On Pilgrimage: Cycling Across the United States, The Transamerica Bicycle Trail, Part I

Looking back on it, I'm not sure how it came to be that I cycled across the United States, from Oregon to Virginia, but I did. I know the idea must have generated from my dear friend Josh. He's the most athletic person I know, focusing on swimming, cycling, and running (yes, a triathlete), and he'd been thinking about a cross country ride for some time. It almost happened for him years earlier. He had a friend who started planning it with him. But as the planning with all big trips go, it was continually questioned and rethought and was, unfortunately for Josh, cancelled. So I imagine at one time, when Josh and I were hanging out, he must have brought up the idea, and I must have said yes, and collectively, we must have followed through at every corner. The next thing I knew, I had a Trek bicycle, two panniers, and maps that stretched across America.

I was not a cyclist when I agreed to the trip. My cycling consisted of rides around town with my Dad's old Schwinn, narrowly avoiding accidents in the rain because my brakes were so barren they couldn't grip my wheels when they were wet. That old clunker would not have gotten me across the US, though I contemplated it. Getting a new bike was essential. The trip conveniently coincided with my college graduation, so my parents made the same paradoxical move they made when they gifted me my backpack for the Camino de Santiago: despite protesting the trip, they bought me the very means to make it possible. My bike was my graduation gift, and it currently has around 10,000 miles on it. My very first ride on it was terrible. I picked it up from the bike shop and rode to crew practice. On the way I learned a valuable lesson - watch where you're riding because you may run over a nail. As a first ride, it could have been taken as a bad omen: a nail punctured both my tube and tire, leaving me stranded on the side of the road, thankful when a crew buddy saw me and picked me up. I took it instead as a great lesson, and I learned shortly after how to change a tire, a lesson I put into effect at least twenty times as I rode across 10 states.

After walking in my college graduation, Josh and I got a ride from my parents from Humboldt, California to Florence, Oregon. It rained on us the whole way. When we got to Florence, right on the coast, my parents thought it might be nice to drive us east a bit, toward Eugene, our destination for that day. As the rain splattered against the windshield, they just kept driving and driving, and Josh and I kept saying, 'Up ahead looks like a good turnout.' Then they'd pass it, and we'd say again, 'Up ahead looks like a good turnout.' Pretty soon it seemed apparent that they were going to drive us all the way to Eugene, and possibly Yorktown, Virginia, to avoid dropping us off in the rain. It took a bit of convincing, but they finally pulled over into an old gas station, and Josh and I got out and put on our rain gear, which was an assortment of plastic bags. We were poor college kids and we thought we were smart, so instead of investing in real rain gear, we draped ourselves in plastic and planned to ride through the storms. My Mom was in tears as she saw us ride off in the rain, looking like we'd just exited a dumpster.

Looking back, I'm quite amazed at what we accomplished - we carried just a fraction of what most cross-country cyclists carry. I purposively took just two medium-sized panniers, thinking that I would fill whatever space was available, so it's better (lighter) to avoid the large size. Josh filled his bag just halfway. We looked like day-riders and we were undertaking a 3 month voyage. Cyclists we passed consistently marveled at our light loads. This was the most minimalist travel I'd ever done, and I've never done anything like it since (partly because it's uncomfortable to travel so light - I've recycled my plastic bags and I now own rain gear). Regardless, my parents watched us ride off into the Oregon rain - a rain that would follow us all the way to eastern Colorado.

When we arrived in Eugene, Oregon, we tried to phone some contacts Josh had there. Unfortunately, they didn't answer the phone, and Josh hadn't made real arrangements with them. So, we were stuck and were reluctant to exceed our tiny budget on our first day out. We thought about our options in the Eugene public library when a wonderful woman named Lynn, a cyclist herself, saw us, introduced herself, and gave us her address and phone number, saying, "If your friends can't house you, call me and you can stay on our living room floor." That's exactly what we did, and we woke up to a big pancake breakfast.

On day two, we rode a long and hard uphill day in the rain to a tiny town consisting of nothing more than a gas station. We figured we'd try and set up a tent somewhere when an old man named Dick leaned out of his truck and said, "You boys looking for a place to sleep tonight?" It was at that point that I knew we'd be taken care of every day along the way. Dick's wife passed away two years prior and he was recovering from a stroke. He was a lonely old man who offered us his garage and kept checking in to see if we were alright every twenty minutes or so. He gave us a floor to sleep on and a roof, and we gave him some much needed companionship.

These kinds of interaction became the running theme of this pilgrimage. While the scenery was breathtaking, the long rides contemplative, and the mountains and weather fiercely challenging, it will always be the people that I remember most fondly when I look back. People care for wandering pilgrims, people come through when they see you suffering, people open up to you when you are traveling through their small town. It was a trip full of chance encounters, some of which really demonstrate the beauty of the human spirit. I will do my best in the coming posts to convey that spirit in the story of our trip across 4400 miles of a breathtaking American countryside.