101 Bicycle Stories

101 Bicycle Stories
By Ed Chasteen The Pedalin Prof
Book design and layout by Sharon Hanson
Copyright 2010 by Ed Chasteen All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America
GREATER LIBERTY BOOKS Box 442 Liberty, Missouri 64069
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Story
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19
Prelude .......................................................................................1 Excerpt from Story 27...............................................................2 I Ride with Bob .........................................................................4 Marvin Wright ...........................................................................5 When I Became An Addict........................................................7 Bicycles and the Church............................................................9 Lunch with Nelson Mandela ...................................................13 My Unseen Mapmaker ............................................................15 Notes from Liberty Post Office...............................................17 Ride to Paradise.......................................................................18 Before She Goes to School .....................................................21 Georgia on My Mind...............................................................22 Leading from Last Place .........................................................29 M-48: The Figment..................................................................30 An Unplanned Day ..................................................................31 Laura........................................................................................32 Biking Wind River...................................................................34 Potatoes....................................................................................36 Organ Transplants....................................................................38 Lawson in the Rain..................................................................40 Sisters and the Drunken Brethren ...........................................43 i
20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47
The Valley of Peace and Delight .............................................45 A Young Life Cut Short...........................................................47 A Ride not Taken.....................................................................48 Betty Calls Bobbie...................................................................49 Betty Looks After Me..............................................................50 Bike Wreck ..............................................................................52 Sarah Is leaving .......................................................................54 Back in the Saddle Again ........................................................55 Total Dependence ....................................................................57 New Bicycles for Our Liberty Police ......................................58 The Tandem Tale......................................................................59 My Bookies .............................................................................60 Lance Armstrong ad My Letter to Trek ..................................61 Why Did He Say That?............................................................63 A Distant Door ........................................................................63 A Square Meal In Our Town ...................................................65 The Olympic Torch..................................................................67 If You Know Where Your Home Is ..........................................69 Debbie Overrides the Mapmaker ............................................71 Not Yet Winter .........................................................................73 Funny Place To Meet a Former Student ..................................74 The Morning After ..................................................................75 Bike Ride to Grammar Gulch..................................................77 Beauty and the Beast ...............................................................78 My United We Ride Jersey in Alaska......................................79 To Jewell and Back..................................................................81 What a Breakfast .....................................................................82 The Circuit Rider.....................................................................84 ii
48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74
Amanda And The Bell .............................................................85 Facing Fear...............................................................................88 Music for My Ride ..................................................................91 An Encouraging Word .............................................................92 Grandmother Goodbar.............................................................93 Plant Trees ...............................................................................95 Dr. Bike....................................................................................98 The Rainbow............................................................................99 October on a Bicycle .............................................................101 In Memory of Susan Brewer .................................................102 Cows and Geese ....................................................................103 From a Kansas Corn Field.....................................................106 The Girl on the Bicycle .........................................................107 Fourth of July Pass ................................................................110 Road Wisdom ........................................................................113 The Other America ................................................................114 Liberation...............................................................................116 Bud Ryans Path ....................................................................119 Homeward Bound..................................................................121 Wicked Wind .........................................................................122 A Piece of Pie Every Thousand Miles ..................................126 Rayville Baking Company.....................................................127 Two Rides to JJs Six Months Apart .................................129 Makin Rounds ......................................................................132 Ride to Ginger Sues..............................................................135 Epilogue.................................................................................137 The Kearney VFW Hall.........................................................137 My Satellite Offices ..............................................................139 iii
75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101
Logans B&G .........................................................................140 Third Times the Charm.........................................................141 Lickskillit Mall ......................................................................143 Bike To Breakfast ..................................................................144 Hey, Bicycle Rider, Dont Worry About That Dumb Dog ....146 Plattsburg Road .....................................................................149 Build It And They Will Come ...............................................152 Have Some Grapes ................................................................153 John Was Paying Attention....................................................154 Mounteagle ............................................................................156 A Week with Brian ................................................................158 Bike Van Buren......................................................................160 Ice Cream...............................................................................162 An Angel................................................................................163 Farther Along.........................................................................165 Paycheck-Six Pack-Time .......................................................166 The Chastain Farm ................................................................170 The Rabbis.............................................................................172 Joy..........................................................................................175 Choices of the Heart..............................................................176 Soul and Stomach..................................................................178 Meetings with Peace Pilgrim.................................................180 No Room in the Inn...............................................................185 The Human Family Reunion .................................................187 Wrong Road...........................................................................188 Little Aubrey..........................................................................191 Amazing Grace......................................................................193 iv
101 Bicycle Stories

by Ed Chasteen
For Christmas when I was ten, Mother bought me a used bicycle and taught me to ride. She would hold me up and run along beside me until I was going fast enough to remain upright. The sidewalk that ran past our house ended abruptly a few blocks later, and more than once I lost my balance and fell where the sidewalk ended. I began to fear arriving at that place. Then one day as I got there, I noticed that where the sidewalk ended, there was now a paved path sweeping gently and upward to the right. The bicycle seemed to turn itself in that direction. A short time later the path became a country road leading soon to a town I had never seen before. Id better get home, I said to himself. Mother will have supper ready. But when I turned my bike around, the road was gone. Before I could cry or be afraid, someone appeared at my side. I looked quickly around. An old man stood in front of me and around me stood four beautiful children about my own age. Something about them all soon let me know that I had nothing to dread. I didnt ask who they were, how they got there or even how I chanced to be in a place I had never seen before even though I had traveled only a short distance from my home. Hello, Arthur, the old man said. Before I could tell the old man my name was Edgar, he
Prelude to the Stories
continued. I knew that bicycle would one day bring you back. Dont you recognize it? It was yours when you were 10, the old man said. And you had to be 10 for it to bring you back. Merlin? I didnt understand how I knew the old man or why the old man called me Arthur or why I asked the old man, What happened to us? Where have you been? Im sorry, Arthur. I forgot to warn you about Mordred. Now Camelots gone. But Ive found you again, and this is the City of Nevaeh. I thought I should cry and be afraid. Mother had taught me not to talk to strangers. And I understood that I was lost. But I was happy. And glad to be here. I didnt know why. I just was. You cant go home again, Arthur, Merlin said gently to me. With my magic, however, I will bring your home to Nevaeh. Your house, your street, your mother and dad and your school and church and all your friends will be here. You wont know it from where you were before. You will go to sleep tonight and when you wake up in the morning you will think this has all been a dream. But you will live the rest of your life here in Nevaeh. Peace and Power and Purpose and Joy will be with you always. You wont see them again with your eyes, but you will feel them in your heart. And you wont see me again, Arthur. But as I have spoken, so shall it be. Now, Arthur, ride into Nevaeh. Your mother has supper ready. Edgar Ray, you better wake up. Its Saturday morning and Lets Pretend is coming on. Its the story of King Arthur today. Mother called me Edgar Ray when she wanted to be sure she got my attention.
101 Bicycle Stories
Thirty-five years would pass between the time I learned to ride as a boy and the time I took it up again. Another doctor prompted this reunion. He told me I have MS. He said I couldnt be active. I was for a long while utterly depressed. Then belligerent. Id show
Excerpt from #27
him. I got on my sons old bicycle and began to ride. Across the country. Coast to coast. By myself. With no money. Healing came. My MS, I discovered, means I must be active. If I ride, I can run. If I dont, I cant walk. Seventy miles or more in a day and my legs are renewed. And my spirit soars. Everyday on my bike is Independence Day. The fireworks I see and hear in my mind, my family and friends see in my eyes and smile and hear in my dumb jokes. An old man and a childs toy make an odd couple. But a divorce is out of the question.
by Ed Chasteen, the Pedalin Prof
101 Bicycle Stories
The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart. Iris Murdoch, writer (1919-1999)
101 Bicycle Stories 1
No one seeing me ride by would see Bob. But hes there. Used to be that he was there now and then. And you could see him. Now hes there all the time. And you never see him. Bob died two months ago. I preached his funeral. I had retired the bike he built for me. Bought a new one. The day Bob died I pulled that bike down off the hook it hung from on my garage ceiling. All this year I will ride the bike Bob built. Bob will be in my heart and head with every crank of those pedals. You wont see him. But hes with me all the time. Ill build you a bike that will stand up to a Mack truck and climb a tree. Thats what Bob said when he heard I planned to ride, alone and without money, across America. More than 130,000 miles I had ridden that bike when I hung it up and bought a new one. Some of those miles Boband Jeanhad ridden with me. From Atlanta to Nashville. From Missoula to Spokane. On MS 150s. Around Liberty. When I heard Bob had cancer, I rode over to his house. More than eight years he fought it. He would win. Then cancer would win. I saw him in the hospital just a day or two before cancer won the final round. In the 19 years since Bob built my bike, Ive felt good just knowing he was here in our town. Sometimes I would pop over to see him. Call him on the phone. Occasionally he would spot me on the road and pull his pickup over to ask if I wanted a ride. Sometime I would put my bike in the back and climb in beside Bubba. Bubba
I Ride with Bob
would wag his tail and lick my hand. He knew me. Sometimes Bubba would sit at my feet while Bob and I sat on his couch and talked. About bikes. And bikers. Bike routes. Bike issues in Jeff City. And Kansas City. And cancer. Bubba always barked when I knocked on the door. But once inside, he was my friend. We both loved Bob. When Bob was here with us in person, I would sometimes ride without thinking of him. I guess knowing I could call or stop by made me forgetful. Now knowing hes not here in his house on Jefferson Circle and wont ever again pass me on the road or run into me at Spring on the Square or Liberty Fall Festival has made him unforgettable, placed him ever gentle on my mind. This is our Fourth Annual Greater Liberty Ride for MS. The first one since Bob died. He was fighting cancer years before our first. But after each I would see him. We would talk. In place of that post-ride ritual, Im starting a pre-ride one. By email and hard copy, I will tell everyone I think might care how much I loved Bob Watts. The month of May every year I will ride the bike Bob built and tell Bob stories. Bob would not want any of us to be sad. Im not, Bob. I love you. You live in my heart and head. One day I will come where you already have gone. Another adventure we will share. Until then!
Coming north out of Excelsior Springs Main Street runs past Main Street Baptist Church and Jesus Is the Rock Pentecostal Church before bending to the right and crossing a little creek, where it becomes Salem Road and runs past Salem Community Church, for which the road is named. A roller coaster eight miles through woods and open country and hardly any traffic on a July morning bring on a Niagara of sweat. Euphoria beyond the power of any drug! Pumping these pedals and gulping ice water and mopping my
Marvin Wright
brow. My body one with my bike. Lawson lies ahead. Lunch at Catricks Caf awaits. Just this side of Lawson, State Road MM intersects Salem Road. Ill be a little early for lunch at this rate. And Ill eat alone. If I turn left onto MM, I will come in less than half a mile to the bank where Marvin works, and the place where MM crosses U.S. Highway 69. So I leave Salem Road and come shortly to a newly minted bank planted about three years ago amidst corn and soybeans and an as-yet-unfulfilled expectation that these fields would develop other crops. Build it and they will come seems not to be working here. I first met Marvin not far from where the bank now sits. An overcast October Sunday in 1987. At a now-gone gas station just north of Excelsior on Highway 69. I was 80 miles into my first century. A few miles back, somewhere between Plattsburg and Stewartsville, I thought I heard someone say to me in a soft voice, Ride your bicycle across America. Now I was stopped for water and rest at this gas station when a pickup pulled in and a man got out to get some gas. Where you goin? he asked when he saw my bike. Im gonna ride across America, I said without thinking. Marvin was that man. We have been friends ever since. Marvin here? I ask the teller. Three women employees are the only people in the bank. Hes not here right now. Went to Knoxville, I think. Ask Julie. Shell know. She points across the lobby where a young woman talks on the phone. Marvin doesnt spend much time in the office, Julie says when I tell her I want to invite Marvin to lunch. I can call him on his cell phone. She does. No answer. But she leaves a message and my cell phone number. A freight train is urgently sounding its bellowing horn as I near Catricks. I dont have to cross the tracks, but I stop to admire this passing arrow bound for distant places with exotic cargo. As I mount my bike again, I notice a car that just passed me has pulled to the curb. The woman driver steps out and extends her hand as I draw near. I thought that was you. I was in your death and dying
101 Bicycle Stories
class at William Jewell. Now Im a cancer survivor. Zora and I stand and talk about old times. She and her husband live here in Lawson, just out of town on D Highway toward Polo. I ride that way now and then, I tell her. Stop in anytime, she says. Then I hear a ringing from the bag on the rack behind my seat. Hello, Marvin. I answer. Where are you? It has to be Marvin. I just got this phone. This is the first call Ive ever gotten, and Marvin is the only one who has my number. Im nearing Lawson. I will meet you at Catricks, he says. Marvin was an Industrial Arts teacher in Excelsior Springs when we met in 87. He retired several years ago and lent his prodigious building talents to a variety of projects across a wide swath of Missouri places. Then he was asked by this new bank to come on board as manager. I know nothing about banking. I wont wear a tie. And I wont spend much time in the office. And if I take the job, you have to be looking for my replacement. Ill be a full-time temporary, he told them. I did everything I could to keep them from offering me the job. But they did. He tells me. You know everybody. Everybody likes you and respects you. Thats what they wanted. They got a bargain, and you cant lose. I say. Over lunch we exchange information about our wives and children and our dreams. Now and then on the road we catch sight of one another. Marvin in his pickup. Me on my bike. But its here at Catricks that we meet and keep up with each other by asking waitresses if they have seen the other lately. Since the last time we were here, we each have acquired cell phones. We trade numbers before we leave. Leaving this place where everybody knows your name is hard, but the lure of the open road and the likelihood of meeting old friends along the way makes the leaving easier.
We had been married many years when I became an addict.
When I Became An Addict
Because she loves me she agreed to experiment with its use. A daily habit it has become for me. She has more resistance. She has become a recreational user. When the road is flat, the breeze is gentle and the weather is cool, she is willing to go a little way. I look for hills and heat and distance. She does not sweat. I do. By the bucket. We have just returned from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. On a road almost as wide as the pencil-thin island, she rode with me into the wind and through the rain. All day! More than 26 miles, a new high for her. In the six days we were there, Bobbie rode more than 70 miles. Her favorite part of any ride is when we stop to look. She does not like to be on the road alone. Without cars and trucks of course, but not without me. Other riders are a bonus. Both of our cars now have bike racks. We have taken our bikes to far away places for rides in quaint little towns and along inviting paths. For a wedding anniversary in a recent April, we biked the Katy Trail. We have ridden the Natchez Trace in Mississippi. We have talked of biking Marthas Vineyard, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, a valley in France and trails in Iowa. We likely will do some of these, but the talk itself is invigorating. A stretch of Old 210 runs flat for about five miles not far from our home. On spring and fall afternoons, I load our bikes on my car and we drive to the Liberty Animal Shelter, where we begin our ride. Prevailing winds come from the west and on most days provide a tail wind as we pedal toward Missouri City. We stop where the road has been closed and sit for a while on the wooden barrier put there by the highway department. Then into the wind back to our car. On the ride out, we have been eager to spot the windsock mounted at the airport for tiny planes with lawn mower motors. When we ride in the car, wind direction and strength never come up as topics of conversation between us. When we are home, dinnertime is near. Bobbie magically produces a marvelous meal in little time. Fast food can be gourmet. Then after we have eaten and I have cleaned up the kitchen, we typically adjourn to the basement family room to watch a movie from
101 Bicycle Stories
Blockbuster, one with an uplifting theme and a happy ending. Our garage is filled with bicycles and their accouterments. Magazines and brochures come in the mail. A day seldom passes when bikes do not play a part. Bicycles are simple machines and have come to be central to our lives. I consider myself lucky to have fallen in love with Bobbie and with bicycles. Odd couple perhaps, but one that has given my life direction and purpose. Thank you, Bobbie. I love you.
Frightened people whistling and holding hands as we make our way down a dark alley strewn with debris and emitting strange sounds. Whistling so we wont be afraid and so someone will know we are here. Holding hands so we wont wander off and so when we fall, someone can pick us up. This is the picture I carry in my mind of the church. This picture was refreshed for me when the Bike-Aid Team came this week to Kansas City for a short visit with us on their journey from San Francisco to Washington, DC. They arrived to our campus at Central Baptist Seminary early on a Tuesday July afternoon and departed early on Thursday morning next. What adventures we had in so short a time. On the road, riders get no mail. For weeks ahead of their arrival onto our campus, we had been getting mail for them, thus making us for them a much sought after place. Long giddy minutes they spent tearing open letters and packages and passing around postcards and exchanging news. For dinner came Johanna Bridges and Justin Orr from the Heart of America Indian Center. To feed the ravenous appetite of chronic bikers, they had brought Indian Tacos. Joel Wakham and Janet Moss came with a giant plastic bag of assorted bagels. Bill and Laura Hill brought watermelon. Bob and Jean Watts came. Jean had
Bicycles and the Church
baked a giant chicken casserole. Bob Johnson came with Taco Bell. Roger Driskills class from Second Baptist Church in Liberty had bought milk and cereal and juice and fruit for the two breakfasts the bikers would take with us. Roger delivered it to the Commuter House, where the team is staying. Sixteen riders strong, the Bike-Aid Team is mostly American college students, though one is from Boliva, one from India and one from Nepal. Jaime, from Boliva, had endured a toothache for days before making it to Kansas City. I joined the team in Manhattan, Kansas, and when I learned of Jaimes pain, I called Dub Steincross, my former pastor, back in Liberty and left a message on his machine telling him that we needed a dentist, had no insurance and were asking for help. When we got to Kansas City, Dub had arranged for Joe Evans to see Jaime. The Bike-Aid Team was so taken with our hospitality last year when they spent one night with us at Central that this year they planned a two-night visit, sandwiched around a work day, painting and helping us get ready for our 100th birthday celebration that begins this fall. Half the team would work the morning shift, half the afternoon, giving all a welcome chance to do laundry and take care of personal needs. Allen Thorne and Steve Laws keep our campus operating and supervised the team for the day. I ran Jaime out to Liberty in my car Wednesday morning so Joe could repair his tooth. When he was finished, Joe called the nearby Osco Drug and told the pharmacist to give Jaime some medicine and charge it to him. Peter came with us to Liberty and we went to Sunshine Bikes for some tubes and pump repair and assorted other items. One rider had left the team back in Salina, Kansas, leaving his bike with the team to ship back to California. Sunshine is not in the business of shipping bikes for people, but when Peter explained the problem, Frank Biscari, the owner, pulled down a box, called UPS and told Peter it would be in the mail in the morning. Laura Webb, Dub Steincross and Neita Geilker came from Second Baptist at noon on Wednesday with a deli tray for the team, provided by anonymous good Samaritans from the church. Bill
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101 Bicycle Stories
Riggs picked them up in the church van and took them to Second Baptist for Wednesday night dinner. Don Geilker took them after dinner to the campus of William Jewell College for a quick visit to his observatory. Three of the team did not make it to dinner at the church. The van that carries all their gear and follows them across the country as they take turns driving, had an accident this afternoon. It cant be driven. Its 9:30 PM when I learn that we need a new vehicle for tomorrow. Many hurried phone calls prompt much sympathy, but no one is free on such short notice to re-plan their following day. The van the team drives is rented from Budget, and they are closed until tomorrow. But we must leave by 8:30 if we are to make Warrensburg in time for the gala reception that Central Missouri State University and the Chamber of Commerce has planned. At 6 AM Thursday morning, Bob Watts calls to say that he will take his pickup, load their gear and drive it to Warrensburg. Bob built the bike I have ridden more than 100,000 miles, the bike he says will stand up to a Mack Truck and climb a tree. Bob and Art Gough, a North Kansas City fireman and an urban biker, planned the route we ride today. Bob is Chairman of the Missouri Bicycle Federation and takes a passionate interest in anything and anybody remotely associated with bicycles. With all that he had to do, Bob dropped it all and rescued some bikers. Rich Groves came to church Wednesday night to meet the team. Rich and I ride together most every Saturday and go to church together every Sunday. Rich is taking this morning off from his job as Executive Director of Beth Shalom Synagogue to ride with us for the 20 miles through urban Kansas City, until we come to Highway 291 and the 64 miles of hilly back roads begins. There he will be picked up and, after a quick stop by home to shower, will go to work, arriving there before noon. That is the plan. A violent storm swept through Kansas City last night, downing trees and power lines. The Commuter House lost its lights, air conditioner, and refrigeration. The washing machine and dryer quit.
11
We load Bobs truck with all the gear it will hold. Then we put in a few more pieces. Still there is much that will not fit. Three of the team are staying behind to contact Budget and get another van. We manage to get away by 8:30. East on Minnesota and across the James Street Bridge across the Kansas River puts us in Missouri by a little after 9. By the time we get to City Market the gathering clouds threaten to soak us. Streak lightning off in the distance. We debate seeking shelter. We ride on. A few miles more and we stop for Bill to fix a flat. Thunder rolls. Lightning flashes. Customers entering QT make dark jokes about the attractiveness of bicycles to lightning. We make a few phone calls to say we are behind schedule and concerned about the weather. A few miles further, Bob thinks we have missed the turn on Kentucky Road. A light rain is falling. We stop beside the road while Bob drives to find Kentucky. Thunder, lightning, heavy rain and ominous clouds overtake us and we find shelter in an old garage where an elderly and sole proprietor works on two vehicles inside his cluttered shop. Dave Patterson appears, camera and mike in hand. Dave is our media director at Central Seminary. He has a big can of assorted nuts and two packages of beef jerky with him. We have almost no food with us. Its all back at the house where we spent the night or in the now useless van. Were starving and make quick work of what Dave offers. Ear-splitting and nerve wracking cannons of thunder shake everything around us. Small rivers of water rush down the sides of streets. More than half an hour we wait. And wonder when it will stop. When finally it almost does, we climb on our bikes. Kentucky is just around the corner. Bob has marked several BAD RR places on the finely detailed bike route we all have on our person. We have negotiated several without incident when, in the now light rain, we come to one that angles at about 45 degrees across the road. Peter goes down hard. Rocks embed in his hand. We dig out the first aid kit from Bobs truck. The sun emerges about 11 oclock, and with it comes sti-
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101 Bicycle Stories
fling humidity. Drinking water is scarce now in the open country. If our sag wagon were following, it would come to our rescue. Meanwhile back at the Commuter House, the three team members who stayed behind have talked Budget into a replacement van, and at about mile 40 they appear with water. Never was there a more welcome wagon. By seven in the evening, the team makes it to Warrensburg. Our time together ends. We bid reluctant goodbyes. Our lives have touched. We at The Heart of America Indian Center, Central Baptist Seminary and Second Baptist Church offered assistance in ways that come natural to us. The bike team inspired us with their boldness and with their idealism. With their stories and their vigor, they pulled us beyond the ordinary limits of our typical days. It was time well spent for all of us.
