hit us: We had never really left home. The journey had created homes for us, day and night, across the full perfect breadth of America. Sea, mountains, desert, plains, bayous, pine forests, cyprus swamps and sea again. A thousand new friends, ten thousand happy memories.
And, of course, we again have the itch to begin another journey just as soon as we can save enough money!