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The Life's Too Short Tour
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Days 7 and 8: An Unexpected Trio
In rain Tuesday morning and I donned wet-weather gear to roll south the ten miles to Bear's house in Atlantic, Virginia. Bear, a fellow bicycle tourer offering to host travelers from the bike-touring hospitality website Warm Showers, had responded earlier to my query for a room for the night in his home, an easy ride from previous night's motel in Pocomoke City, Maryland. I sought a day's rest and was eager to sit on a couch, eat meals, and doze to heal my over-worked legs. And so when I lit out onto the wet shoulder of Route 13 south, crossing into Virginia with clouds of spray from passing vehicles rushing me again and again, I could not have guessed that I would miss a key turn and find myself miles beyond. When I discovered my mistake, I phoned Bear, conceding to the distance I'd put between us by then and deciding
to forge ahead for new prospects, disappointedly. It was when I reached Olney, Virginia, 30 miles south that a Subaru honked and pulled to the side of the road in front of me. Inside an amiable 50-something man waved for me to approach.
"Thomas?" the man asked.
"Bear?" I asked in response. It was Bear, looking more jovial than I'd assumed on the phone, brimming to befriend. He had motored south along my route, caught me, and offered to return me and the 520 to his home via his Subaru for a half day's rest. I initially declined, loathing the backtrack of hard-earned miles I'd accrued in morning rain, and reluctant to impose after my failed navigation. He accepted this, and instead we developed a conversation there in a parking lot of Olney, him leaning on the side of the Subaru, me straddling the 520. I occassionally lifted my sunglasses to match eyes with him, patting his shoulder once to acknowledge the offered generosity. We were talking about the 520, how old it was, what size the tires were, how much cargo I was weighted with, how many miles I'd won so far, when suddenly Bear interrupted.
"What have we here?" he asked to something behind me.
Just then a blond, sunburned and lanky rider on fully loaded touring bike came to rest beside us.
"Where are you headed?" the rider asked.
"California," I replied.
"Me too!" he exclaimed.
He introduced himself as Nat, 20, from New Hampshire. He said he'd been on the road for 900 miles, "stealth" camping in woods, daringly trekking on a shoestring. His bike, another old school tourer such as my 520, was a 1989 Bianchi Volpe, another classic and vintage steed. It was loaded heavy, with a gallon jug of water hung from a rear pannier and three Turkey Buzzard feathers adorning his front wheel. I handed him my tour info card, and he reciprocated with a small booklet, handwritten and photocopied, which named his transcontinental trek as remedy for "a perspective on life that had become too narrow." Here was another soul looking for something, with bicycle and thousands of American miles to work with. When Bear made the offer to Nat, and Nat accepted, I too complied and we were off with Bear for an evening at our host's Eastern Shore home, as trio.
At Bear's house, in a quiet community surrounded by farm fields, Nat and I relaxed as Bear dished out salad and a noodle and meat mash for dinner. Nat and I unabashedly wolfed, gulped and swigged.
After dinner we strolled through Bear's lawn, inspecting his prized flora, such as rose bushes, holly, grasses, a type of cypress, and an assortment of flowers. We walked across the street where his neighbor had built an elaborate nesting structure for Purple Martins. The irridescent purple birds hovered and swooped around the 30-foot high structure on which hung holed gourds as nesting houses. Inside were eggs, soon to be chicks, and so the Purple Martins were busy with their nest tending and protecting. "Purple Martin high!" Bear exclaimed once when a male, glowing with an almost unnatural purple, hovered over the three of us.