13
In a little cafe on the bank of Fishing River Creek, I had lunch today with Nelson Mandela. We arrived there together on a bicycle precisely at noon. For Christmas just four days earlier, my son, Brian, had given me Long Walk To Freedom, Mandelas justpublished biography. From the moment all had gone and I had picked up the book, I was mesmerized. When I was required by other duties to put down the book, what I had already read took over my mind. Perhaps when I have told you of our conversation, I can think of other things. For years now I have known that unless I ride, I cannot walk. I have Multiple Sclerosis. My doctor told me I could not be active. Years it took for me to prove that he was wrong. Unless I am active, M.S. will have its way with me. Two-hundred miles a week I must ride on my bicycle. This is my own prescription for what ails me. So I have devised this plan. I call it Ride, Read and
Lunch with Nelson Mandela
Write. I ride from my home to a little cafe some 15 to 30 miles away. In my rear panniers, I carry a book, a writing tablet and a pen. While I eat, and for an hour or so after, I read and make notes; then, home to my computer. Over a bowl of oyster stew and a grilled cheese sandwich this noon, Mandela said to me: I have always believed that exercise is not only a key to physical health but to peace of mind Many times in the old days I unleashed my anger and frustration on a punching bag rather than taking it out on a comrade or even a policeman. Exercise dissipates tension, and tension is the enemy of serenity. I found that I worked better and thought more clearly when I was in good physical condition, and so training became one of the inflexible disciplines of my life. In prison, having an outlet for ones frustrations was absolutely essential. On Friday, June 12, 1964, when Nelson Mandela was sentenced to life in prison by a South African court for leading the African National Congress in its fight against apartheid, I had just arrived in Kansas City to see what I could learn about the vote in April to determine whether African-Americans would be allowed to drink from water fountains, use restrooms, eat at lunch counters and try on clothes in downtown Kansas City department stores. For the next 27 years, Mandela was confined to Robben Island Prison, 18 miles off the coast of Cape Town. During all this time, I was teaching Race Relations at a Kansas City area college. Not a class would go by that I did not predict armed revolt and revolution by black South Africans and their allies from the emerging black governments of newly freed African states. But I did not know that inside that prison a man and a movement were being prepared that would astound the world. From prisoner to president Mandela would come, bringing with him some of those who had been his jailers, sharing power with those who had imprisoned him, uniting tribes and colors in a multi-racial and ethnic mosaic that no one thought possible.
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101 Bicycle Stories
Are you Ed Chasteen? The voice comes from a farmhouse off the road to my left. Yes, I yell. I brake and wheel around. A tall handsome man strides toward me. Im a Jewell alum, he shouts as he approaches. Name is Rob Leytham, class of 1990. This second day after Christmas had dawned bright and sunny. My computer screen said 38 degrees. Headed for 55. Did a Missouri December ever present a better day to ride? Lawson! Announced that unseen mapmaker that lives in my head. I hadnt been there in months. This is the day. Go the distance. My mapmaker doesnt speak. Doesnt demand. But its more than a thought. Roads run in all directions and to towns all over the map. With so many choices a bicycle rider could be paralyzed by indecision. I was early on. Then one day years ago as I came to a fork in the road, my mapmaker appeared. How he made himself known is hard to describe. I didnt see or hear him. But the indecision that had always come when multiple roads presented themselves suddenly was gone. I knew which road I should take. Now every morning when I go into my garage to get my bike, I already know my destination. The name of the place I should go just comes to mind. The route I should take appears. If someone should happen to be with me, he would not see it. To me, though, its as obvious as neon in the night. Two snow storms, rain and sub-zero cold had kept me off the road for most of the last month. Freedom today! Up the hill on Natchez, turn left onto Southview Drive to 291. Left to 33 to Mill Street. Left on Mill to Water. Right on Water to Franklin. Once around Liberty Square then out Franklin to Gallatin. Right on Gallatin to Nashua. Right on Campbell to Telford and past my grand daughters house to Northpoint. Left one block to Ridgeway. Right to Schulz. to Yancey. Left to Reece. Left to Glenn Hendren. Right
My Unseen Mapmaker
15
on Glenn Hendren to Lightburne. Left on Lightburne to Hwy 69. Right on 69 past Excelsior Springs to Italian Way. Right on Italian Way to Salem Road. Left on Salem Road to Lawson. Im at Catricks by 11:30. The fried catfish special justifies the 25 miles of hills in getting here. Watkins Mill, says the mapmaker when its time to go. Out Salem Road to MM. Right on MM, past Hidden Valley Golf Course. Cross 69, past Jimmy Oldfields house off to my right. I saw Jimmy at breakfast at Mill Inn in Excelsior Springs last summer. Those chemo treatments were sapping his energy and dulling his appetite. He came to be with us. Now we miss him. Riding past his house I remember the stories Jimmy told about driving his 18wheeler more than a million miles. Over another hill or two I spot someone grilling lunch in his back yard. Then comes the question. Prelude to meeting Rob Letham, five-and-a-half year old Nicholas and two-year old Courtney. I dont meet her today, but Rob tells me about his wife, Alyce Curtis Leytham, also a 1990 Jewell alum. Rob moved his family here about a year ago from a house across from Pleasant Valley Baptist Church. Wanted more room for the kids to play. Bought the old Martin place. Built in 1937 by a sheep farmer named Martin. House built entirely from Oak trees cut on the property. No creaks or groans in the place. Robs pride in his new home is infectious. Lucky kids to have such a father. Lucky family to have such a home. Lucky community to have such members. Lucky me to ride by today. In the late 1800s and into the 1900s, Watkins Mill was a thriving wollen mill and the center of a vibrant social life for miles around. Now its a Missouri State Park. I spot a couple of picnickers as I ride through. From the entrance, I turn right and head for Kearney, past the Jesse James Farm into town, cross Washington Street, past First Baptist Church and Kearney Junior High. Then right one block to Sarahs Table. Sarah is here today. I tell her I have a gift for her, one for her mother, her sister, for Betty and Janis. But not today. Ill bring them Friday morning. Then I order ice tea and
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101 Bicycle Stories
coconut meringue pie. By another route I make my way back to Liberty. Northwyck becomes Ridgeway as it climbs a long and steep hill toward Nashua Road. Geared to granny, I never have a problem pulling that hill. Today Im riding my winter bike, the one I rode from coast to coast in 1987. The one with more than 100,00 miles on it. And today it wont gear down. Half way up, I grind to a halt. Im walking my bike up the hill when a car pulls alongside. Having trouble, Ed? A woman asks. Im fine. Couldnt gear down. You sure youre okay? Thanks, Im fine. Then once around the square, my usual custom to end a ride. Looking to see if our town seems ready for the night. Its all as it should be. Four oclock and alls well. Dark comes early on a winter day. I head for home. A good day you planned, mapmaker. Where to tomorrow?
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Plummeting downhill, the wind in my face. Laboring up, my legs like pistons. Sweat like Niagara washing over my body, cleansing and purifying. Carrying away trouble and sorrow. Searing heat is forecast all this week. Global warming doubters dont want to be pushing their point just now. But I refuse to be homebound by ozone warnings and heat indexes. I was not built for narrow points of view or narrow temperature ranges. On the road. Everyday. In all kinds of weather. Headed for a town some 15 to 30 miles out. And their caf. Home owned. Basic food. Well prepared. Visiting with other connoisseurs of Americana ambiance. Does life get any better? Today, though, I dont leave Liberty. Bobbie caught a summer cold and I promised to be home so by 11 oclock I could drive her meals-on-wheels route. Her six homebound regulars have grown accustomed to her face every Tuesday. Some for years. Now
Notes from Liberty Post Office
and then a new one. From Liberty Hospital via volunteer drivers comes a hot and cold meal and a pint of milk /juice to some 48 folks temporarily less able than they would like. Around town for a couple of hours on my bike. Over Ruth Ewing to Birmingham Road. Right turn and over the railroad track. To Holt Drive. Left on Holt. Over another railroad track. To Withers Road. Left on Withers. Out to the recently opened South Liberty Parkway. Then onto various intersecting roadsCampbell, Plummer, Flintlock, Hughesto see if theyre done and where they go. Stopping now and then to gulp ice water from the insulated bottles I carry in the insulated bag behind my seat. And by the post office before heading home. Several times a week I ride by the post office on my way home. Something of interest or urgency may have come to my HateBusters box. Someone may need our help. Someone may be sending us money, so when we help we do not ask for money. The box today is empty. But the paragraph at the top of this little essay has composed itself in my head as Ive ridden the roads of our town. I need to get them down on paper. This I usually do in a small town caf. Today at the Liberty post office.
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101 Bicycle Stories
A bald eagle. High in a dead tree out in the lake. Approaching Paradise I hadnt seen the eagle. My riding companions told me where to look. I didnt see it. But returning from Paradise, I stop on the bridge and scan the tree tops off to my left out in the lake. At about one oclock, I spot it. At this distance the memory of other eagles Ive seen is required to flesh out its shape. Hawks are not uncommon sights along Missouri roads, but eagle sightings are rare on the roads I ride. Even at great distance, the presence of an eagle confers a rare and much desired dignity. For the third year in a row the New Years Day tempera-
Ride to Paradise
ture in Greater Liberty will reach 62. The average for this day is 38. The record high was 64 in 1897. But the high will come later in the day. We pedal away from the Hanson home on the outskirts of Kearney at 8 AM into an overcast and frigid morning. Steve has laid out a route north on Plattsburg Road to C Highway. Left on C to Highway W. Right on W to Paradise, crossing an arm of Smithville Lake. Then back on W to C. Right on C to Highway 92. Left on 92 about a quarter mile to Highway A. Right on A to 144th. Left on 144th back to Plattsburg Road. Right on Plattsburg Road to 139th. Left on 139th to Scottie Drive. Right on Scottie to the Hansons home. Out to Paradise and back. Prelude to the sumptuous breakfast Sharon has for us. Every Saturday of the year we ride. Ordinarily from Biscari Brother Bicycles in Liberty. The Greater Liberty Riders we call ourselves. To small town cafes out from Liberty we ride for breakfast, to tell stories and keep up with one anothers lives. Some 225 folks have ridden with us at least once, built around a core of a dozen regulars. By email word goes out weekly to invite everyone to join our Saturday ride. Then on the Saturday before Memorial Day weekend every year, we hold our signature ride, the one we call The Greater Liberty Bike Ride for MS. On May 20, 2006, we will hold our Fourth Annual Greater Liberty Ride. Last year more than 200 riders came. We raised more than $5000.00 for MS. When that doctor told me 25 years ago that I have MS, heand Ithought he was pronouncing my doom. Its a damnable disease. And you cant be active, he said. But as it turned out, he was setting me at liberty to think and do audacious things. If he had not told me to rest and not get hot, I would never have dreamed of riding my bike from Orlando to Seattle to Anaheim. Alone and without money. And when I was back and that Klansman got elected to the Louisiana Legislature, I might never have taken my students there to help the state redeem itself if that doctor hadnt told me I couldnt be active. I might never have discovered that the only medicine I
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need to hold my MS at bay is to ride my bicycle. Thirty to fifty miles every day is my goal. And if I ride, I can run. If I dont, I cant walk. Simply being good for my physical health, though, is not enough to get me on my bike in all kinds of weather in every season of the year. Being healthy, I have discovered, is not the goal of my life. Only a means of getting there. My goal is to bust hate, to help folks visit with one another and learn to like each other. To do this, I have to be healthy, meaning that I have to ride a bike. Every morning of the year as I mount my bike in my garage and pedal up the hill to the road that ends as I reach its summit, I have decided whether a left turn toward our town of Liberty or a right turn the town of Independence is the order of the day, issued by the unseen mapmaker that lives in my head. On my very best days, I can ride 125 miles. So with Liberty at its center, I drew a circle showing all places within 125 miles. I call this little piece of Gods good earth GREATER LIBERTY. This is where I ride. I write about the places I go and the people I meet. I ask everyone to help me. Help me raise money for MS so those who suffer from it can be helped. Help me raise money for HateBusters so we can bust hate and teach people how to like people. Help me to encourage and inspire folks everywhere to live above and beyond whatever limitations others try to force upon them. On this first day of 2006, I have driven in my little red HateBusters mobile, with its H8BSTR license plate, to the home of Steve and Sharon Hanson, two of our regular Greater Liberty riders. Steve has laid out our New Years Day ride route to Paradise. Sharon will stay home to have breakfast ready when we return. Long ago I came to value symbolism. Today in spades we have it. Sitting on an arm of Smithville Lake, Paradise is a church, a store, a service station and a few houses. A place seldom seen and little noticed. But able in the mind of all who hear its name to conjure a rapturous vision. To come en route to Paradise upon an eagle only magnifies the magnificence of a magical morning. The 2006 Greater Liberty Ride for MS and HateBusters has begun. We ride every Saturday. We invite all who hear to join
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101 Bicycle Stories
us. Come ride if you can. Support us in every way you can think of. Visit us at www.greaterliberty.org. Send us a message at hatebuster@aol.com Write us a letter to Box 442, Liberty, MO 64069.
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The three of them have already pedaled 2000 miles when I spot them on Salem Road just east of Excelsior Springs on May 26. They had left Jacksonville, Florida on April 6 aboard their tandem, bound for home, across from Seattle on Puget Sound. Ron Nunes captains the tandem. Kate, his wife, is the stoker. Elizabeth, their daughter, rides third. And her pedals are connected to a crank. When we need her to step it up, she comes through. Her legs are short. But shes a trooper. Elizabeth smiles as her mother speaks. I had seen them coming toward me as I pedaled toward Excelsior Springs on Salem Road. Tandems are rare on the road. But three riders? Unbelievable! Bulging panniers front and rear. But it is the little girl who catches my eye. The spitting image of my grand daughter. I had to know their story. Ron had just retired from the navy. Living in Jacksonville at the time. But their home is in Washington state. Ron and Kate have biked for years. They are homeward bound now. Out to see the country. Following routes provided by Adventure Cycling. Their tenant is due to move out in August, just in time for them to move in and enroll Elizabeth. I have a grand daughter. Adopted from China. Where is Elizabeth from? I ask.
Before she goes to school. Thats what Elizabeths dad said when I asked him when they would get there. No other six year old in that first grade class will have pedaled 5,000 miles on a bicycle to get to school. What a story she will have to tell her children and grandchildren late in this 21st century.
Before She Goes to School
China, says Ron. Whats your grand daughters name? Laura. How old was she when you got her? Four months. Oh, really young. Ron says. I dont think to ask Elizabeths age when they got her. Must have been older. I give these three a two minute account of my ride from Orlando to Seattle back in 1987 and warn them about the winds that howl in their face across the high plains desert. I tell them about our Saturday morning riders and promise to tell our riders about these three pedalin pilgrims. Ron gives me their card: Raising Funds for Chinas Orphans it says. I am awed at meeting these three. No one rides east to west and south to north across America on a bicycle. Never a six year old from China. But here they are. In Missouri. The Show Me State. They made my day.
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101 Bicycle Stories
After 125 miles on the road, Im hot, tired, dirty, and smelly when I wheel up to the side entrance of the First Baptist Church in Thomasville. Several thousand of Thomasvilles 30,000 people are members of this big beautiful church that occupies an entire block downtown. Their Wednesday evening meal is near its end as I arrive. Leaving my bike by the door, I race down a long hall and burst through the double doors. Sitting at the end of a long table, the pastor is just finishing his meal. Quickly I tell him my story, ending with, I need something to eat and a place to stay. Yes, get in line. Well take care of that. As I sit eating, a deacon of the church comes to me with a small yellow paper, the number 400 written on it. Youve got a room across the street at the hotel. Heres the number. And hes gone. Yall gonna speak to us? a young woman across the table asks.
Georgia on My Mind
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I dont think so, I say. But in the back of my mind is the hope that the pastor might acknowledge my presence and give me a chance to say a few words. He doesnt. The service ends. And before I can move from my place at the back of the room, the pastor steps through a door and is gone. No one speaks to me as I leave. A small boy is admiring my helmet as it lays on the floor in a corner. When I pick it up to show it to him, it slips from my hand. The mirror attached to it shatters. My sunglasses fall from their case and a lens pops out. None of the people nearby offer to help or say an encouraging word. I am wearing shorts and smell like a horse. But my T-shirt says in big bold letters: Fellowship of Christian Athletes. I feel like it says Leper. I dont feel welcome. I feel no friendship, no interest in me. I am their duty, and they are obligated to do it, no matter how joyless they find it. It hurts me to reach this conclusion about a community of faith. Because I come from a Baptist upbringing and have been an active member of a Baptist church all my life, I fight hard against this judgment of the people I know so well and love so much. My first thought is not to mention Thomasville in my report to you of my trip. But there is no growth potential in such a course. So I must say thank you to First Baptist, Thomasville. I was hungry and you fed me, tired and you gave me rest. My physical needs you met. Like you, though, I came to church this evening to satisfy a spiritual hunger. I wanted to know you and for you to know me, for all of us to leave this place after our brief encounter filled with the peace, power, purpose, and joy that is our birthright as members of the family of God. We blew it. I promise, through, not to give up. I will expect as much from the community of faith tomorrow. Please, dont you give up. No one calls or comes from the church to check on my welfare during the night. By 4:30 in the morning Im at the police station just around the corner where I had to leave my bike. Where yall goin?
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Americus, I answer. Why yall goin there? To see the housing they build for poor people. She says nothing. Her face registers nothing. Its the same incomprehension, non-engagement I had sensed in the deacon when I asked him how to get to Americus. I wouldnt know anything about that, he said as he turned away and walked off. I leave the station, turn left onto Jackson Street, making my way in the pre-dawn toward the highway to Americus. Suddenly, I hear a shot. A rushing of air. My rear wheel fishtails. The pedals wont turn. I come to a dead stop and jump off before I fall over. I pull the bike under a light in a shopping center parking lot. As if fired by a gun, a large nail has been driven clean through my rear tire. Im carrying two spare tubes, but the tire is ruined. By the time Ive found a bike shop and someone to buy me a tire, its nearing eight oclock. I call Habitat to report my delay. I ask if someone can come to Albany and pick me up. I can bike the 60 miles north to Albany; someone can drive the 40 miles from Americus to Albany, and we could all be in Americus for the potluck dinner scheduled for 6:30 at the Episcopal Church. About 20 miles up the road, I pull into a service station to use the phone. My bike grinds to a halt, and I almost fall in the heavy red sand of the driveway. Have a payphone? I ask the unshaven older man in overall who sits, barefoot and shirtless, clipping his toe nails in front of the station. Without looking up or making a sound, he motions to a phone on the exterior wall. I call Habitat again to see if my message has been received and someone can come for me. Bob Stevens is coming. About 1:30 he picks me up at the Georgia State Highway Patrol Headquarters just south of Albany on highway 9. We get to Habitat a little after three. A message is waiting for me to call Jimmys Carters office in Plains. I can see him tomorrow afternoon at three oclock.
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101 Bicycle Stories
A little after five, Bob jumps on his bike and leads me on a high speed tour of Americus. I fall in love with the place, so eloquently do its stately homes and buildings speak of southern charm, so inviting are the rolling hills and deep green forest. The potluck dinner is a good natured roasting of the senior staff. If my purpose in this cross county wandering is to find what makes America hang together, I dare not dismiss what I see and sense in this room. The atmosphere is electric with spoken and nonverbal affirmations, with purpose, commitment, integrity, and energy enough to jump-start a tired social system. I see blacks and whites together. Lots of both! Its obvious they like one another. Love one another. Its also obvious they come together for more than ceremonial occasions like the one that brings them together tonight. Nearer to heaven. More like the world I live in. Thats what this joyous congregation of committed, hard working people causes me to feel. Though I may never be in this place again, this place will forever be part of me. Most of the work of Habitat is done by volunteers. While here they stay in Habitat housing without charge and are paid $20.00 a week. I spend the night in Shalom House with a young family in training for a three year stint as construction supervisors in Ecuador. The communal aspect of Habitat living I find appealing. Whatever is in the refrigerator is for anyone. The door to the house is never locked. Rain is falling the next morning. Im a little late when I find the upstairs room nearby where a large group has gathered for morning devotions. After several student volunteers speak, Millard Fuller, Founder and Director of Habitat, rises to say: Ed Chasteen is visiting us today. Ed stand up. Let us see you. And tell us about this marvelous thing youre doing. Following my five minute summary of my ride and its reasons, two volunteers press money into my hand. And Judy Rogers (not her real name) asks to talk with me. Judys mother was recently diagnosed with M.S. and she is devastated. For years her mother had been trying to find out what
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was wrong with her. And all that time, she kept going, doing so well that her family was unaware she had a problem. But with the diagnosis, Judys mother became a victim, seduced by a system of social expectations that first labels a person a patient, then a victim, then handicapped, a cripple unable to function normally. Physicians believe this. The public believes this. The person-patient believes this. The family believes this. And all act out of assumptions they believe to be reality, the only reality available to them. That they have all bought a bill of goods that none finds satisfying is a truth they can never see, can never even imagine. Each is mentally crippled by their limited view of the human potential. Judys mother is more a victim of this limited world view than of neurological dysfunction. Judy asks me to call her mother to offer help. As I leave Americus and Habitat for the eight-mile ride to Plains and a visit with President Carter, its a little after one oclock. A gentle rain has fallen most of the morning, coaxing fragrance from towering pines that guard these Georgia hills. The rain has stopped as I leave; steam rises from the black surfaced road. Rather than going to his home, I have been asked by his secretary to meet Mr. Carter at the Plains Visitors Center just recently completed. Word of the Carters presence has apparently been announced. The room is filled with good humored people awaiting their arrival. Precisely on time, the Carters appear. A relaxed and pleasant few minutes pass as Mr. Carter makes his way through the room, shaking hands, smiling, calling people by name. After a brief exchange with me, we each step outside so I can show the President my bicycle, tell him about my trip, and have our pictures taken with the bicycle. As I stand with Mr. Carter, through my mind are running the two images that to me symbolize his presidency. The first is of Jimmy and Roslyn walking hand in hand up Pennsylvania Avenue during the inaugural. They had chosen simplicity and openness as
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101 Bicycle Stories
the theme for their tenure as national and world leaders. My second image of Mr. Carter has him with Anwar Sadat and Menacham Begin as the historic peace treaty between Egypt and Israel is signed. Tenuous though it is, I feel a part of these two events as Mr. Carter and I talk about my route from Plains and the distance to Atlanta. Then I jump on my bike and pedal hard toward Atlanta. The original plan had been to meet President Carter at nine, leave Plains at 10, and ride hard toward Atlanta. Curt would leave Atlanta at three oclock, heading toward us. When we met, I would put my bike in his van, and Curt would take me to his house. When my meeting with Mr. Carter is delayed until three, I called Curt to tell him he would need to come further south to get me. Rather than return to Americus by the route I traveled this morning to Plains, I decide to take highway 45 from Plains, bound for Ellaville and what I hope is a rendezvous with that maroon van Curt is driving. As it now stands, Curt is leaving Atlanta at the same time I leave Plains. Unless I reach Ellaville and highway 19 before Curt, he will be south of me before I turn north toward Atlanta. In that case, I will have a hundred mile ride ahead of me, with about three hours of daylight left and no notion of how to negotiate the Atlanta freeways. A mile or so past the Plains Baptist Church, I spot Lucy Grace Hart as she steps off the porch and into the yard with her two small dogs. Her home is an unpretentious white farm house off the road to the left about 50 yards, a gravel driveway leading to the unattached garage. Hello, I yell. She responds with a greeting I cant quite make out. I wheel my bike around. Pull into her driveway. And almost flip on the loose gravel. But I recover enough to make what I hope looks like a deliberate departure from the bike. Im Miz Hot, and I thought you were Jimmy ridin by. He rides out this way now and then to visit John Pope, his best friend in the world. And the Carter family cemeterys just down the road. My husband was a cousin of Jimmys. My familys lived on this
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farm for hundreds of years. We have talked for a few minutes when Lucy Grace Hart asks, Wherere my manners? I should have asked you in for somethin to drink. But I know youre in a hurry. Its nearly five when I reach Ellaville and turn left onto highway 19. A few blocks later I come to a railroad crossing. The bar is across the road; red lights are flashing. An approaching train is sounding its whistle. I take the opportunity to fill my water bottles at a nearby service station. I prop my bike against the wall and step into this bare bones gas station. A few cans of grape pop and two or three Cokes in a small ice box. Greasy rags, empty counters, and tools scattered about. Everything needs paint. I grab two grape sodas and pay for them with one of the dollars a Habitat volunteer gave me this morning. When I turn around, there stand Curt in the doorway. Whered you come from? I explode. I cant believe youre here. An impromptu hug and some excited, simultaneous attempts at communication later, I get the story. I had passed a maroon van just a block after I turned onto 19. It sat in the driveway of another station, and I hadnt seen it. Curt was in the restroom and didnt see me. When he came out, he asked the attendant how to find the highway from Ellaville to Plains and explained he had to pick up a biking friend. Is he riding a big red bike? the attendant asked. Yes. He just passed goin north. Just a minute ago. Curt jumped in his van and took off after me. I was so close he almost missed me. I hadnt remembered my promise to Curt that I would leave my bike in a conspicuous place when I stopped. If he hadnt had to slow down for the train, he probably would have driven right on by.
