The Trek was 3,500 miles and lasted 105 days.

With rest days factored in, I averaged about 40 miles per day.

Flat tires, 1
Broken chain, 1
Broken spokes, 3

Highest elevation: 11,200, Monarch Pass, Colorado
Longest ride: 94 miles, western Kansas

Most difficult rides:
Hayters Gap, Virginia and Monarch Pass, Colorado. Both were physically tough climbs, Hayters Gap a four-mile, 4,000-foot Blue Ridge ascent at grades close to 15% at times; and Monarch Pass an epic 5,000-foot climb to 11,300-feet elevation at 8% grade for 25 miles.
Of note are Colorado's busy, shoulderless, and winding mountain roads which presented the most difficult overall riding in the country.
The Mojave desert presented challenges because of the heat. I had to stop riding and hop a shuttle on one 111-degree day near Death Valley.
Appalachia with its many climbs was tough throughout. Virginia and Kentucky roads were difficult. They were many steep hills, few flat roads, and narrow road shoulders. Kentucky, like no other state, was also plagued by an abundance of chasing dogs. The Ozarks came with their own set of arduous climbs and summer humidity.

The last two weeks I've been resting, but the images and impressions of the last days of the trek through California are still with me. I pedaled through Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and to the ocean at Santa Monica. I pedaled past the Hollywood sign on the hill, past the stars on the sidewalk along Hollywood Boulevard, past the famous hand prints at Grauman's Chinese Theater, and past manicured parks and lawns of Beverly Hills. At Santa Monica, when the Pacific Ocean came into view, I stood on the boardwalk staring out at it for a while. I took a bike trail south, through Venice Beach, and along the ocean at Marina del Ray, Playa del Ray, and then inland to a motel at El Segundo. I emptied the panniers and disposed of whatever I could in preparation to fly to New York. I flew home from Los Angeles airport the following day, landing at La Guardia Airport and taking a bus and cab home, the end of the trek.

Since then I've been recuperating. I didn't realize how fatigued I was from the summer of pedaling until I was home. It was as if the miles caught up to me when I stopped. And now that the trip is complete, the task of summing it up fully in words seems impossible.

It has taken some time to get used to normal routines again. Things such as setting up a tent at night, pedaling away from a motel or campsite each morning, filling water bottles, reading maps, had become habits of behavior. I walk the streets of New York feeling satisfied about the summer fulfilled, relieved that I made it across the 3,500 miles.

It's relatively peaceful here after being on the road for three and a half months, especially walking in mornings or evenings on the quieter streets, like on Rutherford Place along Stuyvesant park, a park tucked away by large churches and a patch of tall oaks. Hidden from the crowds the small park offers relative sanctuary of calm in the city. When I walk there it's past a cathedral-like Episcopal church, a stately and simple Quaker meeting house, a modern Orthodox Catholic church in modern architecture, and a Jewish synagogue in a converted brownstone.

Gray squirrels live among the trees in the park. People feed them nuts and peanuts. Also pigeons, mourning doves, English sparrows, starlings, cardinals, blue jays, crows, red-tailed hawks, red-headed woodpeckers. I once saw a wild turkey at Battery park, and sometimes I can watch a red-tailed hawk prey on squirrels in the Oval at Stuyvesant Town. Several times I've watched it perch on air conditioners on tenth and eleventh floor windows. Last year a coyote was captured in Central park, baffling game officials as to where and how the animal crossed unto the island.

There is a buffer of vegetation skirting the streets that helps keep Stuyvesant park relatively peaceful. In the park thoughts are lighter and people are relaxed or engaged in levity. Occassionally an acoustic band with violin, banjo, bass and guitar sets up and plays. People toss frisbees and footballs, some lay in the sun or read a book, and dogs occassionally chase around. On the wooden benches, painted green, people read, converse, take lunch, smoke, or nap. Within a block of the park are streets of restaurants and diners. Chinese, Mexican, Thai, Italian, Japanese, and a couple of nondescript ones. A favorite is a diner called Joe Juniors Restaurant and Coffee Shop which serves the best fried egg and sausage breakfast in the neighborhood. Eggs over easy and pork sausage sliced down the middle and homefries laced with onions and green peppers, prepared to perfection by the Mexican cook. Because of the quality of the breakfast, with eggs carefully fried, sausage done perfectly, and even the toast which comes already buttered, I've said the cook is a high chef. I always shout out "gracias, muy bueno" to the chef as we leave. These are the old routines and familiar places.

Any of the bicycling pains I endured along the way have by now subsided. There were the knee pains in hilly Virginia. The quadricep pains throughout the Appalachians. The hand pain and numbness which flared up on the high-mileage days through Kansas. A few bouts of heat-induced weakness in arid Utah and in the Mojave desert in Nevada. And an ongoing numbness and soreness in the feet. All have passed except for the weight of a deep down tiredness that continues to linger. I stayed healthy otherwise throughout the trip, other than the time I was briefly ill in wild Colorado. It happened at the base of Monarch Pass, where some bad water I drank made me ill for a couple of hours there on the roadside. It was an unfortunate and inhospitable place to be ill, at the foot of the highest and longest climb of the trek. Luckily, a half mile up the road I came upon a campground. It was down off the road among pines and cactus in a desert gulch, and it had a small store and a bathroom. There I took an hour to recover and get rehydrated for the climb up the 11,300-foot pass. After riding in such dry and desolate surroundings there in the Rockies, the cooler of cold drinks in the tiny store grabbed my attention. I wanted, needed, two large Gatorades, but thought better of it for my budget and instead grabbed one bottle and took it to the counter. Then the woman behind the counter, quite unexpectedly, offered me a second large bottle, free of charge, explaining that it had been discovered just moments before to be slightly wet from a tiny leak. "You might as well have it," she said. I graciously accepted it and relaxed on a porch to slowly drink the two large bottles -- on yellow and one green. When I felt better I pedaled up and over Monarch Pass.