We lounged on couches in Bear's living room, discussing bike touring and revealing more about ourselves as the night wore on. Bear is a retired U.S. Navy Senior Chief, having spent more than 20 years in service. He retired a year ago, and found the bike touring hobby, having made several long treks since. He said he got his nickname from a face off he had with a black bear once during a camping expedition in Wyoming, when he rescued a man being mauled by the bear by attacking it with a frying pan. He said he still carried a scar from a swat the bear gave to his side. Bear hosted us with skill, allowing Nat and I to do laundry, catch up on emails, service the bikes in his garage, and eat copious amounts of food and Coca Cola. When Bear said "death is a common experience, uniquely felt," I identified it to my experience with Rich's passing, which hit me harder than I could have expected, and which sent me reeling off solo on this trek. I knew a Navy Senior Chief when I was a young soldier in Department of Defense Journalism School in Indianapolis 20 years ago. That Chief, whose name is long forgotten to me, instructed newswriting, and I nostagically refered to Bear as"Chief" once during the evening, but Bear deferred that his retirement had eclipsed that 20-year title he'd earned. "I'm just Bear now," he said. But then I said "there is still a Chief in there somewhere," and he did not disagree. Like most Navy guys, Bear has traveled the globe, and had a litter of world souvenirs in his home representing each port of call: Malaysia, Thailand, Japan, Korea, Hong Kong. He lives alone and spends his new retired status doing bike touring trips, kayaking, tending to his roses, and observing the Purple Martins. He very well could be the happiest man I've ever met.
Bear had rescued Nat too, from another night in woods among ticks and rustic sleeping conditions. Nat had been on the road for several weeks. He rides an old vintage tourer, named Freida, not because of the novelty, but like me because it's what he could afford. He had been stealth camping most of the time, slipping unobserved into woods to pitch his tent without even a sleeping mat for comfort, roughing it, a bicycle touring purist. The stay at Bear's was luxury for him, and he expressed his gratitude, like me, repeatedly. In the evening as our three identities came into focus sentence by sentence, I learned that Nat was a wood worker and a wood furniture designer. He said he was raised by two Christian ministers, and yet he preferred to call himself agnostic. There was some seeming angst in his revelation of it, and I saw that he was carrying more than just the weight of his bicycle's cargo along with him on his trek. He calls his tour the Big U; a double entendre decribing the U-shaped route across North America he's planned; and a salute to the "you" among us who intersect with him on the route. In his tour pamphlet he describes the impetus for his tour: "sometimes you have to do something grand and extreme when you look in the mirror and see exactly what you don't want to be," and that he intended to "launch myself into the lives of strangers," a trajectory accomplished with Bear and me that evening.
After an eight-hour sleep, we arose to chirping birds and the aroma of pancakes which Bear was preparing for our breakfast. Bear mapped out a route for Nat and me that would bring us off the busy and commercial Route 13 and into spectacular Eastern Shore rurality. In perfect weather, and both of us ruddy skinned from days of sunburn our shared fairness had not withstood, Nat and I sliced along the winding roads past a pageant of crop fields; small churches; pastures of cows, horses and goats; and small towns where one-time store fronts were long abandoned to tides of change. We rode side-by-side, talking as we pedaled. Prominent was our common venture, for which we spent considerable time shaping cause and effect.
"Some people think we're nuts for doing this." I offered.
"Yeah, isn't it funny how people think you're crazy when you are in your best spot?" he posited.
"Yes and they always will," I replied. "And so when you are in your best spot you must never let them discourage you, ever," I said, to which he responded simply "I get that."
I sensed something deep in him, a depth glimpsed in his willingness to make talk interspersed with philosophical observations in relation to the Magnolia trees and bluebirds we pointed out to one another as we rode, things typically invisible to people his age. I told him that, despite the deep and philosophical tangents of our talk, despite the demands of our life goals and responsibilities, that those Magnolia trees in bloom and those birds which "look like Cardinals, only blue" were the most important things in life. And he said he understood.
As the day moved on and we biked further and further south toward our destination of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel, where our escorted crossing had been arranged with Virginia traffic police the day before, we solidified our commonality in spirit, me following with him in lead.
He taught me about pedaling cadences, in which a more rapid stride was preferable to the slow high-gear pumps I'd been making since New York. "It's like lifting 10 pounds 10 times as opposed to lifting 100 pounds once," he said.