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101 Bicycle Stories
I was slow before I was old. But now Im old. And more of both. Why, then, did one of our veteran riders just introduce me to a recruit as our ride leader? In a moment we will be off. Ill be the first one out. Before were out of town, everybody will sweep past and out of sight. Some will have eaten and headed back before I get there. And Im their leader?? Five years now weve been riding. From Biscari Brothers Bicycles every Saturday morning of the year. To a small town caf some 15 to 25 miles away. Im the last to arrive. Always. The panniers I always carry hark back to my teaching days at William Jewell College, when I had books and papers to carry. Now they are sometimes nearly empty, but anyone seeing them would think theyre the reason Im slow. Anyone who rides with us once goes on our email list and gets weekly announcements of our Saturday rides. Currently 180 riders are on our list. On any given Saturday, our numbers vary from 10 or 12 to 30 or a little more. Some are regulars, here most every Saturday. Some come fairly often; others, now and then. Firsttimers are fairly common. I maintain the email list and plan our rides. I write stories about our rides. Im retired and not hindered by work, so I ride most every day to some of the places we go on Saturdays. I tell the folks I meet in the small town cafes about those who have come and will come again on Saturday. Im grateful to our Saturday Riders. Slow and old as I am, they make a place for me. They let me lead from last place.
Leading from Last Place
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101 Bicycle Stories
A rainy early June morning in Traverse City, Michigan. Im sitting in the car. Bobbie has gone into Toms Market to get what we need down the road for a picnic lunch. Two weeks now since we left Liberty. First night in Danville, Illinois. Then Dearborn, Frankenmuth, Mackinaw City, Macinac Island, Munising, Traverse City, Grand Haven and Hollandall in Michigan. To pass the time while Bobbie gets our food, I do something I hardly ever do. I look at a map. And to give my looking a purpose, I try to find a town called Liberty. Greater Liberty is what I call all the places where I ride my bicycle from where I live in Liberty, Missouri. Seems to me that with liberty so dear to the heart of all Americans, every state would have a place called Liberty. Maybe we could organize a bike ride in every one. An even Greater Liberty! And there it is. At the M-48 section of the map: Liberty, Michigan. Bobbie comes. Were on the road again. You have relatives here? Most everyone asks when we say we have come from Missouri. No, we came to visit places weve heard about. The Henry Ford, the Grand Hotel, the Soo Locks, the Upper Peninsula, Lake Superior, Lake Huron. Weve seen it all by the time we come to Grand Haven. I pedal away from our motel about 9 oclock the morning of our last day in the state. I ride the bike trail the 20 miles to Holland. Bobbie picks me up. Bobbies mothers folks came from Holland. We spend the afternoon at the Dutch village we find in Holland. Then late in the day, homeward bound. Hundreds of pictures in our heads and on that little chip in our camera. Years ago at Disney World in a section I remember as Imagineering, we heard a little song by a Disney character called Figment, a figment of imagination. Thats all it takes. Thats what
M-48: The Figment
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M-48 did for me. Greater Liberty just expanded beyond anything that ever would have occurred to me had we not stopped at Toms Market and had not that map been lying in the seat.
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Im about a mile from home when my bike-phone rings. Rich Willet wants to go for a ride. Rich was an army major, then a Ford Exec. Troops to Teachers its called: the program that will take him to Savanah, MO this fall and begin his new career as an English teacher. Rich had sent me an email a few days back. Said he wanted to pick my brain. Meet me where 291 and Ruth Ewing intersect. Well ride to Orrick. I say. Old 210 is quiet. We get to know each other. Rich is one of 13 children. Grew up on a Kentucky farm between New Haven and New Hope. His father was a WW II veteran. He died when Rich was young. My mother could do more with a dollar than anybody I ever knew, Rich says when I ask how they made it. There was a monastery near our farm. Called Gethsemane. Hey, thats where Thomas Merton was. I yell. A Trappist monk. Wrote The Seven Story Mountain. An amazing book. Ive been to that monastery. I used to ride my horse on their farm, Rich says, and swim in their pond. The monks built us a house. Nothing fancy, but bigger than we had. We have just passed the Orrick sign when we exit 210 on Z, and spot a billboard announcing the Annual Potato Festival. Anybody around here grow potatoes anymore I ask Donald, one of the regulars, when we get to Fubblers Cove. Maybe in their gardens. The festival is a reminder of days long past. You have to be home any certain time, Rich? He says no. Lets ride on to Richmond. Take the scenic route on old 210, now
An Unplanned Day
13
called T, thru Fleming and Camden. Maybe Henrietta. Rich is agreeable. John is behind the counter at Caseys when we get to Henrietta. He and Rich discover a St. Joe connection. John moved here to raise his kids in a small town. Im 15 cents short when I pay for three granola bars. Ive got some change on my bike. Ill run get it, I say to John. Dont bother, Ive gotcha covered, he says. The new Highway 13 has been finished since I was here last: two south bound and two north bound lanes, wide smooth shoulders. We find Jerry and Ellen both in their office at the Richmond Chamber of Commerce. They both have hosted our Greater Liberty Ride for MS. Jerry is a former high school history teacher. He has some bits of wisdom to share with Rich. Ellen recently replaced Jerry as Executive Director of the Chamber when he retired. Passing back thru Orrick about 4 oclock, we stop at a service station to fill our water bottles and use their restroom. We leave 210 at the eastern edge of Missouri City and ride to their school. Smallest AAA School in Missouri. Thats what the sign says. At the school we turn right and back to 210. Its almost 6:30 when we get home. A 70-mile day. Rich comes home with me to meet Bobbie. You look a lot younger than Ed, Rich says to Bobbie. She likes him.
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101 Bicycle Stories
Laura has me going in circles. She called me yesterday on the phone. In her soft little voice she said, I learned to ride a bike today. Can we go for a ride? We were sitting on the living room floor when she was three. We had been building with Legos for a while. Laura looked up at me. I love you, Papa. Youre so precious. The whole family heard her say it. I remind them. Often!
Laura
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Now Laura is seven. Im 2200 miles into a promised 10,000 miles on my bike this year. Thirty miles a day I need to average. I had planned to do that today, this first Sunday of spring. You bet. After church, bring your bike over and we can ride. At two she comes. We take her bike out of the trunk. Her mother, my daughter, has dressed her in knee and elbow pads. Laura straps on her helmet. We pedal down the long block to the church parking lot, Lauras mother right behind. Wow! Im amazed. Off she goes. Round and round in everlarger circles. Pedaling strong and steady. Weaving fearlessly. More than two hours we ride. Playing follow the leader. First she leads; then I do. Way to go, Laura. Lookin good Laura. Good job Laura. She beams. And pedals faster. What will the winner get? Laura asks. She has just proposed a race. How about a bowl of ice cream? She agrees. How many times around? She asks. Three. I say. And she wins. She always wins when we play. I let her make the rules. Were sitting in the patio swing eating chocolate ice cream back at home. How far did you ride? Lauras mother asks. Oh, three or four miles I guess, I say. More than that, my wife says. You rode more than two hours. You ride 10 to 15 miles per hour on the road. Well, lets say 10 miles. Laura and I rode 10 miles. What can we do now? Laura asks. We could play basketball. No, she says. Croquoet? No. Draw on paper in my office? No. Watch TV? No. What else? I dont know. What do you want to do? Lets ride bikes, she says. And we do I must have met thousands of people in hundreds of places on my bike. Ive always said that people and places are not to be compared. Each stands alone as its own standard. Each is precious in its own right. But riding in circles in a church parking lot with little Laura will stand out like neon in the night when I write the story of my 10,000 miles this year on a bike. Way to go, Laura.
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101 Bicycle Stories
It is 2:15 and 60 miles to Dubois. I soon understand why the mountain range off to my left all the way to Duboisthe one for which the reservation is namedis called Wind River. For the next four hours I pedal upstream into that fast flowing river. By 6:30, I have gone 30 miles: 30 more to go. No way! At Crowheart, a lone service station I finally come across, I ask if I can sleep on their floor. He says they dont have a place. He suggests Red Rock, 14 miles up the road. I dont see how I can possibly make it. Im so tired I can hardly think. But I thank him and leave. Back on the bike, I come about two miles later to what must be a mirage. Off to the right about 50 yards from the road is a compound composed of a church, a school and a house, all enclosed by a chain link fence. The gate is open and I enter. Parking my bike in front of the house, I step up on the porch and knock. No answer. At the church and the school? Nobody. Ill wait. Im out of the wind. And the last thing I want right now is to get back on that bicycle. Nightfall comes late as I sit on the porch and wait for someone to come home. In the distance off to my left at about 11 oclock I see lights come on and I can make out the sound of music carried on the still night air. The only other sound is of rushing water that I decide comes from a creek, though where it is from where I am I havent a clue. The house faces east as best I can figure. I reach that conclusion because as I sit here I look back along the road I arrived here on and because that west wind whistles around the sides of the house. The two-foot wall that encloses the porch affords some protection against the chill that invades this place as the last rays of the sun are swallowed by darkness. My teeth begin to chatter. I rummage through my panniers to find my insulated long-Johns, my stocking cap, my flannel shirt,
Biking Wind River
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and my wind breaker. Before putting on my gloves, I wolf down several peanut butter sandwiches, an orange, apple, some nuts and raisins. Then on with the gloves, I stretch out on the hard wooden floor of the porch, expecting any minute to see headlights swing into the gate and to have someone open the door behind me and welcome me inside. No one comes. Wearing practically everything I have and using my helmet for a pillow. I sleep. I wake up often. And mash the button on my Timex that lights the read-out. Teeth chattering, muscles twitching, I change positions; sit up, lie down, stretch out, roll over on the other hip when pressure gets too great. One good thing about the cold: I can almost forget how hard the wooden floor is. When I wake up at 4:15, I feel like a tin man who hasnt been oiled, but I make spastic attempts at exercise to get warm. I repack my bike, stuffing things into whichever pannier will hold it, giving no thought to the filing system Ive carefully devised so Ill know just where everything is. I hit the road at 5:15, wearing thermal underwear, blue jeans, flannel shirt and rain suit, complete with hood. And Im still cold as I re-enter that infernal wind I thought had abated. I didnt hear it much last night, but its back this morning. No, its not back. It was here last night, howling down this highway. My being out of it didnt diminish it, only my awareness of it. The wind will still be here when I am home writing this book. The wind is still trying to push me backward like it did yesterday. The only difference in the wind this morning is that its colder. Hunkering down on the bike as low as I can, leaning forward until my chin rests on the handlebars, pumping as hard as cold legs and tight muscles allow, I inch forward into the wind on a dark, deserted road. After a few miles, the pavement ends; gravel of every conceivable size replaces it, and for the next seven miles I fight those rocks to keep from being up-ended or ruining a tire. And when an infrequent car passes in either direction, Im engulfed by dust and flying pebbles. Big Earth moving machines wander back and forth across
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this boulder strewn trail that passes itself off as U.S. Highway 26. My speed drops to an average of six miles an hour; its 9:30 by the time I get to Dubois, 24 miles from my front porch bed.
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101 Bicycle Stories
For a while in the 1940s even German prisoners of war hoed potatoes here. Tons of potatoes from the Mann Potato Farm fed folks for miles around. Pumpkins sprouted here a few falls ago. The promise of softball and soccer games is now transforming these once river bottom acres into a sport complex on the southeast edge of our growing town. Old 210 Highway has been quiet since new 210 lured delivery trucks and commuter traffic on their journey between Kansas City and Richmond. As the only flat and straight stretch of road for miles around and only an occasional local driver, old 210 became a magnet for bicycle riders. When players and spectators come for the games in a few months, the equation will change. Perhaps motorists drawn by the prospect of one sport will find tolerance for another. Maybe bikers will act as responsible citizens of the road. The promise of a good time at our mutual exertions may elevate us all to the good neighbor status we all in word exalt. Liberty Bend Fish Market has drawn word of mouth customers for years. More than once Ive parked my bike in front as I waited my turn to order their fish or barbeque beef sandwich to go. If Build it and they will come works its magic on this Missouri potato farm as on that Iowa corn field, Jeff may have to hire more help. Everyone coming to play or to spectate will pass his place. So, too, will Libertys Animal Shelter draw attention. Standing across the road from the Fish Market and a few hundred yards nearer the sports complex, this simple white building is temporary home to our stray cats and dogs. To find potatoes along 210 now draws the seeker to Orrick,
Potatoes
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where every summer they hold a Potato Festival. From my house, I ride up the hill on Natchez and turn right onto Southview Drive. South Liberty Baptist Church stands at the intersection of Southview and Ruth Ewing, where I turn left and cross 291. Then right onto Liberty Bend Road, past recent housing, open fields and a repair shop for big trucks and the road bends sharply to the right before coming to Old 210, where I turn left and come quickly to the Fish Market on my left. Old 210 runs flat and straight for five miles past soybean fields and a tiny airport for hobby planes before coming at EE to new 210, built to bypass that monster hill by which old 210 meandered into Missouri City. A slow assent up a straight-ahead long hill on a wide shoulder is better biking than rounding one blind corner after another on a narrow road with no shoulder and a long drop into the Missouri River. Railroad tracks ran at an angle across Old 210 about two miles east of Orrick. Once when riding over those tracks I failed to hit them at a 90 degree angle, and I went down hard. To get New 210 over the tracks, engineers built an overpass. A strange sight for years it was to watch them build two hills in the middle of a field and then connect them with a bridge. When later a road was made to run through those fields, the plan behind it all was made plain. Beginning about a mile east of Orrick the shoulder has been chewed to pieces by farm machinery. The crater size potholes and the jagged asphalt edges are hazardous terrain for a skinny-tired road bike. Bicycles are by law vehicles and riders must follow the same rules of the road as drivers. I have the same rights to the road as any driver. When I choose to ride the shoulder on my bike, I do so as a courtesy to other and faster vehicles, but when that shoulder poses a danger that I might crash or disable my bike, I have every legal right to take my place on the road. And I do. Now and then from behind me will come the load blast of an angry horn, and as the vehicle rushes past, I will say to myself, Im sorry, my friend, I didnt realize this was your private road. Please forgive me. Today, though, traffic is light and the owner of
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this road does not appear. I am seated just a noon time at a table near the back in Fubblers Cove, a homey little place with pleasant service and good food. The special on this winter day is ham and bean soup with cornbread and fried potaotes cut in round thick slices, lightly browned and crisp on the outside, soft and white on the inside. Back from Orrick into a biting headwind, I stop at the intersection of N and 210 to drink from my water bottle just as a coal train is passing. I wave to the engineer, and he gives a quick toot on his horn. To have ones presence in this world acknowledged is always a good thing. When I chance to encounter a train speeding in the opposite direction and can make momentary contact with the one who controls it, Im reminded how precious and fleeting all of life really is. Im reminded also that each of us is in charge of our own lives.
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101 Bicycle Stories
Most of us have gathered in the parking lot at Biscaris when Kevin rides up. Hey Kevins here. We have to go to Orrick. Everybody laughs. Every four or five weeks we ride to Orrick and Fubblers Cove. Its the only flat route we ride. But Kevin doesnt like it. And we all know it. Kevin makes sure of that. Im not riding to Orrick, he says. Just kidding, we say. Last time Kevin came was for my birthday ride to Mill Inn last November, a year ago. His new job takes him regularly to New Jersey, Connecticut and other east coast places, leaving him with too little time with wife and children. Home time is precious. Except that we ride by a different route to a different place, everything goes exactly as I had planned. The email I had sent to the 176 members of our Greater Liberty Riders had us starting as we almost always do at Biscari Brothers Bicycles in Liberty, riding out Liberty Drive and ending at City Diner alongside City Market in
Organ Transplants
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Kansas City for breakfast. But City Diner does not have space enough for all those it attracts on a Saturday morning. On a late November morning in Missouri the weather can be brutal. But today is almost balmy. Last Novembers typical weather kept our numbers small, and we could have fit anywhere. The 14 who come today are a welcome sight but make our chosen destination unacceptable. We want to all sit together and tell stories. So to adjoining tables in the back room of North Kansas Citys First Watch we go. Out South Liberty Parkway we ride. Turn left on Highway 69 through Claycomo and onto Vivion Road to Antioch and 210 into North Kansas City. Highway 210 becomes Armour Road as it enters North Kansas City. Christmas decorations arch across the road and line either side. Were in a festive mood as we pull up to First Watch and prop our bikes against the wall to either side of the double doors. We have been here often enough that we know to ignore the crowded front dining room and head for the back room, where large groups can be at home together. I take a seat beside Kevin. In his new job he travels for a company in Lees Summit that plans and monitors drug treatment protocols for organ transplant recipients. He calls on hospitals and doctors back east and helps to plan drug regimens for patients who require organ transplants. As he tells me about his job, my mind goes to the man I met just yesterday. My cell phone had binged twice that morning, alerting me to a call I had missed. It was Rich Groves, my longtime bike riding buddy and route planner. He was calling to tell me about a new caf on Libertys town square where he and his dad were having breakfast. A month or so back, Rich became Program Director of Downtown Liberty, Inc. He takes keen interest in all activity on the square. From our many morning rides to small town cafes, he also knows I judge them all by their biscuits and gravy. This place is called Cajun Tonys Cafe, he said. They have great biscuits and gravy. Im there shortly to check it out. I meet Tony, his wife and kids. They have not been in Liberty long. Louisiana was their home.
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Now they live above this downtown building, and just today have opened Cajun Tony. I get a plate of biscuits and gravy and join three other guys at their table. Clay Lozier is the only one I know. I introduce myself to the man to my right. He says a few things to me. But what he says next erases all he has said before from my mind. Im having a kidney transplant the day after Christmas, he says. The Greater Liberty Riders have been together for four years now. We have talked about many things over breakfast in many places. Organ transplants have seldom come up. Now on consecutive days, this extreme makeover of the body is the centerpiece of our conversation. How fragile life is. How precious health. How fortunate we who can ride. How easily we forget these things.
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101 Bicycle Stories
Forty years and 800 miles apart, Brian Blevins and I were seniors on high school football teams that won the state championship. If I hadnt been riding sweep and had a flat, we never would have known. Were not scheduled to begin our ride until 7:30 this morning. But its still raining and looks like it will for a while. So I come at 7; I want to be here when the first ones come so I can gauge their enthusiasm for wet weather riding. Too late! Rodger is here. Hes almost always the first to arrive, though he drives from Independence. I climb into the front seat beside him. How do you feel about ridin in the rain? I ask. I dont mind being caught in it. But I dont like to start in it, he says. The Mayor and Catricks are expecting a bunch of us, I say. How many you think well have in the rain. Not many. I doubt Steve will come, Rodger says. Wearing that brace, he wont ride in the rain. Aaron has pulled up in his car as we talk. Aaron just started his senior year at Liberty High. I have just gone over to welcome Aaron when Steve drives
Lawson in the Rain
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up. For the three years our Greater Liberty Riders have been riding every Saturday, Steve has been a regular. Some 10 weeks ago Steve rammed into a parked car alongside 69 highway and cracked his skull. Hes been riding again for a few weeks. But he cant turn his head, wears a brace and depends on other riders to see whats coming from the sides. What do you mean thinking I wouldnt ride? he asks Rodger. Why wouldnt I? Then Petra pedals up. She lives just a few blocks away and never drives here. Where is everybody? This is weather for real bikers. Memories are made on days like this. She says. Easel and Ken have come by now. I unstrap my bike from its rack and get my panniers out of the car. If Im going, Im carrying all my gear. I say. And Rodger surrenders. If everybody else is crazy, so am I, he says. Were all soon wet. And Im soon last. If truth be known, I carry these big panniers in part to explain my slowness. Loaded as I am, my riding last seems reasonable. But I doubt Im the only one who knows the truth: that I would be last even without these big bags. My natural slowness is the big reason Im last. But not the only reason. Im responsible for all of these good folks being on the road. I picked the route and the destination, the starting place and the time. I send the emails that bind us all together. So I choose to ride sweep, coming last to make sure no one is left behind. Brian and Cindy Harvey have ridden from their home in Kearney to join us at Catricks for breakfast. Brian flew in from Phoenix about 10 oclock last night. He flies back early Monday morning, just in time for a staff meeting. He doesnt like living apart from Cindy and the girls. As soon as they can sell their Kearney home, they will all live again in Phoenix, from whence they came a few years ago; to which Brians job now demands a return. In this interim, though, these two have endeared themselves and become major players in our Greater Liberty Riders. Both of them ride often and well. As the days they will be with us dwindle down to a precious few, we hold them close and try not to think ahead. Sharon has come to join Steve at breakfast. They some-
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times ride a tandem. Sharon this morning, though, has driven here from Kearney with her dad, Frank, who is visiting with them for a while. K Street Bistro in Liberty was our meeting place this winter and spring as we planned our Fourth Annual Greater Liberty Ride for MS. Dave and Mary Ann own K Street. They wanted a picture of me to put up so they could help me raise money for MS. The good folks at Printing Unlimited here in Liberty made beautiful posters and gave them free of charge. They are up now at K Street. And in all the places we ride. Catricks has two of them in prominent places this morning. The Mayor of Lawson has one up in his office window. We tell stories and laugh a lot as we breakfast. No one is anxious to leave. And its not reluctance to go back into the rain that keeps us in our seat at the table. As much as we all love to ride and long to be on the road, we treasure as much these moments when we huddle together and share secrets, as we seldom have done since junior high. I am the last to leave Catricks and get back to the spot in the parking lot the police have cordoned off for us to park our bikes. They have all waited for me. Thanks for waiting, I say. Thanks for coming. See you down the road. And were off. I take a while getting all my stuff back in my panniers. Everybody is out of sight when I mount my bike. Ive just turned onto Salem Road and gone a couple of hundred yards when my front wheel suddenly jerks to one side and I fight to stay upright. I manage to come to a stop without going down. My front tire is flat. Im in front of a vacant house. I pull over into the yard. Take off my panniers and water bottles, turn the bike upside down and remove the front wheel. A man comes out of the house next door. A dog comes ahead of him. A big, muscled dog. He runs toward me. The man yells at him. He keeps coming. He circles me and comes close. His intentions I cant fathom. The man arrives and grabs the dog by the neck and carries him back into the house. The man then leaves in his pickup.