From what I saw in my travels it would seem America truly is in recession, or at best -- transition. I saw stores and commercial enterprises of all types closed and abandoned all across the land, from New Jersey to California. It was particularly evident in Kentucky and Kansas, where it seemed entire towns had packed up and left. On the cycling maps I used to navigate the trek, the motel and store listings were hopelessly outdated, in many cases with only disconnected telephone numbers and empty store fronts where businesses once operated. I was in several towns which were in their last throes of existence. In Kentucky there was Elkhorn City and Lookout. In Missouri it was Ash Grove and Golden City. In Utah and Kansas nearly every town was tinged by the blight. In Colorado there were towns such as Eads which retain a grocery, bar, motel and post office, and not much else. For California it was Yerba, where among a gauntlet of closed down storefronts falling into decrepitude, the streets are buckled and pot-holed, seemingly never to be repaired.

Some small towns and cities were thriving, like Charlottesville, Virginia -- Springfield and Farmington, Missouri -- Hutchison, Kansas -- Pueblo, Colorado -- St. George, Utah -- Bardstown and Berea, Kentucky -- and Las Vegas. In the east, from New Jersey to Virginia, things seemed relatively better off. And in California the cities surrounding Los Angeles appeared as thriving. Still, even as recession is evident there is vitality in America, people are vacationing, working, building, traveling, and doing all the things that make it the vibrant nation it is.

Churches figured prominently on the trip. Places of worship were everywhere and I had interactions in many. Among the churches and people I encountered along the trip were Southern Baptists, Orthodox and Roman catholics, United Methodists, Lutherans, Mormons, Quakers, Amish, Episcopalians, Mennonites, Pentecostals, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and Hindus, all scattered across the country. Some of the European cyclists I met expressed surprise by the ubiquity of religious expression in America. A plethora of churches, signs, billboards, and bumper stickers represents disparate faiths across the country. Religious symbols decorate the roadside scenes from coast to coast. Three crosses on a Virginia hillside, a statue of Mother Mary on a Kentucky lawn, a small Hindu shrine in the lobby of a Kansas motel, an exotic Buddhist temple in California. I stayed nights in Episcopal, United Methodist, Baptist and Lutheran churches, and once in a Christian hostel. Once I slept beside the altar in the sanctuary of a church for the plushly carpeted floor. On a few occassions when necessary along the trek I stopped to avail myself of church lawns (to rest), awnings (to stay dry or have shade), or water spigots (to refill water bottles). Sometimes a church would be open and I would use the restroom or relax in the shade of the sanctuary for a few moments. At one church in Kentucky there was a full kitchen stocked with food and drink for cyclists. There was no pastor or caretaker there, only a sign permitting cyclists to "make yourself at home." I cooked up a few cans of beans and spaghetti, then slept on the floor, along with two other cyclists who arrived later that evening. In Virginia I stayed on historic grounds at Yorktown in an old house of the Episcopal church. It was stocked with food and had a laundry and full bathroom. I cooked myself a large hamburger meal at a Lutheran church in Kansas where I stayed a night alone. At a Baptist church in eastern Kentucky I cooked up green beens and ravioli in the kitchen, washed laundry, showered, and slept on a mattress on the floor. The pastor showed me a short cut into Illinois. I attended Sunday services once, at a non-denominational Christian church in Happy Landing, Kentucky. It was a small church at an otherwise empty intersection in the rural hills. I happened to ride past the church as morning services were starting and decided to join.

I met several evangelists and preachers on the trip, usually on the roadside, sometimes outside of a church. As such, along the trek I was prayer for, had hands layed upon me, and once on a back road in Kentucky a traveling evangelist spoke in tongues while blessing my trek. There were spiritual exchanges and interactions with memorable personalities such as Ray the Boardwalk Rasputin and Richard the pastor on the New Jersey shore, Lightbulb the McDonalds worker in Virginia, Jeff the walking preacher in Kentucky, Matt the mountain bike preacher in Colorado, and Elmer the bottle tree artist in California.

Foremost, thanks to the long list of those who supported the tour in one way or another. You gave donations, advice, gear, and support which were vital. To Banjo Brothers there is much gratitude for donating panniers, handlebar bag, and saddle bag, for the trek. Everyone who generously contributed to the $1,250 collected for the American Brain Tumor Association can be proud of the substantial donation we raised. Your show of support and donations were monumental, the highlight of the tour. Many donated behind the scenes, significantly helping to fund expenses on the road, providing lodging, meals, flight tickets, bike repairs, gear, and cash. There were generous souls who put money in my hand, and generous souls who sent checks, substantial offerings, in a show of support appreciated beyond measure.