When we returned to the busy Route 13 in order to gain speed toward our goal, Nat offered to go slower, yet I urged him to press on in speed. I was able to stay with him the whole way at near top speed, only because of the magic of drafting, which kept me tucked into a pocket of parted air in his wake, eliminating the headwind for me, and allowing me to pedal 20 strokes and then coast for 10 strokes as long as I stayed close to his rear wheel. Without the draft I was left steadily behind as his strong strides overtook.
As we sailed the shoulder south, we reveled in cultural observations along the way: an old school bus rigged into some kind of unwieldly agricultural vehicle; the accented voices which queried us repeatedly about our trek; a fire-charred building in which hand-painted signs out front said "KKK BURN OUT," to which Nat turned to me and said "I guess they make no bones about it down here." I thought about taking a picture of the burned out building and sign, but thought better of it, as in some ways I am in subtly foreign land. This ain't Manhattan, nor do I want it to be. In crossing the border into Dixie I noticed the pace of things slowed down considerably from that of New York and New Jersey: cars politely swing wide; old women behind counters dub me darling or baby as they casually take sweet time serving orders; people nod and wave to me and loaded 520 as if I was a one-man passing parade.
We pedaled hard to make appointed time at the bridge -- 20 miles, 35 miles, 50 miles, 60 miles until at last the bridge toll was in sight. I was (and am as I write this) deeply fatigued. Thankfully, the severity of the fatigue stays suspended somewhere out of mind as I pump, but yet comes screeching into existence the minute I stop, dismount, and attempt to walk. The rest day I needed did not materialize two days ago, and so today I am overdrawn even deeper in my reserve. It is time to rest.
When we reached the bridge, we were squeezed into a Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles truck for unceremonious crossing the 17 miles to mainland Virginia. At the bridge entrance two Virginia policemen observed Nat and I, asking where we were going, with one responding with "are you crazy? get a car!" And the other policeman said "that's not insanity, that's obsession." I laughed it off.
Once traversed, I shook hands with Nat, twice, and for the first time he looked me deep eye to eye when he said "thanks...and travel safe." I will my friend, I will. As I pedaled away into the highway, I turned back to him and called out "Funny how people think you're crazy when you're in your best spot!" He laughed and waved, and we parted ways, me to the west because Life Is Too Short, and him south to navigate his Big U.
Video Clip:
until later...
7 comments:
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I feel that my best spot is with my family. Near or far I am always with them in heart. Especially with my "nutty" cousin who is pedaling across the country.
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Tommy! I'm trying to send energy your way by osmosis or telepathy or E.T. or whatever. I'm actually training for a triathlon in August and I'm feeling some of your pain. I sprained or strained my ankle over the weekend. We warriors have to keep the course. I would like to ride with you at some point, maybe in Utah or Cali. On another note, I love the purse that Elisa gave my mom. Very talented she is. Strong with her, the force is. The force is stong with you also man. I love you for doing this and for being you. Stay the course, stay strong!
Love your cousin Chrissy
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tom, great job so far , thank you bear for hosting tonmy , this is his uncle , richies dad hope the trip continues to bring you new friends travel safe and dont forget my offer, milt
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Thomas, Jack & I also send you energy, good wishes, and all that kind of stuff. Keep pedaling, we're enjoying your trek. Be safe, have fun, Raquel & Jack
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thanks to all you guys! I need that energy, send send send - Special thanks to Elisa for taking special care, without you I'm sunk...
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Hi Tom,
I am loving reading your story... your Dad said even as a little boy when you wrote you were a great story teller... easy read.... thanks for sharing your journey!
Checking on your site after a good full day of gardening albeit your Dad works me like a rented mule.... eheheheh... actually we really love gardening and I'm so grateful for his help! Last winter we lived on the garden vegetables that we froze... all organic and yummie and we hope to do it again this year...
The garden will be abundant by the time you get back home and you and Elisa can some visit...
Sounds like all is well with you and that good souls are finding you along the way... as they say good souls have a way of finding each other...
Will write again soon...
Happy Trails!
Cay & your Dad too
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Great post! You are meeting so many wonderful people on your trip. It's so inspirational.
When I quit my full time job and decided to work part time so I could pursue my art everyone thought I was crazy. And guess what....I am now in my best spot. :)