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101 Bicycle Stories
A policeman drives up as I wrestle with the tire. Ive forgotten my tire tool. I thank him for stopping and assure him Im okay. I finally get the tire off but cant get air into the new tube with the tiny pump I carry. Im still working at it when the man in the pickup returns. Can I help? He asks. Cant get my pump to work. Need some air, I say. We put my bike and all my stuff in his pickup. He drives me to Caseys. Their air hose works. But the tube still wont hold air. Thanks for bringing me here, I say. I dont want to keep you. Ive got a cell phone and can call my wife if I cant make this work He leaves. I keep trying. No luck. I call Bobbie. And give her directions to Lawson and Caseys. Ive just hung up when the man in the pickup comes back. Ive got to referee a Pop Warner football game in Independence at 2:15. I can drive you to Liberty. I call Bobbie back and cancel her rescue mission. We load my bike into Brian Blevins pickup for the second time. Did you ride here from Liberty by yourself? Brian had asked me this the first time we put my bike in his truck. I had explained that we came as a group. That I rode last to look after everybody. But who looks after you? He asked. They do. But they know I attract Good Samaritans. They know I count on finding goodness. They know I look forward to meeting new people when trouble comes up. They know that today I needed to meet you. It took a flat to make it happen.
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Seldom do a steeple and a bell tower herald the presence of a bar and grill. But such is the case in East Lynne, Missouri, a fact unknown to either of us as Brian and I pedal into this tiny town on K Highway. The brightly painted sign on the weather beaten old church announces Fuglys Bar and Grill. Inside over the bar is a more intriguing sign: Assembly of the Drunken Brethren Church.
Sisters and the Drunken Brethren
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By happenstance we have arrived just at noon on the day of their annual hog roast. For seven dollars a plate we step up where the preacher used to stand and are the first to fill our plates from the smorgasbord of beautiful food brought in by local folks. Redundant! Thats the word my British friends would apply to old churches across England as we pedaled past and I would inquire. No longer needed for their original use, they now served as museums or some other civic function. That word springs to mind this morning in this Methodist Church that for 17 years now has been a bar, offering spirit of a different sort to perhaps some of the same people. This is not our first encounter this Saturday morning with redundancy. Some three hours before coming to East Lynne and the Drunken Brethren, Brian and I had come to Pleasant Hill and Sisters. For several years we had been riding from his house in Lees Summit by meandering back roads to Pleasant Hill. Built around a train depot where trains no longer stop, Pleasant Hill is exactly that. Neighbors Caf is where we usually go and are headed today. Brian is in the lead as we come into town and on impulse takes a different side road past the abandoned depot. On the red brick building to our right, Brian spots the simple white sign: SISTERS. Then we see a message board on the sidewalk describing the breakfast special: Biscuits & gravy, 2 eggs, bacon, sausage and potatoes, $5.99. We prop our bikes against the wall and step inside. Laurel welcomes us. You know, like Laurel and Hardy, she says to explain her name. Shes one of the eight sisters in the family that runs this place. And seven brothers, she says. Four years now they have been here, Laurel says. Open every day but Sunday for breakfast and lunch. Open all day Saturday. We order the special. One of the grand daughters brings our meal. She explains that they make their own bread and brings us some. With room for 26 at their six tables, a tiny kitchen, walls hung with quilts and family pictures, diners talking to one another from table to table and the staff treating everyone like family, being here is like being home. Even the several trains that rumble past just
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101 Bicycle Stories
outside the window at the track-side end of the room remind me of my grandmothers when I was a boy and she lived near the track. Well be back, we say as we leave. And by 3:45 we are back. They also make their own pies. Tonights special is lasagna. They told us that at breakfast and we had planned to have it. Thats before we learned of the Drunken Brethrens hog roast. So Brian orders the pecan pie and ice cream. I get the bread pudding with warm caramel sauce. Back at Brians place by six, Dave, my other son, joins us and we drive to the Pizza Shop. Were waiting for our order as we watch Kansas and Colorado play on the TV across the room. Were talking among ourselves as we watch. A man appears at our table, holding four boxes of pizza. Youre MU fans arent you. Yes, we say. Apparently hes been listening to our conversation. I wouldnt give these to you if you were KU fans, he says. And he leaves. What a day! Great riding! Great food! Unexpected good fortune! New friends. My two sons! And now I get to tell all of you! WOW!!
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May peace, power, purpose and joy go with us all the way till we turn round right and come to the valley of peace and delight. This is the thought ever gentle on my mind as I ride my bicycle all around this little piece of Gods good earth I call Greater Liberty. Usually from my home of 43 years at the bottom of a block-long street, I pedal up to a cross street. A left turn will take me two miles into our town, a place that has been my home and the place of my work since grad school days, a place identified on the map as Liberty. A right turn as I top the hill from my house will take me 10 miles and over the Missouri River to the town of Independence. Living long between Liberty and Independence has
The Valley of Peace and Delight
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lifted my vision and helped me see what could be. Sometimes, though, I drive from home in my bright red PT Cruiser, the HateBuster mobile, I call it, license # H8BSTR, my bicycle stowed behind my seat, to a place where other riders wait, and we ride to breakfast in a small town some distance away. For miles around in all directions for years we have ridden to small town cafes. We are known as the Greater Liberty Riders. On my very best days I can ride about 125 miles. So I drew a 125-mile circle around Liberty and christened this place Greater Liberty. The name to me does not so much identify the place called Liberty but the condition known as liberty. It is Greater Liberty from limitations that I seek: physical limitations, mental limitations, spiritual limitations, social limitations. On this October Sunday in the year 2009, I have driven from my home to the home of my two sons 29.3 miles away in Lees Summit. One son and I have gone for an early morning ride. After 20 or so miles of hills, we have come by a most indirect route to a fascinating place at 3365 Fascination Drive called R.A. Longs Sawmill Restaurant. A cut above the rest, it calls itself. We prop our bikes in front and step inside. Love at first sight. The warm wood walls and floor convey a tranquil cocoon ambiance. Even more than by their biscuits and gravy, my opinion of a place to eat hinges on the presence of the owner. Preferably in the kitchen. Owner Eddie Adel brings our biscuits and gravy. Superb! Eddie lingers to talk. Eddie was a master chef for years at several of Kansas Citys leading restaurants. A friend persuaded him to open his own. Eddie and his wife, Barbara, designed and named R.A. Longs Sawmill after researching Longview Farms and owner, lumber baron R.A. Long. The Sawmill features locally grown, sustainable and organic produce. Barbara used to hear Eddie say that people need a place to eat that has really fresh salad that doesnt come out of a bag, great steaks, and home cooking, like meatloaf, pork tenderloin and salmon. Dave Gale, developer of New Longview, loved the vision
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101 Bicycle Stories
of the Sawmill and gave Eddie and Barbara 100 year old Cyprus tongue and groove wood to restore and use in the restaurant. He also gave them the original stable doors that housed some of Longview Farms famous horses pictured in the restaurant. Barbara, Eddie and three-year old Jackson are here this morning and give the place the feeling of home. Brian and I promise to return. And invite others to this good place in Greater Liberty. Come meet Eddie, Barbara, Jackson and the other fine folks. Take a look at the marvelous menu. Enjoy the feast! Over biscuits and gravy here this morning the old Shaker hymn from which the title of this piece comes plays on a back channel of my mind. The title of the hymn: Simple Gifts!
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A young life cut tragically short on my behalf. We never met. How much we might have cared about one another we will never know. But heor shedied for me. The marching soldiers off the road to my right catch my eye as I come to Glenridge Cemetery. Mourners circle the place where a few moments earlier they have lowered their loved one into the ground. I bring my bike to a stop and stand for long minutes beside the road, trying in vain to imagine the grief that has engulfed them. My sons and my daughter live safely a few miles from this place. I would not want to live if they had been killed in defense of their country. Wickedness in the world sometimes demands that we fight. And those killed by that wickedness hold special places forever in our hearts and minds. But nothing can ever make up for their absence in our lives. It is not right that they die so young and so violently. Why must it be so? World events beyond any of our understanding or control deprived these good people of a dear one and drew them to this cemetery for a tearful farewell. Feelings of pride may one day come to ease the awful pain of this moment.
A Young Life Cut Short
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My young friend, I salute you for your courage. I will do all in my power to be worthy of the high price you paid for my liberty.
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101 Bicycle Stories
A fierce wind and an ominous sky are unwelcome intruders in the natural environment of a biker. So when no one comes early on this late April morning to ride with me, Im not surprised. I try to be disappointed. I cant quite pull it off. I will miss their pleasant company today, and we all will miss the good food and fellowship that would have been ours at JJs. We were to have rendezvoused here at Mt. Gilead Church and School for a hilly 15-mile ride to Plattsburg. When 20 minutes past our appointed time no one has come and wind rocks my car and rain pelts the windshield, Im feeling more relief than disappointment. Though everyone who usually comes rides faster than I do, I am their host, wanting to welcome them as I would to my home. Having invited them, I am honor bound to see to their welfare. Even if I naturally rode fast, on these rides I would hang back to see that no one took a wrong turn, got hurt or had a mechanical problem. With the one-year anniversary of our tornado just days away and the signs of violent weather all around, I cant summon my usual enthusiasm for riding. Thank you, my friends, for your good sense in not coming. With my bike on the rack, I have driven here to the church to meet you. The wind tearing at my bike and roaring at the windows testifies to your wisdom in staying away. I love you for your good company when you come and your guidance when you dont. Next Saturday at 8 AM from the bike shop we ride. A training ride for the Wheel to Weston it will be. To Excelsior Springs and Mill Inn we will go. More riders than usual we will have. Join us.
A Ride not Taken
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The other nine are eating breakfast when I arrive. There is a vacant chair at the end of the table, where sits a half order of biscuits and gravy. This is for you, Ed, they call in unison. It just came. Its still hot. Im almost always the last rider in. They had let me lead the way as we left Biscari Brothers Bicycles. At our customary 7:30, we pedaled across the parking lot and turned left on Brown Street and made our way over to Mill. They all had passed me before we got to the cemetery. Five miles out they were all waiting for me at Liberty Hills Country Club. You guys could grow a beard waiting for me, I said. Whadda ya carry in those panniers? Several ask at once. Theyre looking at the big black bags (panniers) I always carry on both sides of the rack behind my seat. Another black bag sits atop the rack. Theyre my excuse for being last, I say. You gonna ride past Mill Inn? I ask Steve. Same as always, he says. I lead them out again. But soon they are out of sight. When I get to Excelsior Springs, I pop into Mill Inn. I cant eat breakfast this morning. Could you fill my bottle with ice and water? By the time I get to Lawson, the other nine bikes are lined up in front of Catricks Caf and the guys are eating. Theyve ordered for me. They know what I always have. We have choices for a return route, I say Back Salem Road to H Highway, the way we came. Or over MM and through Watkins Mill to Kearney. Im goin that way and stop at Sarahs Table. Do we have to eat again? Were tryin to lose weight. They say. We dont have to eat. Just check in. I say. But if you go there and eat, Ill pick up the check. Im last out of Catricks and back to my bike. They are all waiting in the street out front. You guys dont need to wait on me. Ill soon be last. Were not all going back the same way. This July
Betty Calls Bobbie
23
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has been unusually cool, but this last day of July is hot and muggy. I havent seen any of my biking buddies since we left Catricks. Its almost noon when I get to Sarahs Table and stagger inside and plop down in the first chair I see. Betty brings a glass of water and a menu. Im too hot to eat, Betty. I sit for a long while, staring into space. Betty brings a cold towel Would you like somebody to drive you home? She asks. Ill be okay, I say. I sit a while longer. Sarah and Norma, her mother, come to ask how I am. You be careful, they all call as I leave. Im standing by my bike, slathering sun-screen on my face and arms when Betty appears, phone in hand. Would you like somebody to drive you home? Who would that be? I ask. Your wife. I have her on the phone. Okay, ask her to come have lunch. Betty gives Bobbie directions over the phone. We go back inside. I take the same seat. How did you know my phone number? I ask Betty. I found your HateBusters card on our bulletin board, she says. Twenty minutes later Bobbie comes. You forgot this, she says. And she lays my cell phone on the table. Betty comes to take our order. Thank you for taking care of him, Bobbie says. He looked tired, Betty says. He didnt need to ride. What a wonderful world this is. We all take care of one another.
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101 Bicycle Stories
Im the last to arrive. As usual. Im propping my bike in front of the bench, still wet from the morning dew. No one will sit here anytime soon. Im unzipping my seat bag to get my glasses and my billfold. The door opens and a woman and man step onto the porch. Are you Ed? She asks. Yes I am.
Betty Looks After Me
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Theyre talking about you inside. Another couple emerges. Youre Ed! Theyre talking about you inside. Thirteen of us left Liberty an hour and a half ago. From Biscari Brothers Bicycles out Nashua Road to Glenn Hendren Drive to Lightburne. Lightburne crosses Highway 69 and becomes Plattsburg Road, crosses Highway 92 miles later and brings us to 162nd, a mile north of Kearney. The other 12 have ordered when I arrive. People outside said you were talking about me. Whats up? Betty said we shouldnt go off and leave you. She wouldnt serve us til you got here. We told her you come here all the time by yourself. She said thats different. Said we should ride with you when we come. Betty Garton looks out for me. One day this summer I arrived here too hot to eat. I sat for a long time, guzzling ice tea. Several times Betty asked if I needed a ride home. After a long rest, I got up to leave. Betty asked again. Ill be fine, I mumbled. I was mounting my bike when Betty came with a phone in her hand. I called your wife, she said, She wants to talk to you. I went back inside to wait while Bobbie came. We ate an early dinner. Bobbie thanked Betty. What grade is JD in, Betty? I ask. Hes a freshman. Making good grades. Hows his finger? Works fine. Betty says. Hes out deer hunting today. JD is Bettys son. About a year ago he rescued on old bicycle and we went for a ride around Kearny. A while later he cut his finger with a saw and had to be stitched up at Liberty Hospital. Every Saturday morning a bunch of us bike riders meet at Biscari Brothers at 7:30, bound for one of five small towns and breakfast at a place where everybody knows our name and mouthwatering food is their game. This morning we have come to Sarahs Table in Kearney. I called on my cell phone just before we left and told them to expect us in an hour and a half. Twelve of us have ridden together on other mornings.
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Richard Bowman, Steve Hanson, Seth McMenemy, Mark Krause, Petra Toye, Easel Roberts, Jeff Geurts, Rodger Suchman, Michael Calabria, Leonard Lastine, Andrew Allen and me. Rick Behrens has come for the first time. Rick is pastor of Grandview Presbyterian Church in Kansas City, Kansas. Two summers back he rode with our Bike-Aid team from Kansas City to Warrensburg. I had met him earlier when he invited me to come talk to his young people. Petra is the only woman rider today. Ed, we need more females, she says. Ill send an urgent request, I say. Betty brings my half-order of biscuits and gravy and one blueberry pancake before she brings anyone else their food. She takes good care of you, Michael says. As were leaving, I look in the kitchen to ask Janis Bradley about her new baby and say hello to Sarah Moore, owner of this good place. Sarahs sister, Tammy Grossrode, is working the cash register. As we mount our bikes, Easel invites us all to a vocal music program tomorrow afternoon at William Jewell. And in the morning Rick is preaching from Ezekiel on Dry Bones. Hes been at Grandview Presbyterian 22 years. They must like him. I say. Im soon last again. I catch up to the whole bunch when Steve has a flat. Michael and Petra wait for me twice on the way back. Once Michael says, If we dont wait, Betty wont let us eat.
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101 Bicycle Stories
Monday evening. Flying down hill. Country road. Jagged potholes. Blown tire. Bent wheel. I slam to the ground. Bike on top of me. Searing pain. Leg bloody. Cant move. I scream. And moan. No one hears. Right leg free. Push bike off. Find cell phone. Call Bobbie. Im hurt. Im up when she comes. I get my bike on the rack. Bobbie gets me home. To bed. Not my first bicycle crash. My diagnosis? Pulled muscle.
Bike Wreck
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My screams at sudden movement have abated by Wednesday church dinner. But the pain comes back when I stand to leave. I make it to the street. Bobbie brings the car. I finally find a position that allows sleep. The pain is almost gone by Saturday. But not enough that I can ride. So I drive SAG for our Saturday riders. Breakfast in Lawson at Catricks this week. Sunday is pain free. I drive with Bobbie to Antons celebration of his 30th anniversary of his ordination to the ministry. Monday afternoon Im feeling good. I tell Bobbie Im going to ride my bike to the post office. I get a block down the street. No pain. But somethings not right. I head home. As I get into bed that night, the pain comes back. Worse than ever. Bobbie brings an ice pack. I get to sleep. Then Im awake. The sadistic twin of my original pain has taken over my body. I scream for Bobbie. I tell the 911 operator not to sound the siren when they come. Five big men appear shortly at my bedside. The pain is fierce. I cant move. They lift me hammock-like with a sheet and slide a board under me. They strap me down and carry me to the ambulance. This thing rides like a truck, they say. They call in my symptoms and vitals, then give me morphine for the pain. Without this you couldnt stand the ride, they say. Solicitous angels fire questions at me in the emergency room. Bobbie comes. They mention an MRI. Then I drift away to a place where pain does not come. Hours later I am back in this world. In a hospital room. You have broken ribs and a bruised lung. Nurse Helen busies herself with my comfort. Bobbie and I are bound for Alaska next Monday, I say to her. Not likely, she says. And a different pain comes. A pain no hospital can treat. Bobbie has been planning this trip for months. We read books. Watched videos. Visited with people who have been there. Made reservations. Told our friends. If this were the first time I had caused Bobbie to miss a trip we had planned, I would feel awful. But its not. She will unplan everything. She will care for me. But its not what either of us had
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planned. And its all my fault. Knowing that, I live in a pain no doctor can make go away.
101 Bicycle Stories
She really wasnt coming to ask my permission. Just to explain why she was leaving. For years Ive said to my friends that they have to ask my permission to move away. No one ever has. But I think they understand why I ask. Their leaving is painful. I hurt when they leave. By email just the other day I learned that Sarah Small is moving from her Kansas City home where she and Mendell raised David and Michael. Shes moving to Chicago where Michael is a lawyer. His wife is from Chicago. Her grand children are there. David is a rabbi. He moved to a new synagogue two years ago. Congregational life is uncertain. He might move again, she explains. Mendell knew he was dying. He and Sarah talked about what she should do when he was gone. He told her to move to Chicago where she would be near family. A few weeks ago Mendell died. The house they shared is on the market. Soon Sarah will be gone. Beth Shalom Synagogue will miss her sterling leadership. She will not be there the next time I take a group to visit. Some 20 years ago Sarah and I bumped into each other. In our own ways each of us had been for a long time working to enlarge our circle of friendships; she, from the synagogue; I, from the Baptist Church. Why we hadnt met sooner is a mystery. But in the 80s we did. And became fast friends. Sarah was one of our honorees at a Human Family Reunion in the late 80s. We were meeting in a place Mendell thought was unsafe. He wouldnt let Sarah come. We honored her in her absence. Sarah took the lead in creating an international program for high schools in Greater Kansas City. She asked me to help. We talked often by phone about our complimentary efforts to make
Sarah Is Leaving
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Kansas City a friendly place for all. I never met Mendell. I came to understand him through a mutual friend. Rich Groves is a deacon in Second Baptist Church, where I am Ambassador to Other Communities of Faith. Rich is a meticulous planner and organizer. So good that Beth Shalom hired him as Executive Director. As elected leader of the congregation, Sarah was his boss. Mendell was a successful lawyer and a powerful presence in the congregation. He met often with Rich. When Rich and I would go for our weekly Saturday morning bicycle breakfast rides to small town cafes, Rich would share with me his growing appreciation for Mendell. His body had betrayed him for years. Several times each week he had to visit the hospital for dialysis. But his brilliant mind and unfailing good humor captivated Rich. So through Rich and Sarah I came to appreciate a person I never was destined to meet. Now Sarah has driven to my home in Liberty to say goodbye. My bicycle crash three weeks ago has laid me up for a while with broken ribs. She brings me a gift, and we sit in the living room and talk. Then she is gone. We likely will not meet again in person. Email provides a paler presence. But distance is no longer the dark void of former times. We will appear now and then on one anothers computer screens.
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Eat your heart out, Gene Autry. Im back in the saddle again. Out where a friend is a friend. I asked my doctor to write it down. Bobbie wont believe me if I tell her. She said I would tell her anything. Write it down, please. So on his prescription pad, my doctor wrote, Ed Chasteen may resume bicycle riding.. Oh, glorious day! Inactivity was expanding my waistline, elevating my blood pressure and demanding sleep. Pain pills made it all bearable. But nothing was fun. Not even pleasant. No wonder
Back in the Saddle Again
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drug he might have injected could have jolted me to that blissful state brought on by those six words he wrote. My bicycle has become over the last 19 years a combination gymnasium, church, school and therapists couch. Deprived for a month by broken ribs from these good places, I was rapidly losing strength of mind, body and soul. Now I am back. And at least for a day or two, my fourweek deprivation has honed my appreciation razor sharp. It cant last. My world-taken-for-granted will return. My several serious bike crashes over the years have sent me to hospitals and laid me by for empty days that would not end. But when they did I quickly forgot. I know my next crash waits out there somewhere. If I ride day after day in all kinds of weather and in every season of the year, another crash will come. Knowing that another crash will come gives to each daily ride a special quality. Because it may be the last ride I take, each ride becomes all there is. Past and future do not exist. Only the moment. All my senses on full alert. My body is aboard the bike, but my mind is abroad in the world. When sweat pours like Niagara, ideas erupt like Vesuvius. While completely aware of my physical surroundings, Im totally lost in a dreamtime where nothing is bound by the rules we know. Thirty-five years would pass between the time I learned to ride as a boy and the time I took it up again. Another doctor prompted this reunion. He told me I have MS. He said I couldnt be active. I was for a long while utterly depressed. Then belligerent. Id show him. I got on my sons old bicycle and began to ride. Across the country. Coast to coast. By myself. With no money. Healing came. My MS, I discovered, means I must be active. If I ride, I can run. If I dont, I cant walk. Seventy miles or more in a day and my legs are renewed. And my spirit soars. Everyday on my bike is Independence Day. The fireworks I see and hear in my mind, my family and friends see in my eyes and smile and hear in my dumb jokes. An old man and a childs toy make an odd couple. But a divorce is out of the question.
