Why?

Why am I taking this bike trip?

For some time I’ve had the itch to travel slowly and quietly across the country. I’ve flown across it, driven across it, and, at the tail-end of the era when such was common, hitch-hiked across it. I would like to go over this land once again, to see and feel it a bit more closely, a bit more attentively, a bit more reverently.

I like to have times of solitude.

I see patterned, rhythmic movement of the body as a wonderful gift, especially when it is outdoors.

The end of July, the daughter of a cousin is getting married in an orchard at the foot of Mount Hood, Oregon. Terri is a spark of joy with a gift for encouraging and challenging those around her. She loves the outdoors and for several years has worked for Mt. Hood Kiwanis Camp, which “offer[s] children and adults with disabilities an opportunity to leave behind their routine lives and taste the freedom of the outdoors - to go beyond limits that they, and others, have set for them, with a variety of mental and physical challenges to enjoy the outdoors.” Terri’s husband-to-be strikes us as one with whom she—and the rest of the clan, thank goodness—can be very happy. It somehow seems right to be biking to their wedding. It seems to have potential for extending a personal journey into a lechayyim toast for this couple.

Terri’s father is another reason I am taking this trip. Roger once biked across the country. He did so after losing the gift of patterned, rhythmic movement. When in his mid-forties, he was paralyzed from the neck down with diving bends. After spending eight hours daily in a decompression chamber for a month and a half, he was able to progress from a wheel chair to, with the help of his brother Brad, a bike:

Brad showed up every day and walked beside me, holding me up, as I tried to keep my feet on the pedals. Since I had almost no sensory feeling in my feet, keeping my feet on the pedals was very difficult. After a week or two, I could ride around the parking lot, but couldn’t get off the bike. Brad would wait patiently by my apartment until I came around the building, catch the bike, and help me off. Later I learned to steer onto the lawn, slow down, stop exactly in front of the bushes that were piled high with mulch. Then I’d simply fall over on my left side. Still later, I was gaining enough coordination to stop next to a high curb and catch my weight with my left foot.  From Roger's 'It's Not About The Bike'.

Roger gradually increased his distances until, a few years after the accident, he celebrated nearly full recovery by biking across the country in eight weeks. His doing so fifteen years ago was probably the beginning of my itch to make a similar journey.

I have recently reread his write-up of the trip and been sobered by the obstacles that one can face along the way. If I don’t make it, I will appreciate all the more the feats of Roger—and of others like him who have been paralyzed, in one way or another, and regained life-affirming movement. If I do make it, may I be all the more ready to support someone else struggling to move ahead.

Why I am blogging about this trip?
When my work use to take me away from home for two to three weeks at a time, I would write stories and poems for my children as well as news. Having switched to a sedentary job and my children now young adults, I have written much less and told fewer stories. However, they wish that I keep them informed of this trip—and have facebooked my starting out on it so that others too have expressed an interest in following it.

They have said that their dad is going to bike across America. I have suggested that they revise to “…is on a bike trip” (if I just manage Tybee Island to Savannah, that’s still a pretty cool trip), or at most “is going on a interstate bike trip”. But there have been no retractions, no nuancing. They are more confident than myself that I will make it to the other side of the country. Well, friends, let us see.

Survival Note

Who knows what one might run into on the road, especially on sparsely populated stretches? What if one gets stranded and the food runs out? If such were the situation now, here in Tennessee, I would be fine: the 13-year cicadas have been emerging and will continue to do so for another week or so. They are easily gathered in the morning, when one is hungriest, off the blades of grass which they have climbed and cling to until the air and sun have dried their wings enough for them to fly up to the trees, where they will celebrate their week or two of life in air and light by singing and procreating.

After gathering them, dump them into boiling water; some suggest 2-3 minutes to kill any possible parasites but the main reason for boiling them first is to get them to stop moving and thereby make it easier, if you want, to separate their abdomen from the rest of the body before cooking them.

Left-over Cicada Crisps

In the survival, live-off-the-land scenario, you will fry them in the pan you brought for such emergencies—or roast them in the oven of the stove of an abandoned house. There will be enough gas in the rusting fuel tank you find next to the oven since it only takes a few seconds to roast the cicadas at 250°.  The cicadas can be eaten by themselves like peanuts or mixed in with an omelet made from the eggs of the two hens likely to be sheltering in the abandoned house. Why wouldn’t you just roast a chicken? Well, cicadas are easier to catch and prepare than chicken. But more importantly, you know that someone else might come by here facing the same situation and you do not want to diminish that person’s chances of finding food. One can feast on cicadas with clear conscience: there are plenty for everyone.
First picture is from the U of Michigan Museum of Zoology web site, linked above. They provide
info  about the various kinds of cicadas and life cycles but nothing about cooking them, 
strangely enough. Second picture was taken by Ukyeye, after I had cooked up a mess and had
my fill, leaving some for others to enjoy although none took advantage of this kindness.