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101 Bicycle Stories
Total dependence on other people is not a condition that comes highly advertised and is not one I would like permanently to occupy. But being temporarily there affords lessons in living not otherwise available. I first became aware of the lessons herein available that summer I rode my bicycle alone and without money from Orlando to Seattle to Anaheim. I was looking for the goodness in people by asking for a sandwich, a drink of water and a bed for the night. I thought everyone would not only say yes but would seem pleased and happy to do so. A hundred and five days I was on the road; 5126 miles I rode. More than 500 people I asked. I was right. Their generosity carried me across the country. Now, years later, that same bicycle has brought a sudden and unwelcome dependence. A hard crash and broken ribs bring excruciating pain and a legion of merciful hands. First the five muscled 911 men who come at one in the morning to lift me from my bed and into their ambulance. Then in the emergency room one solicitous set of questions after another from folks who truly listen and understand what they should do in response. With a gentle knock at my hospital door come doctors and nurses and techs and therapists and housekeepers and chaplains and social workers and IVs and catheters, and assorted other devices to ease my pain. Family and friends, in person and on the phone, come wave after wave with comfort and joy to wash away my pain. When I can do nothing for myself other than scream and moan and beg for help, when the slightest movement brings instant jolts of unbearable pain, these gentle folk bring relief. Their soothing voices, their eyes that do not turn away, their deliberate actions that address my specific needs, their assured air of calm confidenceall together create an ambiance more heavenly than any other earthly place ever could be. The tuition charge for lessons learned from total depend-
Total Dependence
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ence on other people is more than any of us ever wants to pay. But the certain knowledge that people are good and want to help might never otherwise come.
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For the past nine years Liberty has had two police officers on bicycles. On their bikes officers are more in contact with people, more like the old-fashioned foot patrolman. But they can cover more ground and move faster. In their patrol cars officers are not accessible to the public. Bicycles make it possible for officers to meet and greet people and create the good will needed between citizens and law enforcement. And when necessary, bicycles carry officers quickly and quietly to apprehend lawbreakers. Now the two police bicycles have grown old and need to be retired. They were bought with a federal grant. There is no money in the police budget to replace them. So HateBusters and Biscari Brothers Bicycles are joining forces to raise the money needed to replace the two bicycles. Biscari Brothers has persuaded TREK, the bicycle maker, to provide a significant discount. If the good people of Liberty can provide just $1500.00, we can replace the two police department bicycles with two state-of-the-art bicycles. To contribute to the police bicycle fund, make your check to HateBusters-Police Bicycles. Mail to Box 442, Liberty, MO 64069. All contributions are tax deductible. And when the bicycles arrive and are ready for delivery to our police department, we will have a big party at Biscari Brothers. As the money comes in, totals will be posted on our web site. All contributions will be listed at www.hatebusters.com Contributors may request to be anonymous if you wish. This little piece of Gods good earth we call Liberty is a wonderful place to live. We take care of one another.
New Bicycles for Our Liberty Police
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The tandem came to me in a curious way. The daughter was a student of mine in the first class I taught at William Jewell College 40 years ago. She lives now in Liberty and is a friend. Her dad lost his sight years ago, and she persuaded her mom and dad to move from their long-time home in another town to Liberty. With them when they came to Liberty 12 years ago, her parents brought the tandem. They hung it on a wall in their garage. Their son had bought it brand new for them when his dad was going blind. He thought maybe his mother could ride as captain and find the way and his dad could ride behind, getting some exercise and hearing his wife describe what they were seeing. When her mother read in the paper that I was planning a bike ride to raise money for MS, she called her daughter to ask if she thought I would like to have the bike. The daughter wrote me a letter. I went to visit the parents. She showed me the bright green Columbia tandem with silver fenders hanging in the garage. Take it and use it in any way you can, she said. A week later after a Saturday morning ride, a friend with a pickup took me to their house and we loaded the tandem and took it to Biscari Brothers Bicycles to have it fixed up and ready to ride. It has never been ridden much. It was purchased by a loving son for his parents when they needed hope. Now its offered to a lucky person who draws the winning ticket. Heres the plan. Some 5500 people in the Greater Kansas City area suffer from MS. So we want the tandem to raise one dollar for each of these folks. We are asking 1100 people to send $5.00. The name of each person who sends $5.00 will be written on a card and placed in a drum at the MS Society. When 1100 folks have sent $5.00, a drawing will be held. The name drawn will receive the tandem in a public ceremony at the MS Society. As folks send their $5.00, their names will be listed on the
The Tandem Tale
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MS web site. We can all watch the list of names grow. And when it reaches 1100, we will have a party and a drawing. What a deal. For only $5.00 you might win a tandem. And if not, you have helped someone with MS.
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Dave Biscari and Sharon Hanson are my bookies. But the only betting is that folks will want to read the book. William Jewell CollegeMy Camelot. Thats the title. Its my story of all the wondrous things my students and I did on and off that hilltop campus. For 30 years I was there most every day; for the last 10, now and then. Next to the washing machine in my basement sits the computer. With two fingers over many months, in fits and starts, cut and paste, I have put on paper the words to make a book. Several hundred pages by now. Some months back began my now and then trek by bike to Biscari Brothers Bicycles. With those pages in my panniers. In a big brown envelope with SHARON HANSON scrawled large across the front. I hand the package to Dave, then return home to send Sharon an email telling her to pick it up. When she puts my words in book form, with page numbers and a table of contents, she takes it back to Dave and emails me. After several repetitions of this basic procedure, we are near to having the book. A gift to the college it will be. For a contribution of $100.00 (or more) to William Jewell College, I will send the contributor by email an electronic copy of the book, which can be read on line or downloaded and printed. (Visit www.hatebusters.com to learn how to make contributions to William Jewell and get the book.) For those who want an old fashioned book to hold in your hands and turn pages, you can send your contribution to the college and an additional $50.00 to Amity Books, Box 442, Liberty, MO 64069. Books will be printed on request. Any funds not spent to produce and mail books will be given to William Jewell College.
My Bookies
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If all of this comes to pass as I picture it in my dreams, I will owe an unpayable debt to my bookies, Dave and Sharon. They do all of this just because I asked them. I do this as a labor of love. So do they. I will not make a single penny. Neither will they. If many people read the book and the college makes lots of money, we all will have been paid in full.
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Im a little more than twice as old as Lance and ride a little less than half as fast. But three things we have in common. We both ride a TREK. We both became serious bikers because of a life threatening diagnosis. Lances was cancer. Mine was Multiple Sclerosis. And we are both native Texans. Seven consecutive times Lance won the Tour de France after his diagnosis. In Its Not About the Bike, Lance credits his cancer for his bicycle greatness. No pain he ever suffers on the bike can equal the pain of his life-and-death struggle simply to live. I understand. You have Multiple Sclerosis. Its a damnable disease. And you cant be active. Thats what my doctor said to me. The next three years were hell. Deep depression and thoughts of suicide stole all joy from me. Then one day I saw my sons old bicycle in a corner of the garage. A voice in my head said to get on the bike. Three years later I got on my new TREK at Disney World. I started pedaling north and west. Alone and without money. If I could make it from Orlando to Seattle to Anaheim, I would prove that doctor wrong. My MS would mean I must be active. And if I could do it alone and without money, I would also have found that spark of goodness I had always believed flickers inside every person on the planet. Three-and-a-half months, 5126 miles, later I pedaled into Disneyland. They put my name up on the marquee, rolled a red carpet up Main Street, lined the street with flags and had a parade just
Lance Armstrong and My Letter to Trek
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for me. All the Disney characters came to cheer. Mickey Mouse gave me a trophy. That ride taught me that I must be active, that if I ride, I can run; if I dont, I cant walk. So I ride. Most every day. Thousands of miles every year. That ride also taught me to ask for help. More than 500 times across the country I asked for a sandwich, a drink of water, a bed for the night. My natural tendency to Audacious Asking became a daily obsession. I came to realize that people need to be asked so their natural goodness can display itself. Now I come to you good folks at TREK. I have just retired that TREK I rode across the country. With more than 100,000 miles on it, I thought it deserved a rest. So I have a brand new TREK 520, the only red one in the country. All I ask from you is your blessing. You see, its not enough that bike riding is good for my health. I need more. Back in 1988, my students and I started HateBusters. In 1995, HateBusters became a 501 C-3 non-profit. We help people who have been hurt because someone hates their race, their religion or their sexual orientation. We charge no fees, and we never say no when asked to help. My old TREK carried me on 17 consecutive MS-150s. The weekend after Labor Day every year is reserved for this ride. Tens of thousands of dollars it helped me raise to fight MS. My new TREK will ride the first of its MS-150s in a few weeks. My fundraising goal for this year is $10,000. My new TREK says HATEBUSTERS on either side of the top tube, TREK on the down tube and ED CHASTEEN on the seat tube. A bike ride for the community is always part of the help we give where hate has appeared. People come to ask about our bikes, and we invite them to the Human Family Reunion, always the final event everywhere we go. TREK reaps a bonanza of good will from Lances exploits. Visions of speed and winning races draw customers to bike shops across the country. Im almost always the last one in when I ride with a group. Im naturally slow. And I stop to talk to almost everyone I see. I get lots of questions about my bike. I tell them all its a TREK.
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I cant promise more customers, but I do know TREK garners goodwill from those who learn of my physical struggle against MS and my spiritual struggle with the hate that would tear us apart. Just a letter from TREK! One that endorses what I do and the part my bicycle plays. Thats all I ask. Give me your blessing. Let us see what together we can do. Thanks for reading my letter. Whatever you decide to do is okay. I can live with any decision you make. But I couldnt live with myself until I asked.
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A bright yellow school bus sits at the top of the hill to my left, about to turn in my direction. Just as I top the hill, the bus completes its turn. We pass each other going in opposite directions. From the bus I hear a junior high boys voice: We hate you. I dont see who said it. I dont see anyone on the bus. Plummeting down that steep and winding hill into the town gives me no time to look around. But Ive been yelled at before when out on my bike. The person who yells is always male. And never alone. Hes trying to impress his friends. Be a big man. I try to feel good about making his day. But wouldnt we love you, impress his friends? Can hate be more attractive than love? But then bad news gets more attention in the media than good news does. Maybe it all starts in junior high. But why does it start at all. Years back preachers talked about sin. Whatever happened to sin?
Why Did He Say that?
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A deep melancholy descends upon me now and then when
A Distant Door
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I am about on my bike and glimpse a panorama of my town from high on a hill. Though laced with inexplicable sadness, it is not an altogether unpleasant feeling, and it is gone as quickly as it comes. When the melancholy first would come, it filled me with panic and a sudden great depression. Because I did not then know that it soon would pass, I was immobilized by encompassing dread. When I say I was immobilized, dear reader, please understand that the immobility was mental and spiritual: these systems simply shut down. To live long in that state was beyond me. I was at that point only body, and with no direction from me, my legs cranked those pedals, my lungs acted as computerized bellows, my blood raced, and sweat poured in buckets. How long the melancholy lasted that first time is impossible for me to know. It seemed eternal. But when it had passed, it seemed briefer than a sigh. It does not happen every time I am out, though it has occurred more times than I can count. And whereas that first occurrence was agony, I now look forward to its coming, for I have found in it a bitter sweetness which I crave. When I have ridden long and it has not come, I return feeling somehow cheated. Of what I do not know. But for that instant it is upon me, I am invaded by something beyond my poor power to describe. Its as if I see beyond, above and through. A dimension of life I never otherwise come to has me at that moment where I have never been. Tears come to my eyes as I know I may be seeing for the final time. And the first time. Then comes a smile. And laughter. As peace, power, purpose and joy join me on my bicycle, I sense a door up there. Out there. In there. Somewhere. I want to find it. Pass through it. I think its one way. Im afraid. Then its gone. I ride for many reasons. To experience that fleeting bucolic melancholy only recently joined the top ten. I have a feeling that in time it may make number one.
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This is my dilemma. How to ride hard and long enough in a single day to visit all seven of these good places on or near the Liberty Square, yet have enough time in each to linger over my food while the ambiance works its magic on me. In alphabetical order, these are the places: By the Book, Corbin Mill, Fork and Spoon, Hardware Caf, Pandolfis Deli, Sherlocks Home and SRO. To come to them all on my bicycle deposits me at their door with a ravenous appetite, equipping me fully to appreciate the aromas and the decors that distinguish each from the others and give them all a welcoming presence. All these places are so near each other that on our hottest August day I wouldnt break a sweat pedaling between them. Thirty miles apart I wish they were so that I might ride from one to the other and arrive with sufficient hunger. But such grace and class have they brought to downtown Liberty that I could never for a moment countenance their removal to another place. So rather than coming to each on the same day after riding 30 miles, I have, instead, come on separate days. Today at By the Book I bought a book we will use at Second Baptist Church for a six-week study. I also bought tickets for the Valentine program Corbin Mill Theater is presenting. To compliment their books, By the Book lures with coffee and pastries. An enticing combination! Knowing I will return, today I do not succumb to the smell of coffee and the always satisfying presence of books. Corbin Mill serves lunch. Delightful sandwiches. Great pie. The old home-place ambiance, the adjoining fabric and furniture store and Doug Bratcher, the barrel maker, across the drive in front transport all who come back in time to a Norman RockwellGrant Wood America. Fork NSpoon The food is as basic as the name and just as
A Square Meal in Our Town
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dependable. No Beef Wellington here, but the Country Fried Steak comes with mashed potatoes and a nice cream gravy. And speaking of gravy, you can get it with biscuits for breakfast. Green beans and corn are more common for lunch and dinner than broccoli and asparagus. The Chicken Puff Pastry is my favorite at the Hardware Caf. And the Cream of Broccoli Soup is so good Ive never tried any of their others. The dessert tray is temptation beyond reason, and I cannot resist. Pandolfis Deli just recently opened for business and is open for lunch. Wonderful breads and delicious meats draw an eager crowd. Its all so good that soon the small space they have at 7 N. Missouri will not be enough. Sherlocks Home Mystery Bookstore was until a few months ago in the space where Pandolfis Deli is now. Moved to the south side of the square, Sherlocks has become an English Tea Room as well. In Sunday School, Marjorie Stump had said I should read Skipping Christmas by John Grisham. A few days later I walked into Sherlocks, and that book appeared right in front of me. I bought it and began to read as I ordered the Daily Special. I will go back soon for afternoon tea and scones as I relive my winter in England years ago. SRO Frozen Custard migrated some time back a few doors north on the west side of the square. Standing Room Onlythats what SRO stood for when they were wedged into that small space where it literally was true. Their popularity soon required more space. Now next to Maces Shoe Shop, they have almost enough room to accommodate their many patrons. The spill over onto the sidewalk and across the street onto the courthouse lawn does much to enliven the square and bring an aura of the Country Club Plaza to our town. I celebrate this magnificent seven. Long may they work their magic among us.
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More than we long to be rich or famous or good looking, I think each of us longs to be a hero. We want to rescue someone from danger while risking our lives. We want the outcome of something important to depend entirely on what we do. How can we ever know who we really are until that time when danger threatens? Are we quick witted enough to recognize the danger? Are we bold enough to face it? Are we strong enough to beat it? Three months ago a UPS truck pulled up to my house and the driver came to my door with a big brown envelope. As I took it from him, I noticed the return address: The Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games. I was planning to go the Olympic Games in Atlanta, but it was still six months before they were to begin. I already had my tickets. What could this letter be? I may look like an old man, but when the Olympics come, I am ageless and eternal and joyful beyond words. So I tore that letter open. It began: Dear Ed, Congratulations! You have been selected as a Community Hero Torchbearer for the 1996 Olympic Torch Relay. There was more, but I couldnt read the words through my tears. Its a miracle. Me? Carrying the Olympic Torch? Never in my life did I even dream of such a thing. Im no athlete. My high school coaches said I had heart, and they let me tag along, but I seldom got to play. Now I was an Olympic Torchbearer! Wow! But what was this about Community Hero? No name I could ever be given is so precious to my ears as the name of hero. But what had I done to earn that name? I didnt know. But knowing that my community had chosen that name for me caused such a sense of awe and gratitude to sweep over me that for one brief shining moment I was transported from this earth to a place of pure peace, power, purpose and joy. If this was not heaven, I know not what name to give it. Robert Burns spies a louse crawling in the beautifully coif-
The Olympic Torch
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fured hair of an elegant Victorian lady and pens a poem. To A Louse beseeches some divine source to give humans the power to see ourselves as others see us. That letter from the Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games told me that at least some of those who see me, see me as a hero. But why? I had been told fifteen years earlier that I have Multiple Sclerosis, that it is a damnable disease, that I couldnt be active. Instead, I planned a bicycle ride. From Orlando to Seattle to Anaheim. Alone and without money. If I made it, MS would have to live on my terms. One-hundred-five days it took; 5,126 miles I pedaled. More than 500 people gave me food, a bed, a glass of water, a word of encouragement. Was that why? Several years before my diagnosis, some protesters came to my school. Coretta Scott King was to speak and they objected. They carried hateful signs. My students saw them and were sad. Someone had to redeem the situation. I ran to my office and scrawled a hasty sign. It said: These Guys Are Nuts. I stuck it on a stick and ran to join the picketers. And the crowd began to laugh. Five minutes later the protesters got in their cars and left. Was that why? A year had passed since my bike ride when a member of the Ku Klux Klan won election to the Louisiana Legislature. The morning paper carried the message. Paper in hand, I walked into my class in a distant state. We should do something to help Louisiana redeem itself in the eyes of the nation, I said. But what? Silence. Then a long discussion. We should go there, they said. Form an organization, they said. HateBusters, we would call it. We went. Word got out. We began to get invitations to other places. Was that why? Then not long ago someone burned a cross on a black mans yard right here in our town, just a few blocks from our campus. We should do something to help our town, I said to my class. Silence. Then a long discussion. We should march, they said. A few days later, we did. The big city paper near us the next day said: Dubuque, Iowa has had eight crosses burned in the past year. If they had done what Liberty (our town) did the first time, they
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wouldnt have had a second. We didnt. Was that why? I have lived and worked for more than thirty years in this good little place on the planet. My children became beautiful people here. My family took its stand and made its life. The same house has been our home all of this time. The neighbors lives and ours became one. I sometimes would dream that I had gone elsewhere to live and work. And I would wake in a cold sweat. Was that why? It doesnt really matter to me why my community thinks Im a hero. But that it does means everything. Ive always thought that each of us is born to be a hero. And now that I am old, my town, my friends, have told me they think I am. Could any man have greater affirmation? In Rabbi Ben Ezra, Victorian poet, Robert Browning, has him say: Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be, the last of life for which the first was made. Now I have left the college to do across the nation what we have done here together for so long. I did not retire. I graduated. My town has prepared me well. The Pedalin Prof. HateBuster. Ed. I answer to all. Is that the reason? Does adventure await? Am I able? Time will tell.
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If you know where your home is, you know everything. Billy Yellow, a Native-American religious leader, taught me that. And that may be the only standard by which I know very much. But by that standard, I think it know it all. Theres a line in a song we sing at church now and then: set our hearts at liberty. I know the song writer had in mind our bondage to sin, but since the church I attend is in a town called Liberty, it is of this place that song makes me think. I turned 60 a few days back, and for just over half that time, my heart and my home have been set at Liberty. Over those years, I have sometimes dreamed that my family and I had moved away to
If You Know Where Your Home Is
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another place, and I would wake up in a cold sweat. The very thought of moving stirs a sadness deep in my soul. During these days between Thanksgiving and Christmas each year I am especially glad that to a few thousand others and me, Liberty is our town. In Thornton Wilders, Our Town, Emily asks a question that has stayed with me since first I heard it many years ago: Does anyone ever realize life as they live it, every single minute? As I ride my bicycle around our town square each day, calling out greetings to people I see, eyeing license plates to determine what visitors we have among us, noticing the coming and going from barber shop and drug store and restaurant and furniture store and courthouse and city hall, admiring fall festival or Christmas or homecoming or holiday flags, I think maybe I can say yes to Emilys question. I ride my bicycle both to witness life in our town and to become a part of it. Somehow I think that those who see me must get pleasure from the predictability of my coming and going. There is reciprocity between us. For life in our town to play itself out properly takes two: you to see me, and me to see you. And should this not occur, our lives are impoverished in ways we can never know. No record of our transaction will be carried down though time in some ponderous tome ensconced in libraries around the world. Likely, no reference to either of us will be housed in our local Clay County Museum. But this time we have together is far from trivial. Together we are plumbing the depths, building community in the only way it can be built, as day after day, summer, winter, spring and fall, we see each other and exchange the simple gifts of asking about one anothers families and passing along news of people and places we know in common. The other day I rode my bicycle out to the new Wal-mart, where I was scheduled to ring bells for the Salvation Army from 13 PM. Hundreds of us have the past five years stood for this reason in front of Price Chopper, Wal-mart, K-Mart, (and this year, HiVee), and have raised thousands of dollars for In As Much Ministry a program started here in Liberty to help our neighbors in their time of need.
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I hadnt seen Martha and Walter for years. I didnt know their son, whose Sunday School teacher I once was, now owns a restaurant in Dallas, so popular it requires a six-week wait. Ann came to shop soon after I got there; then a hour later, Phil, her husband. Phil laughed when I told him Ann had been there. I asked Don how he liked retirement? Barbara asked about Bobbie and the kids. Another friend was there with a new wife. I made eye contact with everyone who walked by and called to them: Beautiful day. You be careful, now. Have a happy Thanksgiving. Merry Christmas. Hello, Folks. Bye now. Coins and bills entered the pot. Parents held up little children to drop in their money. Ill have to get my money from the car, he said. Right! I thought. A few minutes later: Youre back! And I felt ashamed for doubting. I know not what course others may choose, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death. How those uprooted by war and natural disaster can survive when forced from home I do not know. They are made from stronger stuff than I. Apart from Liberty, I do not know who I am. Billy Yellow lives in the Arizona desert, and each morning he rises to speak his world into existence. Billy and I are bound to our peculiar places on the planet, bound by the simple fact of rising so many mornings to speak that day with a particular people. Bless us, one and all. May we say yes to Emilys question. An enthusiastic, resounding YES! For our hearts have been set at Liberty.
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Most every morning as I mount my bike to ride to breakfast somewhere in Greater Liberty, a map lights up in my mind. How it got there I havent a clue. Why this destination today I dont know. When I first began to ride and would come to a fork in the
Debbie Overrides the Mapmaker
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road, I would be almost paralyzed with indecision. Sometimes I would take one road and be soon overcome with the notion that I had made a mistake. And I would turn back. Then one day it came to me that good people and places are to be found down every road. Intersection anxiety vanished. Never since that day have I paused even for a second to consider which way I should go. Some unseen mapmaker in my head has worked it all out even before my conscious mind focuses on the impending ride. This morning is chilly and overcast, the predicted showers close at hand. My last nights enthusiasm for a dawn launch is quickly fading. Before it can erode entirely, I pull on rain gear over my turtleneck sweater and sweat pants and force myself onto my bike. No rain at the moment. No great expectations either. Only the certain knowledge that my body will work better and my spirits will soar if I spend the morning turning those pedals. Mill Inn in Excelsior Springs is my mapmakers choice today. As I cross Mill Street and pedal up Bowles Drive onto Jewells campus, a white car pulls alongside and I hear a voice. Where to today, Dad? Its my daughter, Debbie, on her way to teach her classes on this last day of the spring semester. The question is unexpected. To Kearney, I blurt. And she is gone. To Kearney? Thats not where the mapmaker said. But the mapmaker hadnt spoken to my conscious mind. I dont think it ever does. Its kinda like a program always running in the background. It has its way without ever making itself known. So when Debbie asked, my conscious mind didnt know what to say. But had to say something. And fast. Her speed was greater than mine. Kearney just popped out. She likely doesnt even understand what I said. But for some reason I feel duty-bound to do as I have just told my first-born I would do. That has been my practice all of her life. She was born when her mothermy wifeand I were college students. While her mother did her practice teaching, I kept Debbie and wrote my thesis for my masters degree. Now Debbie is on the faculty at William Jewell, where I had taught for 30 years. So for one of the few times it ever happens, I abandon the
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map that got me out of bed this morning. Mel Phillips has just finished his breakfast when I get to Sarahs Table about an hour later. I take a seat at the table beside him. Betty comes for my order. I dont need a menu. Ill have a cup of coffee, a half-order of biscuits and gravy and a glass of milk. Mel grew up in northeast Kansas City and moved his family to Kearney in the late 80s so his daughter could go to school here. His company was bought out by another, and a year lateron his birthday, no lesshe was let go. He had several jobs since and has been retired since 95, when his hips began to give him trouble. A gentle rain is falling as I leave. My gloves are cold and clammy. Gore-Tex keeps me dry but plasters to me as I ride. The pedals are slick and my foot slips off several times. I had come out B highway to 69 highway to Sommerset to Jesse James Farm Road to 144th to Stonecrest to Ada to Prospect to Sarahs Table, not the most direct or scenic routebut the flattest and fastest. A hillier and quieter route back beaconed. But the rain and the chill draw me back along the way I had come. A little before noon Im home. Where have you been in this rain? Bobbie asks. Kearney! Wasnt raining when I left.
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Were almost three weeks short of official winter. You wouldnt know it, though, from what were wearing. Heavy sweaters, caps, facemasks, gloves, mittens, thermal socks, shoe covers, goggles. As little skin exposed as possible. The thermometer says 28. That biting east wind will blow right in our faces as we pedal out old 210 toward Orrick and breakfast at Fubblers Cove. And a cove it indeed will be this morning, as stiff and hungry bikers come in from the cold. Eleven of us show up this morning for our 7:30 start from Biscari Brothers Bicycles. None of us expected to see so many on
Not Yet Winter
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this first below freezing ride. Many others there will be before spring zephyrs bring welcome warmth back to us. But any day without ice is a good day to ride. Muscles are not as reliable in the cold. And energy is required simply to warm the body. Cold weather riding is a different kind of pleasure. At 65-70 degrees, the body operates at maximum efficiency and the mind is free to roam the world. Riding in April requires little thought and little effort, as heart, mind and soul soar to places seldom visited at other times. But December riding is a totally different escape from the mundane. Careful preparation is essential. Failure to plan ahead. Forgetting a piece of clothing. Bicycle breakdown. Any problem morphs in cold weather into a major problem. Arriving at Fubblers in the cold after 22 freezing miles with toes and fingers numb brings the exaltation of traveling from Fairbanks to Miami. Steaming cups of hot chocolate and coffee. Biscuits and gravy. Blueberry pancakes. Bacon and eggs! A hour ensconced in this homey place, seeing old friends, meeting new ones, sharing stories, making plans for next weeks ride. Ambivalent about our immediate future when we must voluntarily step from this warm place back into the cold and mount our bikes. We want to go. We want to be back home. But it is so pleasant here in this cocoon. But the wind will be now at our backs. Its sting gone. Our friend now. Helping us back to our homes.
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101 The bank thermometer will say later in the day. But its climbing fast toward that oppressive number by the time I leave breakfast At Sarahs Table and head out Jesse James Farm Road back toward Liberty. I knew better than to ask Betty to bring me that blueberry pancake after the biscuits and gravy. But I gave in to temptation. And by the time I come to that shade tree where NE
Funny Place To Meet a Former Student
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140th meets Jesse James, Im wilting. I lay my bike on its side and lie down beside it. Are you okay? The question comes a little later. With my eyes shut, I have heard the riding mower coming closer. Then stop. Now the question. Oh, just resting, I say. Ive got some Gatorade, he says. Thanks, but Ive got water. Just got hot. I say. I had you in the 80s at Jewell, he says. I thought that was you. Then I saw your name on your bike. And I knew. Ive seen you ride by here before and thought it was you. Thus do Steve Lowe and I reconnect. He and his wife were both students of mine. Graduated in 89. Built this house some eight years ago. I had seen it going up on my rides by here. Didnt know it would one day offer sanctuary and bring back fond memories. Steve, you have email? Ive written a book about William. Jewell and given it as a gift to the college. You will want one. I can email you the details. I will never understand how some folks when they retire can move away to another place. Had I done so, I would not have met Steve today. Nor all the other former students who regularly appear to brighten my day.
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Why doesnt our town look different this morning? It should. It certainly feels different. John Pritchard died last evening. But for John, I doubt I would have stayed in Liberty these 40 years. Straight from grad school I came to teach race relations at William Jewell. Almost my first day in town I met John and was mesmerized by his quiet but steely assertion of all the basic values and virtues I had grown up with in church. John then was about the age of my youngest son now. He owned a successful business and gave time, talent and treasure to every good cause. Everywhere I would go in Greater Kansas City over the
The Morning After
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coming years I would see Johns name on cornerstones and letterheads. I would hear his name spoken in admiring and appreciative ways by folks from all walks of life and all colors of skin. When I would need money or advice for student projects, John was the first person I would visit. A year or two in Liberty. Then back home to Texas. That was the plan Bobbie and I had. But Johns orbit, with its constellation of noble-minded people and uplifting causes, had us in its grasp. We could not, nor did we want to, pull ourselves free. In the hospital and at his home, I visited John over the past several weeks. Bobbie and I were with him in his room at home just a few hours before he died. He was not conscious and probably could not hear me when I came to the head of his bed. My voice broke and tears came, but I managed to say, John, I love you. Thanks for the memories. I hope to see you on the other side. John Pritchard was the most genuinely humble man I ever knew. He would not want our town to be different because he is gone. He would not want to draw attention in death any more than he wanted to draw attention in life. But it has been our loss these years that we did not in more open and obvious ways celebrate his presence among us. Now he is gone and we cannot. But John would not want us to grieve our failure. He really would not have wanted us to single him out for praise. It was for our sakes that we should have done so. So that we might testify aloud to ourselves the presence of simple goodness with us. One day years ago I had ridden my bicycle to the post office, and I happened to see John for the first time in months. He asked what I had been doing. For long minutes I filled his ear. And what about you? I asked. Oh, nothing much, he said. I learned a day or so later from some third party that John had just come from an event of world importance and the company of powerful people. I never told John what prompted me to say this the next time we met. John, you have no right to be so humble. But he was. And in so being became a giant in my life. In many lives.
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You wont find Grammar Gulch on a map of Greater Liberty anymore than you would find Brigadoon on a map of the Scottish Highlands. Brigadoon is a magical place that appears once every hundred years for only a day. Then at nightfall everyone in the town goes back to sleep, for what, to them, is no more than a single night, but is in fact 100 years. Grammar Gulch is more magical yet. A probable one-time sighting. It likely will not reappear on May 17, 2105. But on May 17, 2005, I found it by bike not two miles from my home. Miss Proper, the school marm is holding class when I get to Grammar Gulch. Teaching her class to use proper English. Suddenly Dirty Dan and his band of outlaws (known as Outlaw #1, Outlaw #2, Outlaw #3, Outlaw #4, Outlaw #5 and Outlaw #6) burst into the room and steal the bag of verbs. Dirty Dan and his men use improper English, and are the enemy of proper English. When they steal all the verbs, leaving the class with only nouns, pronouns, adjectives and adverbs, the class is helpless. Verbs do all the work. Take all the action. Looks Bad! Hold on! One enterprising student has her own box of verbs. She will let the class use some of her verbs if the class will let her go after Dirty Dan and his band of improper speakers. No! Too dangerous. Her friend volunteers to go with her. Okay! Off they go. Sheriff Noun and his deputies appear. They learn of the dastardly deed. They go in pursuit. In Perils of Pauline fashion, the sheriff and his deputies, the student and her friend save the day and restore verbs to the class. All is well in Grammar Gulch. Three times today does this fourth grade class at Lewis and Clark bring Grammar Gulch to life. Who would ever think that learning English could be such fun? And so entertaining? Hats off to Ms. Stokes, teacher of the class. Without her vision, none of us would have found Grammar Gulch today. None of her students
Bike Ride to Grammar Gulch
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would have gotten to wear bonnets or cowboy hats or bandannas as masks. Long live Grammar Gulch. If it never appears again for us to see, still will it have a long life in our minds. Schoolrooms are magical places everyday and all the time. Its just that sometimes its easier to notice.
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The powers of Aldo Leopold and Henry David Thoreau to capture in words the grandeur of nature would be sorely challenged here in Alaska. This thought has been constantly with me since we ventured from the Anchorage airport in the little red Kia Reo, ours for the next 14 days. But Leopold and Thoreau are ripped from my mind as Bobbie samples stations on the car radio and catches fleeting mention of bombs going off in London. This fragmentary news comes just minutes before we stop in Moose Pass for dinner. If anyone here has heard, it is not apparent. We choose not to inject this virus into this idyllic setting. In Seward for the night at our B&B, CSPAN fleshes out the gruesome news. And Patrick Henrys classic statement of personal resolve leaps to mind. I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death. So Bobbie and I will honor our commitment to visit London in September. I will bike. Cowards die many times. The brave die but once. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. These pearls were stored on my hard drive years before I called it that and are spontaneously booted by this grim reminder that decency and order are fleeting and fragile if violence be allowed to dictate their terms. So Bobbie and I as planned will drive from our home in Liberty to KCI and fly to Gatwick on September 20. We will stay for four days in London before going to Harlaxton Manor to visit
Beauty and the Beast
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our daughter, son-in-law and grand daughter who are living there for a semester. Then back to London for a day before flying home to Liberty. For if Liberty is more than the name of our town, we are the ones who must prove to the world that it is so. On the radio we caught brief snatches of Rush Limbaugh and Michael Savage, both berating the G-8 leaders and comparing them to Neville Chamberlain for their lack of incendiary response. And another pearl was booted from my memory bank. Rudyard Kiplings If. If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, . . . youll be a Man my son. Kipling was an Englishman. And brings to mind another Englishman. Never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy. Winston Churchill
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My United We Ride Jersey in Alaska

I feel a tug on my shirt. I turn to see a little man in workmans clothes. He is motioning with his hands and body. He leans over and spreads his arms wide, then reaches behind his back as if to get something. He brings it to his mouth and throws his head back. Riding a bike? Me too. Im wearing my United We Ride MS-150 jersey. We are standing in 20 degree cold in front of an igloo carved from ice. The little man keeps tugging at me and making elaborate gestures. He points to the igloo. Then to himself. I cant figure out what he wants. I walk away. When I look back, he is gone. Bobbie and I have come to the Ice Palace in Fairbanks to see the ice sculptures. The last thing on the program is to be a demonstration. A young woman comes to announce it. Then in
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comes the sculptor. Its the little man who had tugged at my sleeve. He steps into the cold room, dons his gloves, picks up a chain saw and cuts a long piece of ice in two. He picks up an electric blade, leans over the foot long slab before him and begins to carve. We are standing some two feet in front of him in a warm hallway, a thick window between us. His carving is upside down to us. But before he has finished, some of those watching whisper, Bicycle. He finishes and turns it for us to see. A bicycle. With a man standing behind. He points to me. The salmon is wonderful. But after a week, Bobbie and I have had enough. Hamburger and a cherry coke today! As were eating, I feel a tug at my sleeve. You rode the MS tour? The woman is middle age, wearing dark glasses and carrying a cane. I had seen her as we entered the restaurant and thought she was blind. But she had seen my jersey and is excited. In Kansas City, I say. We have a big team. We raise lots of money. I think thats wonderful, she says. Dont stop.
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Blind Woman
Its 10 oclock at night when we leave Anchorage for the six-hour flight to Dallas. The two-hour layover. And the hour flight to KCI. Were exhausted. The plane has just lifted off. Leaving Alaska. Great jersey. You a biker? Its the stewardess. I just rode the Tour de Paris, she says. You did? We had some of our Greater Liberty Riders come down for that. One of our guys is from there. You ride much, I ask. Every chance I get, she says. Started a few years back as divorce therapy. And liked it. Im not fast. And I fell on the Paris ride and bunged up my knee. But I finished.
Divorce Therapy
From Woodsboro to Refugio is to Jewell and back. Wherever I ride in the world and come to a sign that says five miles to the next town, I see myself riding from my home in Liberty to the campus of William Jewell College and back to my home. By conservative estimate, Ive made that ride a thousand times. Now on this November Saturday before Thanksgiving, Ive come to visit my mother in Texas. We have driven in her car from her apartment in Corpus Christi to the little town of Sinton, where she lived until four years ago, alone since 1987 when my father died. Dad was a salesman for United Gas. He sold air conditioning to Moyas Caf in Refugio, a town half the size of Sinton 25 miles north on Highway 77. Over the years when I would bring my family from Missouri to visit Mother and Dad, we would make the drive to Moyas to let my dad bask in the admiration they had for his honesty and knowledge. As if the best Mexican food for miles around were not reason enough for the 50 mile round trip. Today Mother takes me to Sintons finest for lunch. The Back Street Caf serves us a marvelous lunch, topped off with homemade blackberry cobbler and ice cream. We drive around town, meeting old friends and pointing out familiar places. Then I pull my Bike Friday from the trunk of her car, snap it open, tighten the quick releases, pull on my helmet and gloves and head for Refugio. Its nearing three oclock. Dark comes a little after five. Im not Lance Armstrong. When I graduated high school in an east Texas town, the school paper said, If the race between the hare and the tortoise were run, Ed Chasteen would be the tortoise. Passing cars have their headlights on as I come to Woodsboro. Theres enough light yet that I can read the highway sign: REFUGIO 5 MILES. The distance to Jewell and back. That thought always brings me peace. Piece of cake! Too many times Ive done it. No way I cant do it again. And always when I have,
To Jewell and Back
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good things have come. Today is a repeat. As I pedal across the bridge just before the town and pass the Catholic Church on my left, I hear a gentle tap of a horn. Just as I turn left onto a side street and off the highway, I catch a glimpse of Mothers green Buick Century. She will be waiting when I wander through the town and come to Moyas. Only two other customers are in the place when I arrive a little after five. Neighbors who lived across the street from Mother in Sinton. She told them four years ago that she thought she might be ready to sell the house where she and Dad had lived. Might like to move to Corpus to be near all her Masonic lodge friends, more easily to fulfill her many obligations as office holder in a variety of fraternal organizations. The very next day, this neighbor had a friend come look at her house. Mother named her price. Sold! He said. I rode my bicycle from Sinton to Refugio every time I would come to visit Mother after Dad died. After she moved to Corpus, she would drive me to Sinton. She would get her hair done, visit friends and/or just kill time while I would ride to Refugio. Dad is buried in a little cemetery between Sinton and Corpus. Its at Moyas that we feel his presence. Getting there by bicycle hones my appetite and my memory razor sharp. Dad in spirit sits beside us as we dine. The three of us with other family have been here before. And maybe again.
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I just discovered that Hardware Caf is open for breakfast. What was Boggess Hardware on the Liberty Square for most a century morphed a decade back into Hardware Caf. Celebrated in USA Today and countless local media, legions of dinner guests have come in the evening for a meal to write home about. Locals come for lunch. From the courthouse and city hall they walk. From
What a Breakfast
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nearby shops and homes they drive. Open at 11 in the morning, the place is full by noon. But no breakfast. Ever. Then today Im making another of my almost daily rides around the square. Its a little before eight in the morning. Early arrivals to Farmers Market are setting up. Then I see it. Hardwares OPEN sign is lighted. I dismount to take a look. Theres a breakfast menu posted in the window. How long you been open for breakfast? I ask my waitress. Since February first she says. Wow! Months ago! How have I been so blind? Ill have a half-order of biscuits and gravy. Do you make your own cinnamon rolls? She says, Yes we do. I may have one after the b&g, I say. Sometimes that rule I made for myself is hard to follow: People and places are not to be compared. Each is judged on its own merits. But this I can say. Having eaten biscuits and gravy across the country and over the years, Hardware Caf would fare well in a blind taste test. The biscuit is light and fluffy. Made from scratch, I judge. Gravy texture and color right on. Chunks of sausage. No uniform pellets from a machine. And the taste? Everybodys mother is said to cook like this. I cant wait for a return visit to try the cinnamon roll. I ask Dee to bring one. The presentation is perfect. Round and big as a saucer. Several shades of inviting brown, looking moist and rich. Two containers of butter. One of cinnamon dip. A steak knife to cut it with. Soft and sweet, it chews as cinnamon rolls in bakers heaven would wish. When breakfast seekers hear of this olfactory and gustatory haven, parking spaces on Liberty square will be hard to come by at any hour of the day. How to add Hardware Caf to our list of regular breakfast stops on our Saturday morning bike rides? From Biscari Brothers Bicycles out old 210 to EE to H and back to Liberty square: 15 miles. Appetites honed razor sharp. Then back to Biscaris by the same route. A morning to make any bikers week.
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The ice storm that roared down on our town has at long last loosed its grip, and I am about on my bicycle for the first time in a week. A few times in years past I have been too quick to take to the road, and my wintry ride was cruelly concluded when ice I could not see took me down hard and laid me up for cabin-fever days. Im the circuit rider today. First to Price Chopper. Then Hy-Vee, Sears Grand and Wal-Mart. The kettles are out at all seven doors and beside each a bell ringer. My first circuit complete and alls right with my world, I turn down first one street and then another until at 11:30, just at the time they open for lunch, I come to Martinali Caf International at 131 South Water Street in our towns historic Corbin Mill. Martha Bond, the owner and chef, came to our town from Rhodesia when Robert Mugabe took power, renamed the country Zimbabwe and nationalized all the farms. She opened this delightful oasis of fine dining, gentle music and likewe-wish-home-could-be ambiance. But she has been ill. She will close for good in just nine days. I want to be here every day. The daily special! The bread pudding! The apricot tea! The regulars we always see! Im missing it all already. I skip the special and order the O Sandwich, a delicately curried shredded chicken on toasted sourdough. Hold the side, I tell the waitress. I want two desserts. I know the bread pudding is out of this world good. But Ive eaten it many times. I need to try some others. Wheres the little woman? She asked as she brought my tea. She hadnt asked if I wanted it. She knew. Playing bridge. By myself today. At my request she recites the long list of desserts. She says the apple pie has double crust and is made with fresh apples. Bring the apple pie and the apricot-coconut cake, I say. Time for my second circuit after lunch. Im scheduled to ring at Hy-Vee at two oclock. So I make the other three places
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before going there. I ride up at 1:20. And for the first time today, I spot a kettle with no bell ringer. Neita Gielker, a friend from church is ringing at the left door. Im to take her place at 2:00. She has the bell and apron, left by the right ringer, who left early. I grab them and run to the other door. From 2:00 to 3:00 I take my assigned spot. At 3:00 the girls from Delta Zeta at the college come. In one hour shifts until 9 oclock tonight, different girls will stand at both doors, ring their bells and greet those who come and go. Other sororities and fraternities have similar assignments on this and other days here and at Price Chopper in the week before their final exams. My wife, Bobbie, calls the philanthropy chair of each organization in September, just after they return to campus for the fall semester. She signs them up for these days in December. I am to call her today when they come. She is at Price Chopper, to assure herself that the fraternity guys have come. They have. Were free. She goes Christmas shopping. By quiet back streets I ride a meandering route home. Life is good for us in our town. Our only great sadness is that life is not equally good for people everywhere. To make it more so is our wish in this season of the year. We offer our hearts and hands to the Salvation Army as bell ringers from Thanksgiving to Christmas to make our wish come true.
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I didnt yet know her name, but I could already feel her goodness. I was ringing the bell and calling, Merry Christmas, to the harried man pushing two boxed up barbecue ovens in an overburdened shopping cart. As I looked back and down, I saw her standing there; long brown hair, dancing eyes and a smile that would melt Medusa. I try never to notice what people put in the kettle; I am too
Amanda And The Bell
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intent on speaking to every shopper who passes. The bell attracts their attention, reminds them of the season and the reason for my presence. But it doesnt slow them down as they rush from the store with their purchases. From long experience I knew that people find it harder to pass me by if I speak to them. How much they give is beside the point. The amount in my kettle at the end of the day matters less to me than the abiding sense of being and doing good that givers could take home with them. But I cant help noticing the dollar bill that the little girl waves at the kettle. I want to give everything to the poor, she says. I love to ring that bell. Ive done it for years. I see friends. No matter the weather, I feel warm. People said many things to me. Someone just today said, Thats a thankless job, isnt it? I replied, Not at all. I got to meet you today. The aspiring Scrooge smiled. Never, though, had anyone said to me what the little girl had just said. What makes you want to give everything to the poor? My school collected food for the homeless today, and now I want to help everybody. What school do you go to? Alexander Doniphan. Whos your teacher? Mrs. Freeman. The little angel pushed and prodded that reluctant bill at that small slot until finally she got it through. I meanwhile was maintaining my running commentary with a steady stream of passers-by. The little girl steps back and assumes a place a few feet from the kettle near the door, as if waiting for someone to come from the store. After a few minutes she joins a woman as she steps through the door. As they walk together past my kettle, I say to the woman, You have a little angel there. Shes got a heart as big as the world, she replies. And they are gone. I tell my wife that night about the little girl. A few days later, I find myself riding my bicycle past Alexander Doniphan. On
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impulse, I pop inside to tell the principal, Dr. Peach, about the little girl and to ask her name. Shes in Mrs. Freemans class, and she has a heart as big as the world, is all I know to say. Might be Amanda, says Dr. Peach. Lets go to their room. I repeat my description to Mrs. Freeman. Her eyes light up. Sounds like Amanda, Mrs. Freeman says. She calls Amanda up. Did you put money in the kettle last Friday? Amanda looks worried. Youre not in trouble, Mrs. Freeman says. I want to give you an award, I tell her. Amanda smiles. Yes, she whispers. The room seems to glow. And lo, a light shone round about them. How wonderful, how marvelous to be known in your town when you have come only to the fifth grade as one who has a heart as big as the world. What a good mother and teacher and principal to so lead a child. How rewarding for them to know that their lessons have been so well learned. Through them, Amanda is becoming a World Class Person, well on her way to a place that cannot be to those of smaller souls and lesser courage. I know that Amanda is the short hand expression of the hundreds of other boys and girls at Alexander Doniphan, as Alexander Doniphan is the short hand expression of other schools spread far and wide across this great land; indeed, of schools that encircle the globe. Amazing numbers of other Amandas by other names go every day to school in their peculiar places on the planet. Other Bell Ringers meet other Amandas and in other places and together do their good work. God bless them one and all. May news of their goodness and their expectation of goodness in others guide us all through the Christmas season and into the years to come. On the last day of school at Alexander Doniphan before Christmas in an all-school assembly, I present an award to the entire school. For the thousands of cans of food and the thousands of dollars students had collected for the needy in their town, and in the name of the little girl who wanted to give all that she had, Alexander
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Doniphan School was presented with the first ever AMANDA AWARD. May the Amanda become the Oscar for random acts of goodness done by girls and boys everywhere.