From Tybee to Tennessee--Yippee!

Scroll down to the previous blog for a description of the trip's start.

Day 1: Tybee to Collins, Georgia (@85 miles)
The coastal plains allow for a gentle start. The mid-to-high 80’s temperature makes me glad I did not wait any longer to start this part of the trip. A lot of truck traffic but considerate drivers: all move over into the other lane if they can or slow down until sure to pass safely. There is a good shoulder all the way so I move onto it easily when vehicles approach.

On previous trips through Georgia, I have often thought the planted pine forests would be a great place to sling a hammock. I look forward to sleeping in them tonight. About a half hour before sunset, I see a “Land For Sale” sign at the entrance to a dirt road. “This must be the place,” I think and walk my bike about a quarter mile down the road. To my left, the trees have been recently harvested, leaving stumps and brush; to my right, it looks like the trees were harvested 10 or more years ago but not replanted, leaving a mixture of varieties. I find a nice clearing but it’s between maples, not pine, that I sling my hammock. That’s okay. Bob whites and whippoorwills are calling; the first time I’ve heard them together since hiking in the Appalachians last summer. In the morning I will wake to an owl woo-wooing up his last course.

Day 2: Collins to Hawkinsville (@85 miles)
Still pretty hot. Some gradual sloping and a few hills. I have my first stretch of country road. It is mostly wooded but I pass a home with expansive, mowed lawn, rich green now, and sparkling pond. I drift by in admiration. Quiet, peaceful. Snarling, barking dogs rush out at me. I yell at them. Adrenalin pumps my pedals. A check on overly romanticizing these country scenes.

A similar check would come the next day on another remote road, roughly paved. Here I would see deer for the first time. Thick woods and quiet. A fifteen-foot, chain-link fence and “Posted and Patrolled: No Trespassing” signs suddenly emerge like the snarling dogs. But the fence goes on for miles, a jeep trail along its inside perimeter. My map gives no clue of what’s hidden within. I think of Nietzsche’s old man emerging from the forest there and rasping his pronouncement. But on the inside of the fence. I roll on.

I refill my water bottles at fast-food places, more likely to be found in small towns than family diners. If the place doesn’t have a water tap in the midst of those for soda, I go to a Dollar Store or grocery store to get a gallon of water for a dollar: after filling my bottles, I splash the remainder over my head. In evenings, I try to assure having enough water to allow for a sponge bath if I will not be near a water source.

Tonight, I have my ideal camp in a pine woods. I enjoy the needles under my bare feet as I sling my hammock. Bob Whites & Whippoorwills make night welcome here as well.

Day 3: Hawkinsville to Manchester (@110 miles)
I am tired and its near sunset but I have just gotten through to the western side of Manchester and there’s a hill to climb. I see a couple cars parked in front of a church and on an impulse ride into the lot to look at the back yard: ah, well mowed, spacious, and hidden from the road. Grade school children are peering out at me from the glass doors. They run when they see me walk towards them after parking my bike. I open the door and call out “Hello”; the youth group leaders appear, young women with friendly smiles. I ask if I can sleep in back of the church. They aren’t sure. They’ll need to call the pastor, who, they tell me, has just gotten back from Israel.

He’ll come to check me out. His house being just down the road, he is soon there. He emerges from his car with somber if not sour face. I greet him with “Shalom!” and throw out a line to make the common bond of visiting Israel. That line drops to the ground. I’m asked what I’m doing; my answer does not impress.

“Do you have some I.D.?”
I first show him my MTSU I.D.: teacher meeting preacher. Nice, eh? Nope. I show him my driver’s license.
He studies it and asks “What kind of name is Shallum?”, accenting the first syllable.
“Oh, no. Sorry. I said ‘Shalom!’, thinking of your recent trip to Israel.”
“Oh,” he replies, softening a bit, “I didn’t catch that… Well, I guess you can stay there. We’ve had some bad experiences in the past with people messing up the property.”
Assuring him that I would not leave a spot, I went down and made my bed. He went into the church. Before leaving, a half-hour or so later, he called out with kindly voice, “You settled in okay, Tim?”
“Yes, sir. Thank-you!”
“Good night, then.”

Day 4: Manchester to John Tanner State Park (@ 80 miles)
I started out before sunrise, hitching a blinking red light to the back of my waist: my baggage would hide the light if I attached it to the seat. The coastal plains are behind me. Rolling hills now.