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The thing I most fear is the thing I must face. Until I do, it will eat at me, taking my mind off other things I should be doing, making my doing of them less focused, more fragmented. Im not likely to be wildly successful at anything until I have faced that one thing. Old 210 highway is a joy to ride, one of the few flat stretches of road anywhere near my home. But eight miles out on 210 brings me to the eastern edge of Missouri City and a quarter mile of sheer terror. The road narrows as it begins an abrupt climb. The shoulder disappears, becomes a narrow ribbon of rough gravel that winds alongside. To my right, the hill falls away to the Missouri River, a hundred feet or so below. To my left rise the jagged limestone innards of what once must have been forested hills rising above the river. Tons of rock were blasted and hauled away to lay down this road. Semis cart their wares between Kansas City and Richmond along this road. Pickups haul products from these fertile river bottom fields. This 50 mile stretch between Kansas City and Richmond is table top flat either side of this alpine interruption that is the eastern entrance to Missouri City. I have labored up and over Mount Eagle in Tennessee and Fourth of July Pass in Idaho and lesser known inclines from coast to coast. None frighten me like this Missouri City Mountain. Eighteen wheelers ride my tail. They sound their horns and ride their brakes. Others lurch around blind bends ahead. Just inches the other side of that yellow line, they lumber past, headed down the hill Ive just made it up. I duck my head so the blast of air in its
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wake wont rip the helmet off my head. I took to the gravel once on this road when an impatient driver rattled me. And I went down. The car breezed by. I scrambled up. My leg was bleeding. Panic invaded. When finally I could make myself climb back on that bike, I turned toward home. Getting there took forever. Years passed. Tens of thousands of miles I rode. Across America. In China. Africa. Mexico. Canada. But not this quarter mile demon just eight miles from my front door. Hundreds of people I told my fear of this place. My good friend, Rich, called me last night to tell me the route he and the others had staked out two days earlier. In October 1999, we plan a bike ride from Liberty to Columbia. Dr. William Jewell, founder in 1849 of our college, is buried near Columbia, and we plan to get 150 people to bike 150 miles to celebrate the 150th anniversary of William Jewell College. Through Missouri City and Henrietta and across the Missouri River at Lexington on highway 13, Rich said. Follow 13 toward Higginsville, then east on 20 just before you get to Higginsville. Stay on 20 past Corder, Blackburn and Alma into Marshall. Thats 80 miles. Well over-night there. Day two into Arrow Rock and Boonville, then onto the Katy Trail to McBain and Columbia. I had promised Rich I would ride the route to assess conditions. Other routes were possible. Are you crazy, Rich, Im thinking as I hang up the phone. Have you forgotten about that Missouri City Mountain? We will get somebody hurt. Nobody will like it. Bobbie and I talk long into the night about that mountain. She has a long and intimate acquaintance with my fear of it. She asks if there is a way to avoid that hill. There is. About a mile this side of it, I could turn north on EE and over to H. East on H to the road that runs past the Bruening Ranch. South on that road brings me into Missouri City at the western foot of that dreaded hill. This is the plan Bobbie and I discuss at length following Richs call. But its 9 oclock this morning before I get away. That cir-
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cuitous route to avoid that hill will add more than 10 miles, an hour it will cost me. I cant imagine I can persuade Rich and the gang to go that way. So I head for the mountain. Soon I am at the place where I can turn onto EE and go around it. What will it be? A 12-mile detour? Or a quarter mile torture? For years my practice when coming to a place where I might go in several directions has been never to hesitate and not to think. Just do it. And never turn back. Straight ahead on 210. Past EE. My heart is in my mouth. My adrenaline factory works over time in those next few minutes. I drop to granny. My eyes dart from the mirror on my helmet to the road ahead. I listen for the signature sounds of pickups and semis and peppy little sports cars. Fear spins those pedals faster than I ever could. I make the western slope and plummet down the twisting road onto the straight away through town, past the church, the post office, the boarded up businesses and to the stop sign beside the school on the edge of this little village. I pull off the road to calm myself. Minutes passand several semisbefore I rejoin the flow of traffic. I wont like it any better in the fall of 1999. But Ill do it. If I dont, I cant muster the faith I need. Faith in myself. Faith in my bicycle. Faith in those drivers who share my road. Confidence born of conquering fear is a species more virile than that of other origin. Good books and experienced friends transfer a pale-rider courage to those who listen. Vicarious victory, though, is a discounted variety. Magnificent it may appear when the sole source imaginable. But such was not the source for King Arthur, Don Quixote or those doomed dreamers at the barricades in Les Miserables. A kinship with those noble souls I find out here alone on my bicycle on this hellish hill. I must come again. Wait just a minute, Eddie boy. I have just put words to paper in a Marshall motel at the end of my 80 mile day when suddenly I realize what an idiot I am. I wont have to talk Rich into anything. We wont be starting our ride at my house; well be starting
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at the college. H highway runs right past our Mabee Center. If we turn left as we leave the parking lot and head toward Excelsior Springs, we will come four miles out to Liberty Hills Country Club. Another two miles brings us to the road running by the Bruening Ranch. A right turn deposits us three miles later in Missouri City. No mountain to climb! Freud might make something sinister (a death wish, perhaps) out of my failure to realize our anniversary ride wouldnt start at my house; hence, my ride today need not do so. I prefer a simpler explanation. Without even consciously knowing it, I wanted to face my fear, to abide by one of my many rules revealed to me from long hours on my bicycle; to wit, never do a thing the safe, easy, comfortable way. There is no growth involved. Im Jean Valjean. Javer has been hounding me for years, wanting to lock me away somewhere. I just lost him on that Missouri City Mountain. But he likely will find me again. Hes a persistent cuss. So am I.
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I begin to sing as my feet hit the pedals. Off key, out of tune and under my breath. My three tune repertoire: Amazing Grace, High Noon and This Old Man. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me, once I was lost, but now Im found, was blind but now I see. This tune comes first this early spring day. All of nature overnight has burst out in riotous color. And I do see. I see the world as it should be. A place where we meet every person we can and like every person we meet. I do not know what fate awaits me. I only know I must be brave, or lie a coward, a craven coward, or lie a coward in my grave.
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These lines come next. Fear is my only enemy. If I let it, fear will keep me from meeting some folks. And I will have become a coward. This old man, he played one, he played nick-nack on my drum, nick, nack, paddy wack, give a dog a bone, this old man came rollin home. I come rollin home after hours on my bike, my daily dose of physical and spiritual adrenaline. Immunization against the lethargy that leeches life of color, audacity and hope.
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The 18-wheeler was just cresting the hill on Progress Street, headed for the industrial plant next door to the post office. I had just stepped out of the post office and boarded my bike, intending to head east on Progress toward eventual lunch at the Mill Inn in Excelsior. Big trucks and bicycles are uneasy companions, so I waited until the truck passed and pulled in behind. The driver pulled past the plant. Stopped. And began to back. I stopped to watch him cut his wheels and back that long flatbed lashed down with bundles of metal rods. He was backing to his left. His aim was to put that trailer between the yellow lines and inside the open door of the plant. With no hesitation and no second try, he put that trailer precisely on the spot. When he stepped from the cab, I rode over to him and stuck out my hand. Congratulations. I love a job well done. That was a work of art. He smiled. First time Ive driven in 10 years. Im a little rusty. Didnt look rusty to me. He looked pleased. And I felt good. An encouraging word has such power to make our day that you would think they might spring from our mouths like dandelions in our yards. For some reason, though, thats not the case. We seem
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uneasy with compliments, both giving and getting. But I can think of no better antidote to road rage and high blood pressure.
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Its a world-class feel-good story even before Jeff mentions her name. When he tells it at Sarahs Table to the eight us, Jeff says that he and his wife, Anne, had gone to Lawrence to help celebrate Annes grandparents 70th wedding anniversary. Jeff and Anne adore them and are awed by their long and happy marriage. Jeff asked them their secret, prompting his grandmother-in-law to a careful and comprehensive recitation. We always talk things out. We never go to bed angry. Were best friends. We do things together. We agree on whats important. We love each other. And more. When she had finished, Jeff turned to his grandfather-in-law and asked what he thought the secret was. He said, I agree with everything she said. Back in Liberty on our bikes a little later, Jeff, Graham and I stop at the hospital to visit John Pritchard. As we stand around his bed, Jeff retells the story, this time elevating the story to Disney classic by identifying his mother-in-law as Great Grandmother Goodbar to his and Annes three children. But then this entire day has a Disney feel to it. I ride up the hill this morning just as the rising sun splashes the eastern sky with a palette of reds and oranges that prompt an involuntary Wow!! Up Southview Drive and onto 291 to Biscari Brothers Bicycles, only two cars pass me. Im 15 minutes early. No one here yet. Jeff Dema rides up shortly, from his home on Wildbriar, just down the hill from Bennet Park. Then Graham Houston comes in his SUV. Graham grew up in Liberty, when his dad, Julian, was pastor of Libertys First Presbyterian Church. But Graham lives now off North Oak in Kansas City and drives to our Saturday morning rides. Seth McMenemy rides up at 7:25. Seth lives just a few blocks away.
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changes names. By bridge we cross over I-35 and come several miles later to an intersection with Highway 33. Jeff and I are riding together now. The other five are out of sight ahead of us. As we pause for crossing traffic, we spot a solitary rider coming toward us on 33. Lets wait to see who that is, I say. Its Rachel Palos. She and her husband are from St. Louis. They have lots of friends. Theyre often gone on weekends. Rachel travels on her job. But shes one of our regulars. She knew our destination today. She was late starting and hasnt followed the indirect route we took. A minute more and Jeff and I would have been past this intersection when Rachel arrived and wouldnt have seen her.
He always comes. We always leave at 7:30. Were off. Bound for Kearney and breakfast at Sarahs Table. Im a little disappointed as we ride away. I had expected Steve Hanson and Brian Harvey and Petra Tove. They almost always come. And today is a gorgeous day. Temperature in the upper 20s has us in layered clothing, with gloves and mittens and head covers. But the heat will come as we pedal up these hills. The stark beauty of a December Saturday morning awaits. Across the parking lot, past McDonalds to Brown Street. Left to 291. You guys trying to leave me? Its Petra. It was 7:30. We thought maybe you werent coming. The five of us turn right onto 291, into the rising sun. On Lightburne we make a left. Across Liberty, out to Highway 69. As were waiting for the light to change. Steve and Brian ride up. They live along the route we ride today, and when they didnt show up at Biscari Brothers, I was hoping they were waiting for us. We saw you guys back at the bike shop. But we had to make a phone call. Im surprised it took us so long to catch you. When the light changes the seven of us cross the highway. Lightburne is now Plattsburg Road. Twenty more miles of hills and curves would bring us to breakfast at JJs in Plattsburg, a town of 2354 good folks. Every fifth Saturday finds us here. But not today. We make a right onto 120th and follow it as it twists and turns and
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But she would have ridden on up 33 to Kearney and met us at Sarahs Table. Now she joins us as we ride over to Jessee James Farm Road and into Kearney from another direction. The eight of us have to wait a few minutes so two tables can be pulled together and we can all sit together. The four of us who started from the bike shop have picked up four of our regulars at three different points along the way. Wasnt planned. Just happened. Gods in his heaven. Alls right with the world. Were in high spirits. We all have stories to tell. Jeff tells his Grandmother Goodbar story, though he doesnt use her name until the retelling in John Pritchards hospital room. John Pritchard is himself a character cut from Disney cloth. How appropriate that this prince of a person is a Princeton graduate. His name appears on cornerstones and monuments and plaques all over Greater Kansas City. An engineer by training, a builder of log homes by profession, a humanitarian and philanthropist by disposition, John has little reason to be so humble and softspoken. A friend of the powerful and the powerless, a mover and shaker without an ego, John shuns the limelight while living with his wife, Mary, a life of quiet heroism well known to his many friends. When I rode my bicycle alone and without money across America, John arranged for me to meet President Carter and Millard Fuller, founder of Habitat for Humanity, both Johns personal friends. Small wonder that I ride my bicycle so often and in so many places. How could I not when doing so brings such winsome persons into my life? Next week we ride to Lawson for breakfast and story telling at Catricks. Yall come now, ya hear!
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Where do the locals go for breakfast? As I pedal the length
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of Central Avenue from the highway to the river, Im eyeing possible places. Back from the river to the highway, I take a second look. And spot several likely candidates. Once more up Central. Johnnys Corner Caf draws me in. The wall to my left is covered with clocks. Dozens of them. All sizes, I take a booth on the other side of the room, up near the counter. How far you ridin? Its one of the two men sitting at a near table. Just around town. My wife and I drove up to see the Arbor Farm. Shes asleep back at the motel, and I came lookin for a good breakfast. You found it, he says. Biscuits and gravy and ice tea, I order when the waitress comes. Im looking directly at all those clocks as I speak to the waitress. And I realize they all have the right time. Who sets the clocks? I ask. We all do, she says. Id noticed the man in the booth behind me as I came in. About the age of my children, he is sitting across the table from a grade-school age Asian girl. Father and Chinese-American daughter, Im guessing. With a Chinese-American grand daughter of my own, I notice such things. The girl has her back to me as I turn to speak to the man. He and his wife have four teenage sons. Madelyn is the girls name. They flew to China and got her when she was 17 months old. She will enter fourth grade this fall. Theyre having breakfast before they go fishing. You picked the best place to eat in town, he says. Been here about 70 years. The owners back there in the kitchen. This place is packed on Sunday for their buffet Bobbie and I drove up I-29 about two hours to get here. Nebraska City, Nebraska: home of J. Sterling Morton, founder of Arbor Day. Sterling and Caroline Morton set out for Nebraska Territory on their wedding day in 1854, and he became editor of the local newspaper just as Nebraska became a state. Before he died in 1902, J. Sterling Morton had served as acting governor of the Nebraska Territory and as Secretary of Agriculture in the administration of Grover Cleveland. Both the Mortons had a passion for trees. This prairie was
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barren of trees when they came. If settlers were to come, they would need trees to shade their homes and break the wind. Also to lift their spirits. Millions of trees. All kinds of trees. Through his newspaper, his many influential friends and his unflagging zeal for the cause, Morton, his wife and their disciples planted trees in such abundance that in the century and a half since they began, this little place on the planet has become a Mecca for those longing to become stewards of the earth and looking for inspiration. Twenty-six of us ride a bumpy tractor-drawn wagon for an hour as our guide, a few years removed from her Florida home, tells us about the laden apple trees were passing by, the vineyard we see where young workers are pruning vines and the majestic cornfields that seem to have no end. More than 20 varieties of apples they grow here. Genetic apple stock from all over the world they keep against that day it might be needed. In a building we walk through a little later, we see thousands of tiny hazelnut trees being nurtured and bred. Knots of children, parents and teachers are out and about over these hundreds of acres. Paved paths meander through woods, coming then to wood mulch paths through still more woods. Here and there in the paved path is a footprint and a sign asking Who walked here? Then a short distance further, children lift a wooden cover to find the answer: crow, bobcat, opossum, crane, etc. The Taj Mahal of tree houses nestles in the canopy of several huge trees, offering a mesmerizing birds eye view of treetops. Inside the visitors center, a white haired, mustached hologram from the bowels of a giant faux tree explains in childrens language how this all sprang from the mind and heart of J. Sterling Morton. On the far side of this same room are numbered pictures of some 20 persons who have been significant stewards of the earth: Rachel Carson, Aldo Leopold, John Muir, Theodore Roosevelt, etc. Beside the pictures is a listening station where one can punch a numbered button corresponding to the picture and hear a 60 second commentary on that persons life. J. Sterling Morton spent his life in this small Nebraska
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town. He ran for governor, senator and representative. He never won. He died 107 years ago. I never remember hearing his name. Having spent a day now amid the magnificent trees he planted and those he prompted, I can never forget him. No man ever left a more life-affirming testament to his time spent on this earth. Madelyn is fortunate to have come early in her life to such a place. I have come later and for a shorter time. Being here, though, for any time at all is life-affirming.
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Tucked into a mountain valley, with the sea flowing right up to our hotel, Queenstown is a travelers dream. President Clinton, when he was recently here, dined in the same restaurant where six of us have dinner tonight. Wonderful seafood and a marvelous view of sea and mountains as we eat. And the most enthused waitress ever. If there had been any problem with food or service, we wouldnt have had the heart to tell her. At the end of the evening, the last of her joyful inquiries into our welfare, we express our total satisfaction. All right, she beams and flashes us two thumbs up. The guidebook says that wait-staff down under do not expect tips and if given, should not be as large as those expected in the United States. Whoever wrote this did not know our waitress. What a privilege to reward such talent. The hotel clerk tells me the bike shop is small and several blocks away. Im having trouble walking, so I sit on the beach and gaze at the beauty on every hand in the fading light. Back on the bus for a quick look at the town and there it is. Just around the corner from our hotel. A big, beautiful bike shop. Dr. Bike! What a perfect name. The only medicine I take for my M.S. is bike riding. If I dont ride, I cant walk. If I ride, I can run. Dr. Bike rents me a bike. A rainbow over the mountains comes early this Monday morning. Queenstown is just waking up. Traffic is light and every-
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thing is quiet. A few drops of rain in the first half-hour. A pelting rain then follows. I likely will not be here again, so for three hours in the rain I ride about what already seems to be an unending succession of Brigadoons here in New Zealand. Back at the hotel, I throw my rain suit in the dryer. With only 45 minutes before our bus pulls out and we move on to the next town, I need to dry fast. I just make it.
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High in the New Zealand mountains I see it. As the first rays of early morning sun crest the highest peaks to my back, angry clouds roil above the mountains far in front of me. Arching across the sky and through those clouds, a brilliant rainbow of green and yellow and purple and red reaches the ground, bathing boulders and bushes on the mountain side in their glow. The ground is transfigured, and to my mind in that instant springs the story from scripture of Moses on another mountain and the burning bush he saw. High in the sky far to my left the rainbow is faint and narrow. While remaining warm and blending effortlessly into one another, the ribbons of light that together make the rainbow grow wide and vivid as they arch across the heavens and settle gently upon the high reaches of that distant mountain. Alone on my bike at first light of dawn in the chill mountain air of an early New Zealand spring, I am awed by all that I see and feel. Intermittent drops of rain grab my attention. Too few to dampen the joy of being alive on such a morning, their irregular plop, plop, plop on my helmet boot up my mind still groggy from early rising. The road I take from the place where our group has slept bends slowly to the left. I have pedaled long enough to be warm inside my wind resistant and water-proof outer wear before the gentle curve of the road points me head on to that rainbow. The shock
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of suddenly seeing what my peripheral vision has not detected causes me in that instant to think that the rainbow has appeared fullblown in all its glory just as I turn to face it. If a man laughs for joy and no one is there to hear, has he really laughed and is the joy not real? I leave you, dear reader, (assuming you exist) to ponder. Thornton Wilder, in his profoundly simple and simply profound little play called Our Town, has Emily to ask: Does anyone ever realize life as they live it, every single minute. We all know the answer of course. In this moment, though, I do realize life. And the memory of this moment may help me to mine more from those ordinary moments that march with unconscious regularity through my days and nights. I have seen rainbows before. Only yesterday in Queenstown in early morn high above the mountains. Just out of Dublin years ago, amid the snow and sleet and rain sandwiched between bouts of sunshine. In the Colorado Rockies after a storm. At home in Missouri to conclude spring showers. Once in Ireland one seemed to touch the ground. But over a hill so that we could not see. The ground this morning is aglow. Coming to rest upon the earth, the rainbow diffuses and blends, spilling out over the ground in a Technicolor flood. Earth tones as background for rainbow hues produce an orgy of color to which even Shakespeare could not apply adequate words, though he could do the scene more justice than I. So bright is the color on the ground that the rainbow seems to have had its origin deep inside that mountain and though some fissure in the earth has spilled out. Some of it oozes across the ground, but with such force has it escaped the earth that it erupts high into the sky. Great gallons of it hang suspended near the place where it has lept from the ground. High into the sky it grows progressively less distinct, until across the horizon its faintness is swallowed up by angry clouds. I gaze in awe at that place high on that distant mountain that is in this moment transfixed. I know in my mind that this moment will pass and this piece of earth will become again what a
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moment before it was. To see a place or a person made less gives me no pleasure. I understand the effervescence of rainbows, but if I am not here to see, will it really go?
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A wet spring and summer and an early autumn chill produce a Missouri leaf-peepers bonanza to rival storied New England fall foliage. Riots of golds and reds and lingering greens adorn every tree and carpet the quiet neighborhood streets we ride this Saturday morning on our way to breakfast. First Watch in North Kansas City we visit today, just 15-miles of rolling hills from Biscari Brothers Bicycles, our Liberty home. Thirty-six degrees and a brisk north wind have us dressed for winter and hone our appetites razor sharp. The beauty we encounter in route feeds our inner psychic selves, as soon at First Watch Kai will feed our raging hunger. With super-sized effervescence and efficiency, Kaichen takes our orders and makes us feel at home. Born in Taiwan and raised in the U.S., Kai, as she asks us to call her, banters with us as she beams and glows and effortlessly cares for us. Chris is with us this morning, the 30-mile round trip we ride today hardly a warm up for the double century he rode a few weeks back. On the road by 3:15 in the morning, it was dark again when he finished. He speaks a few words of Mandarin to Kai, surprising and pleasing her. I show her my grand daughters picture. She was four months when we got her from China. Shes 14 now. About on a bicycle, warmly dressed and well fed, the sights and sounds of small towns on an October morning give life vibrancy and intimacy and bring Norman Rockwells America to mind. Too soon we are back to Liberty and to our cars. And to the good lives we live between Saturdays and our all-too-brief rides to breakfast.
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A thing is precious in proportion to its rarity. Of the 168 hours in every week, we spend three to four together on our Saturday rides to breakfast. Of the 312 riders who have ridden at least once with us since we began riding together seven years ago, 11 have come today. So in a year of 8,736 hours, a different dozen or so of us will spend 156-208 hours together on our bikes and at breakfast. Knowing our time together is limited and hard to carve out of a busy week and busy lives, gives our time together a radiant serious levity that lies just behind all that we actually say and do.