The afternoon had dark skies and strong winds but I got only a few drops of rain. A few miles before the State Park, there was a laundry. So I was delighted to be able to fully wash my clothes and follow that with a hot shower at the park. What luxury!

Day 5: John Tanner State Park to Geraldine, ALABAMA (@90 miles
Now, a taste of the Appalachians. Just a taste, but, dang, there were some steep climbs. Through beautiful country of course.

I rode a mile or two on the Chief Ladiga Trail, which with the Silver Comet Trail, forms a 100-mile bike trail from Atlanta into Alabama. At a Visitor’s Center along the trail, a woman greets me as I park my bike. She and her friend are biking for the day and ask where I am coming from. “Not Savannah, Savannah!” she exclaims. She is the first person I’ve met along the away to respond with enthusiasm to my travels: “Are you blogging about your trip?” I tell her, no, though I’ve thought about it. “You should! Get one of your children to help you set it up!” I tell her I might do that. “How old are you?” she asks. It takes me a few seconds to do the calculation—I’ve been pedaling hard, after all—but come out with the answer. “You look older than that. Well, shave and you won’t look so old.” Another piece of good advice. She wants to contribute to my trip so gives me a pack of gum and an energy bar.

I felt pretty beat by the end of the day. And, for the first time on this trip, chilly. There was a pretty good wind as I set up camp. I kept the hammock low and tied the rain fly close down and secure. But the rain held off.

Day 6: Geraldine to the Tennessee border (@60 miles)
I took it easy today, feeling pretty tired and considering more carefully as I rode the importance of pacing myself: either having shorter days or taking a day of rest at least once a week. I decided to make good on this by having tomorrow be a rest day—and to make the rest especially sweet by taking it at home. I called Ruka to see what she thought. She had the day off and met me just a couple miles after I had crossed over the border into Tennessee, in the late afternoon.

Day 7: AL-TN border to Murfreesboro (@75 miles)
I ended up having two rest days before Marlo and Tina got up at 5AM and took me to the border. It was nice to bike carrying only one light bag—and over easy terrain. I missed the road out of Tullahoma to Manchester but it was fine going along the Duck River, which I’ve canoed several times with my kids, to Shelbyville then up to Murfreesboro.

The next day I took my bike in for a tune-up and cleaning of the chain and gears. I plan to enjoy the comforts of home for about a week then continue on the way. During this time, I will plan my routes to the other coast.

Starting Out: Good Signs

At sunrise, my rear tire was in the Atlantic Ocean as I held my bike facing west. Kayitesi photo-documented this moment on Tybee Island, off of Savannah, Georgia, May  10. The plan was to start right as the sun came over the horizon but a cloud bank hid it. We waited for a few minutes in case it should show but, eager to get going, made our way back across the sandy beach. Just as we were about to leave the beach,  I looked back and saw the sun. We hustled back to the water's edge and Kayitesi again documented the moment.

This accomplished, the first half-mile of my attempt at a coast-to-coast trip was back to the campground where we had stayed the night before. Tess had slept in the pick-up bed and I in my hammock. There, I strapped the bags onto the bike and started off on the next segment: 18 miles into Savannah. Kayitesi would wait for a while to give me time to bike a few miles and see if there was some glitch needing early attention. Then she would continue on to Savannah where we would meet for breakfast. 

The ride went smoothly enough, the traffic not as heavy and the drivers more considerate and cautious than I had imagined. The eastern part of the city was very pleasant, reminding me of a neighborhood in downtown Murfreesboro:  small houses are close together with people sitting on the front porch, talking with neighbors, and waving at the guy passing on his bike.  

I had never been in Savannah before but, from my map, concluded—correctly, I would find—that Bull Street would be a good route to the northern side of the city, through several squares for pedestrians and bikers only.  So Tess and I had decided that we would meet at Forsyth Park and look for a place to have breakfast. Right next to where she parked was a busy hole-in-the-wall café with great coffee and a burrito egg casserole that would keep me for most of the day.  The dessert for our festive meal was Tesi’s telling me that Bull Street was where Forrest Gump sat on a bench, recalling his life. I thought this a good sign somehow: some sweet connection between two simple-minded guys, one who set off to run across America, the other to bike across. There would be two more good signs on this street.

The second came as we left the café. I saw a trim woman locking up a high quality bike and asked her if she could tell me where I could find “a very good bike shop”.  Without hesitation she replied “Perry’s Rubber Bike Shop is a ‘very good bike shop’ and it’s just a couple blocks from here,” in the same direction that I was heading.  A second good sign, I thought.

Tess and I met there. I was concerned about two things: my seat, not made for long distance, had contributed to a very sore butt on my trip to Ohio last year, and my bike pump was a cheap-don’t-waste-your-money-on-it-Schwinn-bought-in-Walmart.  Perry’s is indeed a very good—a great—bike shop. I believe the guy who waited on us was the manager if not the owner: whatever, he was good-humored, precise, informative, and patient.  The first thing I asked for was their best bicycle pump: it was a Lezyne, with a hose that makes it easier to link the pump and the tire valve and that stores inside the handle, the slim pump mounting neatly beside my water-bottle.   He then said, “I don’t like to get customers to buy things they didn’t come in for but I want your daughter to hear this—” she smiled, attentive, “—your helmet is really unsafe; it won’t provide any protection at all.” He went on to explain the construction of helmets—which has advanced well beyond the twenty-year old, entry-level helmet that I had. Tess was indeed happy that I got the Specialized helmet he recommended.  I then asked about bicycle seats, telling him of how my local bike shop took the measurement of my sit-bones and then sold me one that I took back the next day because it was so uncomfortable. “It’s like finding your shoe size but not asking what you want the shoes for,” he said.  He took my measurement, recommended a Specialized seat, had it mounted and asked me to take it for a test ride.  Oh, so much better.  

We went back to the truck, parked in front of another café. Three women, whom we would later learn were sisters on a vacation get-together, were having coffee on the sidewalk, near where I was strapping the bags onto the bike.  One asked about our plans and I briefly indicated them.  “Oh, you’ll love it,” she said, “my husband and I did that last year. A wonderful experience...”  And a third good sign.

Tess and I hugged. I got on the bike and was on my way.  Tess would later tell me that the woman squeezed her arm and assured her "He'll be just fine."

Georgia - Tennessee Itinerary

			Miles
Route	From	To	Pt-Pt	Total
	Tybee Island Beach (Royal Palm Motel)	80 via side roads	1	1
80	80 (>E Victory Drive)	Savannah	18	19
	Savannah   R on Ash St (away from Daffin Park)   L on E39th (or E37th larger)   R on Bull St, through Forsyth Park, around Monterey & Madison Square   L on W Liberty St > Louisville Rd (after MLK Blvd > Telfair Rd (veers left) > R on Telfair Pl > R on Chatham Pkwy, across 80 > N on Heidt Ave > L on Old Louisvill Rd > 80 (Louisville Rd)	Eden	19	38
30/280	Eden: Rt 30  is c.2 mi. beyond Eden	Pembroke	16	54
	Pembroke	Claxton	17	71
	Claxton	Bellville taking 292/John B  Gordon  St into B’ville (or if missed 169N	4	75
292	Bellville > Manassas > Collins >	Lyons	21	96
280	Lyons > Vidalia (6 mi.) >	Glenwood	22	118
N 5th St/ CR40	Glenwood (take R onto 40 c. ¼ mi. past 19N At T, R onto Hat Off Rd L on 46	Eastman	32	150
341/27	Eastman 46 = S 5th Ave, which follow to R on Ogden St, becomes N Golden Isles Pkway BR 341/27, keep on NGI Parkweay until it joins regular 341/27	Hawkinsville	20	170
26	Hawkinsville	Montezuma	35	205
	Montezuma	Buena Vista	34	239
	Sidetrip: Montezuma to Americus via 49S > Plains via 280: only 20 miles more
41	Buena Vista > Geneva (R on 80/22, just before Geneva; follow this to > Talbotton, rejoin 41/36	Manchester	42	281
Alt 27/41	Manchester	Warm Springs	4	285
194	Warm Springs (L on 194 < 1 mi after Warm Spr) > Follow 194 3-4 miles R on Rt 18, then almost immediate L on Harry Hardy Road, which, going NNW becomes Tigner Road L on LaGrange Highway = 109 >Mountivlle (19 mi from Warm Springs) >	Lagrange	28	313
27	Lagrange	Carollton	42	355
16 > 100	Carollton > Mt Zion > 16 / Alabama St / Mt Zion Road R on 100	Tallapoosa	20	375
78/8 R/N on 49	Tallapoosa > Oak Level	Borden Springs	22	397
70	Borden Springs	Piedmont	9	406
9/14	Piedmont	Centre	18	424
BR411=W Main	Centre	Leesburg	5	429
68	Leesburg	Geraldine	22	451
75	Geraldine	Rainsville	14	465
35	Rainsville	Scottsboro	20	485
AL 79 > TN 16	Scottosboro Just before Winchester, R on BR 6441/50 into two	Winchester	45	530
41ALT = S Main = Tullahoma Hwy	Winchester	Tullahoma	15	545
55	Tullahoma	Manchester	12	557
41	Manchester	M’boro	28	585