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The day is last Wednesday, one week ago. The time is near 7:30 in the morning. The sun is coming up. Susan Brewer is riding her bicycle from her home to her job. She teaches small children at the Liberty Montessori School. Susan is riding east on 291 highway. Where Main Street intersects 291, Susan is struck from behind by a pickup truck. The 18-year old driver tells police he was blinded by the sun and did not see Susan. Susan is taken by helicopter to KU Med. She dies Thursday night. No power on Earth can erase the terrible consequences of that awful accident that happened just 300 yards from where we stand. One life was violently ended. The other life must live with that violent memory. And all of us who ride bicycles are reminded how vulnerable we are out there on the road, how dependent we are on the judgment and competence of those who drive. I did not know Susan. The school where she taught is only one block from my house, housed in the church I used to attend and my children grew up in. She lived less than a mile from my home. We both rode bikes. We both were riding the morning she was hit. I got a call on my cell phone just after 8 oclock that morning from a friend, one of our Greater Liberty Riders. On her way to work she had driven past the accident and seen the crumpled bicycle. She
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thought it might be me. She was calling to check on my welfare. I called the police. I had to know if it were one of our riders. The police could not release the name. They could tell me only that it was a woman and she might not survive. My mind went immediately to one of our women riders who often rides to work. I mentioned her name to the police officer. I can tell you that is not the name, he said. I call our local paper. They did not know the name. The next mornings Kansas City Star reported the accident, but did not identify the rider. A few hours later, I got an email from one of our riders who attends the church Susan belonged to. He told me her name. I regret I did not know Susan Brewer. But I regret even more the circumstances under which I came to know her. I wish now I still did not know her, for that would mean that she arrived safely at work last Wednesday. That would mean that the children she taught would not now be sad. Her colleagues would still be joking with her. Her parents and siblings would interact with her as they always had. Life would be normal. Susan and I would not know one another. And that would be good. Now Susan is a memory. We will in a few minutes go the place where she was hit and erect a monument to her memory. In the right-of-way beside the road we will place a marker to remind all who pass that on this spot a life was snuffed out. And all who see it will have occasion to reflect on the fragility and impermanence of life. So will be the legacy of Susan Brewer to all of us.
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Freezing rain, snow and ice had kept us off our bikes seven Saturdays running. Cabin fever is at work on us. Now on January 5th, were on the road again. Fourteen of us set out over hills and
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curves and bends for breakfast at Mill Inn. Kevins new wheels produce three flat tires before he gets to Prathersville, and Steve calls
Sharon to come pick him up. The remaining 13 of us squeeze together at the big oblong table by drawing up a table for two and appending it. Good food and good conversation occupy the ensuing hour. On winter mornings, thoughts of biscuits and gravy, hot coffee and chocolate, eggs and bacon, pancakes and other stokes for cold weather survival loom large in our minds and draw us here. Leaving this place where we often come and everybody knows us is never easy. Never harder than in January. My natural slowness, compounded by my reluctance to leave this place where Ive come hundreds of times, means that Im last to leave. But Ive not been abandoned. They all know I was not long ago in the hospital and am still not myself. They questioned me carefully, and I reassured them repeatedly that I was up to getting back on my own. My normal pace is an easy version of slow, meaning that though we may begin a ride together, I am soon last and alone. No problem there. Gods in his heaven. Alls right with the world. I have time to meander and let my mind wander. As it is just about to do. Into the wind Im riding now. The swelling in my legs, souvenir of my hospital stay, saps my energy on these hills. I stop. To catch my breath. I see a herd of cows in the pastureland to my right. They also see me. Half-a dozen move in my direction. They stop some twenty feet from the fence and eye me intently. Then a bold one in the center moves closer. The others follow. This process repeats several times, until they all have their noses pressed against the fence. As they have ventured closer, I have been speaking to them in cow language. And they to me. Now we are all standing stock still, looking directly at one another. I have not moved as they approached. Now they are as near as they can get. I begin to pedal slowly away, not wanting to frighten them. They follow. Until another fence cuts them off. In my rearview mirror, I see them stand and look in my direction. On other days I have seen cattle in the field. In the heat of summer, Ive seen
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them bunched under trees and standing in ponds of water. On early morning rides Ive seen cows follow hay wagons and respond to calls to breakfast sounded by truck horns. What are these meals-in-waiting thinking, I wonder. What goes on in their heads? They are destined for someones dinner table. They are just above plants in the food chain. In the world of prey and predator, they are prey. Their wild ancestors were ripped apart by wolves and members of the cat family, their remains eaten by buzzards and scattered by wind and small animals. This I know. What do they know? Is there any inter generational memory with them? Might they have some notion of what happened to their mother and dad, their grandparents, their cousins, aunts and uncles? Probably not! But for solitary bike rides encased in cathedral quiet, such questions would never come to me. A short time later, I have stopped again to gulp water and catch my breath. At first I cant make out where the honking comes from. No cars in sight! The honking gets louder. Some distant movement on the perimeter of my vision draws my eyes upward. And Im awestruck! Must be tens of thousands of geese in wave after wave of overlapping and interlocking Vs, stretching as far from north to south as I can see. How many human generations ago would such a sight have been no occasion to note? In a world teeming with wild birds and animals, such a sky as I see this moment might even have been of note for its paucity, its lack of fair game. My world of paved roads and bicycles and small town cafes has been bought at their expense. And probably at mine, in ways I am not smart enough to know. I am glad to live as I do. I have a good life. I am a happy man. But thousands of miles every year on a bicycle, by myself, with nothing to do but let my mind wander, leads me to wonder how things might have been. All things. Suppose there is a judgment that comes when this life ends. Suppose, as part of it, we might be shown what could have been. How, then, I wonder would we judge our time on this earth?
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Down several intersecting gravel roads in a snow covered Kansas cornfield stands an old barn. The first Lawrence exit off I70 we have taken, Melvin in his Oldsmobile; me, in my inferno red PT Cruiser. We left St. Monicas Catholic Church in Kansas City about an hour before we pull up to the barn. Melvin has been music director at St. Monicas for 16 years. The three musicians who have come with Melvin step out of his car and into the barn. I follow them. Pencil thin Chubby Smith welcomes us into his cathedral quiet sound studio. Guitars line one wall. Cables of many colors and sizes snake across the floor and connect to a bewildering assortment of devices. Spaces between the rafters, rising to an apex, are filled with dun colored bags of insulation. Its a little after three oclock. I had told Melvin I had to be back home in Liberty by five. So Im first. Chubby adjusts the mike. Does a sound check. And Im on. With no audience! It would be my first century, I say. And a story I call Finding Goodness spills out with hardly a pause. Standing before that mike, I relive my solo bike ride across the country, from Orlando to Seattle to Anaheim, Disney World to Disneyland. When Im done, I ask for a drink of water. Take a seat. Sit for a minute. Then stand again in front of the mike. To tell another story I call Bustin Hate. The headline said KLANSMAN WINS ELECTION IN LOUISIANA! Thats how this story begins. And tells how HateBusters began and what we do. I first met Melvin Kerr about six years ago in Sedalia, Missouri, where he lives. I had ridden into town with Bike-Aid, a group of 20 riders from California, on their way to Washington, D. C. Melvin put us up in a gym and had us speak to a Boys and Girls Club.
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Now Melvin heads FYI (For Your Inspiration) Studios. He has asked me to come tell my stories for a CD. He loves what HateBusters does and hopes the CD will raise some money for our work. FYI (For Your Inspiration) Productions, a ministry of St. Monica Music Ministry, announces a CD featuring Ed. Chasteen. The Pedalin Prof from William Jewell College! Thats the name Disneyland gave Ed when he arrived there after pedaling 5,126 miles across America, alone and without money. Ed is founder of HateBusters, the Human Family Reunion and the GreaterLiberty Riders. Its been 26 years since Ed was told he has MS and couldnt be active. Hes still pedalin and facing down hate. Proceeds from sale of this CD go to support the MS Society and HateBusters. This CD is to be released by Feb. 3, 2007. You can preorder and purchase your CD in advance (before Feb. 3, 2007) at a reduced donation of $10.00.The price of the CD after the release date will be $12.00.
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The Girl on the Bicycle

Thomas has me back at the university at 3:30 so Nancy Reagan can take me to the hospital to see what Chinese doctors can do for my leg. Enroute we stop to admire the granite statue, Mother of the Yellow River, and to get an ice cream bar. A little four-year old boy eyes my bikers helmet. I put it on his head; Thomas takes our picture with my bike. I give the boy an ice cream. Sigh gean, I call as we pedal away. He beams. You show me what you teach me, Thomas says as we leave the little boy. You gave all of us American names. We have given you a Chinese name. We call you Ai-hua. It means loves China.
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(1991)
Two days later, I am deep into the city, alone on my bike except for the several million Chinese also on wheels. I am stopped at a red lightone of the few in the city. Suddenly a bicycle whizzes by, a rare occurrence in a country where everyone seems to ride the same speed. The rider is a young woman in a billowing white skirt and long glossy black hair. As she passes without slowing, running the red light and being narrowly missed by a turning truck, a letter flutters into my basket. I snatch it up, intending to ride after the young woman with her letter. But the name on the letter stops me short. The letter is addressed to Ai-Hua. Waiting to read that letter until I got back to my room is one of the hardest things I ever did. My Dear Friend Ai-Hua, I hate this society. My father is leader. I know how those with power get money and government jobs. They protect each other. They live in a relative net. We students wanted to change this. I got a one month leave from my job so I could go to Beijing. A doctor gave me a note for money. The soldiers came. They shot us. They laughed. Blood was everywhere. One of my friends was killed. Another is in prison. Another disappeared. Two years and we dont know. My boyfriend took a picture of me at Tiananmen Square. He gave it to the authorities. The official who got it destroyed it to protect my father. After my father retires I think they may come for me to kill me or put me in prison. I am not afraid of this. I am a baby Christian. I read the Bible. I will not forget the blood of my friends. Three years, five years, ten years. I remember. We all remember. Tell America. That is all. Three days pass. Am I dreaming? I punch the light on my watch: 4:35. In the morning! Then again, a gentle rapping at my door. Whos there? No answer. A short time later, an even softer knock. I pull on my clothes and stumble in the dark to the door. I had never seen her face, and she is not wearing white. But
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the long raven hair shines against the single bulb that dimly lights the hall. How has she gotten here? Front and back gates have been shut and locked since well before midnight. The doors to our hotel are locked. Ai-Hua, I must take the letter. And she brushes past me into the sitting room. The girl on the bicycle? She smiles. How did you get here? No problem, she says. I must go soon, before it is light. You are being watched. When you fly away, they will find the letter. They will not hurt you. They will come for me. Read the letter one last time. Our government is corrupt. Many people believe as the students. Even party officials and many members. But we can do nothing. Students cannot talk to each other about what happened. No one knows who to trust. When we were in Beijing my friend burst into the room. Laughing and crying hysterically. She was covered with blood. A young boy died on my back. The soldiers shot him, she said. My father has given his permission for me to come to America to study. I will study economics and political science. I will come back to China. This is my mother country. She is poor and backward. I want to help. I must know how. I am 23 years old. After the Beijing uprising, the authorities knew I was there. They arrested me. They tried to make me say the students were criminals. Because I said nothing, I could not teach in my school for three months. Then my father said some more to some people. Now my father is afraid for me. My brother is a member of the Central Committee of our province. He thinks like the students, but he says nothing. We had a friend who was a member of the Central Committee in Beijing. After the uprising he was arrested because he spoke for us. We dont know if he is alive. Perhaps in prison. Now we can only dream in secret. Our time will come. We must
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be ready. You love Chinese people. I have heard this. We will not give up if you cannot help us. But we need you to tell people in America that the uprising had wide support from the people. Many students were killed. No soldiers. We were not violent. We wanted to talk to our government. They answered with bullets. Tell people in America it did not happen the way the government said. The government is lying. I do not ask her name. I dont take her picture. If I can not identify her I can never inadvertently betray her. She has found me twice, she can do it again. Early in her monologue to me, she mentions a person I know. Several other times the name comes up. I am confident that if I need to contact her, this person can arrange it. By 5:30 she is gone. Without a sound she pulls the door shut. The gates and the outer doors are still locked. No problem, Im sure she would say. She has lived in a cage all her life. Now she has asked me to help her look for the keys.
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Rain starts to fall as I leave Kellogg for the 37-mile ride to Couer dAlene. As I ride, the rain comes down harder. And colder. Fourth of July Pass lies between Kellogg and Couer dAlene, and the ascent is so deceptively simple that I am shocked when I am at the top and about to go down. Sitting at the summit and looking down the mountain through the drizzling rain, my heart is in my throat and a knot in my stomach. I dont want any part of what I see, but I have no choice. How will Jean and Bob survive? I wish they were here to talk about this. I wish I could wait. But I cant stay here in this rain. Nothing to do but go.
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Just over the summit, the highway is torn to pieces. Under Construction: thats what the sign says. Obstacle Course: thats how I read it. Traffic is narrowed to two lanes rather than four. No shoulder. Hard rain. Slick pavement. Logging trucks, semis, motor homes and countless cars lurching by as I fight to hold my bike to the footwide strip of road available to me while braking hard to keep from plummeting out of control down the mountain. To my right, just inches from me: debris, rocks, sand, a guard rail, all of it ready to spill my bike and me onto the road if I make a single mistake. To my left, inches away, that caravan of 18 wheelers and vacationers rumbles by. Should I veer a few inches off course to the left, Im a dead man. Down that mountain for half-a-mile or so I follow that ribbon-wide path, disaster to either side. Then comes the four mile obstacle course. Marker cones, long concrete barriers set up to channel traffic away from the construction and into two narrow lanes, and all the while the road is twisting to follow the natural contours of the land. Where I can, I ride to the right, as far from the traffic as possible, through the construction, where cars and trucks cannot get at me. But the road is rough and strewn with tire hazards. Often the way is blocked by a concrete barricade, and I am forced back into the line of traffic. Nothing to do but go. Stopping, even hesitating, is out of the question. My bicycle has as much right on this road as big trucks and cars, and they will respect that right. Only I can exercise it, though. And I realize Im teaching as I ride, teaching motorists how to treat bikers. Talking is not teaching, listening is not learning, a saying I ran across somewhere years ago comes to mind as I compete for space on the road. When I come to the only shelter I have passed since leaving Kellogg, more than 25 miles back, I pull my bike up under that overpass. Standing straight after hours hunched over in a cold rain feels good. Arms over my head and touching my toes releases taut muscles, but Im not able to move fast enough to generate the heat
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I long for. My rain jacket on over a tee shirt, is glued to my arms from the rain. With an hour to go before I get to Couer dAlene, I have to get warm. So I pull out my flannel shirt and put it on under my jacket. I had told Jack to expect me about three oclock, but its 5:15 by the time I get to the church. No sooner have I pulled in than Jack appears. He shows me where to change my wet clothes. Then I call the police to tell them about Bob and Jean coming behind me. I also call the highway patrol to ask that they watch for them and bring them to the church. As people are arriving for the evening prayer service, Jack introduces me to each. When the service begins at 6:30, Im given the bulk of the service to tell about my ride and about the Human Family Reunion. When the service is drawing to a close and Bob and Jean havent come, I ask prayers for them out there on that mountain in the rain. After services, I call the police again. No word. So George House, Jack, and I get in Georges car to go look for them. As we round a curve on the edge of town just before starting up the mountain, I spot two heads barely visible behind a motor home sitting in a service station driveway. I cant tell who it is, but I have the feeling its Bob and Jean, and I yell at George to pull in. They are cold and wet and miserable and look like death warmed over. But we are all so happy to see one another, so giddy from our sense of accomplishment at getting down the mountain and of conquering our fear that nothing else matters. Georges pickup wont hold the two of them and their tandem, so Bob and Jean have to ride another four wet miles to the church. George then takes them where they are to stay and Jack takes me to his house out in the country, stopping at Taco Bell for an order to go. According to the paper there was a flood yesterday in Smelterville, a little place I saw a sign for on the ride down the mountain. A small plane is missing and feared down in the area. Hayden Lake is only a few miles from Coeur dAlene. Thats where the Aryan Nations nuts are. Learning this, I want to stress the
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Human Family Reunion part of my ride. I get to the newspaper office as deadline approaches and wait an hour to see what I can help to happen. When he is free, Gail Wood and I sit and talk for half an hour or so while he takes notes. Gail seems supportive and sympathetic, though he cant quite grasp how people of various faiths can get together without trying to convert one another. I mention my friendship with Yayah. Gail asks if I think it is important to share Jesus Christ with him. I say no. Thats such a crucial part of this whole Human Family Reunion. It cannot ever, even for a moment, be seen as a platform for converting people of other faiths. Who is right is the wrong question to ask in this setting.
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This year Im in room 106 here at Doniphan Elementary. Each child in school cycles through in one of the eight 25-minute sessions. I show them my bike. Always wear a helmet, ride with the traffic, ride single file and obey all traffic laws. These are the rules I urge on them. But as much as I want you to be safe, I want you to have fun. A bicycle is magic. It takes you anyplace you want to go. It makes people want to talk to you. It makes you hungry. It makes your body work. It leaves you feeling strong. It makes no nose. It uses no gas. We are the privileged few in a world of want. Some among us contend that we deserve our privilege and feel no responsibility. For if privilege is deserved, so is misery. But if luck plays a part in either, everything changes. Neither privilege nor misery is wholly deserved. And the miserable are entitled to their anger. The privileged are either obligated or defensive. If obligated, they devise ways to mitigate misery. If defensive, they become aggressive and
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On a bike, the journey is the destination.
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magnify the misery.
101 Bicycle Stories
Eighteen days before he came to Lawson, Rick Carlson had pedaled out of Minneapolis, bound for Kansas City and a firsttime visit with his daughter since her nursing job had brought her here. That chronic nagging hunger that rides with long-distance bikers flashed a mental neon in his mind: FOOD! FOOD! FOOD, as he came to Lawson and pedaled up Pennsylvania to Catricks Caf. He parked his recumbent on the sidewalk and stepped inside. A piece of pie later, I spot him coming toward me on Salem Road. I had left Excelsior Springs about 20 minutes before, headed for lunch at Catricks. Rick and I stop to swap stories just as we come to the intersection of MM with Salem Road. Rick has pieced together several bike maps to get him here. He will leave Salem Road and take MM to get to Holt, where his daughter will come to pick him up. Not many places have pie anymore, Rick says. But all these hills! And the wind! Pie is always good.
Which road do I travel?
It seems so futile. But at this moment its all I can do. As I ride, I see burned and boarded and abandoned houses where not long ago people lived. Sandwiched among these derelict structures, I see barely habitable homes, if home it be when no future lives within. From these lonely places on this May Monday morning have come their unoccupied occupants. They sit now on their porches and stand about in their yards. Good morning, I call, as loud and as cheerfully as I can as I pedal past. Most respond. What must they think, I
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wonder, to see an old white man riding a bicycle down their street? Many times before I have come to this town where my daughter and her family live and work. Only a few blocks from the heart of the city, this is not a road tourists travel when they visit. These people and the places where they live are not pointed out when the town explains itself. Parallel roads just a few blocks away carry all the traffic. These lonely by-ways sing a siren song to a pedalin pilgrim. The danger here by bike is not being hit by a car. Overpowering sadness and a broken heart are my melancholy companions this day. They have journeyed with me before in other towns and in other seasons. I ride to lose them, to find a place and a people where they are not at home. Dead End. I keep seeing this sign this morning. The freeway that 18 wheelers roam cut neighbor off from neighbor years ago in this place, and the sign erected to mark the interruption of neighborhood streets seems now a fitting commentary on life in this place. On one street I find a bridge has been built to carry neighbors over the interstate. My good feeling at seeing a once-through street that is through still is swept away by the cross. Underneath the cross is a picture of a young black man. And the words, Someone I love was murdered here. Taped to many of the stop signs on these streets is a plea: Stop The Killings. In a car I would move too quickly to see most of this. And everything I did see would come at me so fast that one thing would replace another before my mind could register it. In a car I likely would never be on this street at all. My journeys by bicycle through the mean streets of American towns leaves me, dear reader, broken hearted. These dear people to whom I call greetings need someone to
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give voice to the stories of their lives. Hoping somehow to do that, to do it in a way that fully captures their dignity, their fierce pride and their desperate need, a way winsome enough to find favor on fairer streetsthis longing to reconcile all our people to each other gets me out of my bed and onto my bike in every month of the year and every state of the union. I may never have the words to reconcile us all, but every day on my bike I do have the words to greet every person I see. Who can know what ripple effect these random greetings may have? A kind word from an unexpected source to begin their day might echo through these hollow streets and come back again in a higher key. A mans reach should exceed his grasp, or whats a heaven for? If we could all walk down any street, And stop to talk to all the people we meet, Maybe the world would seem more our home, And we could feel secure wherever we might roam.
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By noon I have come to a town of 3,000 people, county seat of a rural Missouri county. After riding once around the square, I lean my bicycle against a giant tree on the courthouse lawn, take my trail mix from its bag and sit down on a wooden bench to watch the town. Four restaurants are visible from where I sit. For half an hour or so, I watch to see if one has more customers than the others. It turns out that practically everyone enters the one directly across the street in front of me. As I sit here, I am joined on my bench by a man about my age who works in the courthouse; County Clerk he tells me momen-
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tarily. He is a friendly man, easy to talk with, pleasant to listen to. Before he joins me on the bench I had seen him coming. Down the courthouse steps he came, a cane in each hand, throwing his legs in slow, jerky motions out in front of him. His upper body bobbed and weaved from the effort; he appeared about to fall at every step. He sat down, grinning not only at the mouth but also in the eyes. I like him instantly. Here is a man whose body has been treated cruelly by life but whose body language asks for no sympathy. In the course of our half hour conversation we tell one another about our lives and families. He had been a farmer 20 years earlier when a tractor turned over on him, crushing his legs and requiring amputation above the knees. He still lives on the farm, now run by his son, and he has served as County Clerk for the past ten years. Then comes the inspiration. The year before he and his wife had gone to Europe, traveling by train with several suitcases and two wooden legs. The human spirit is indomitable. Is that all you can do to me, it keeps asking? Why, thats nothing, it keeps replying. Ill raise you one: I think youre bluffing. The 20 miles from that town to the next are the steepest and hottest Ive ever encountered, but the image of that man gleefully hobbling through Europe is constantly in my mind. By 4 oclock, Im exhausted, but Ive made the next town and have thrown myself down at a restaurant table to absorb like a sponge the two giant drinks I have ordered. Im so tired that I go looking for a motel where I can shower, shave, and luxuriate in air-conditioning. By the time I find one Ive almost decided I will live. And when the clerk demands $20.00, I decide to ride on. Its another hilly 15 miles to a state park I find on the map. I stop once at a gas station en route to ask directions and to buy another large drink. Arriving at the park near 7 p.m., I soon find the shower room. I had no idea when I left home that I would be gone so long. I have neither soap nor towel with me. I have been washing in service stations and cafes. I did, however, think to bring shampoo. So now I jump into the shower and shampoo my entire body.
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I stay in that shower for ages, water as hot as I can bear, until I figure Im a prune. Then I run my hands all over my body and through my hair, stripping away the excess water and massaging sore muscles. After a while Im drip dry, and I put on the change of underwear and socks Ive brought with me. If ever a human being felt more purged I cant imagine whenor how. I take up temporary residence on a nearby bench while I stuff nuts and dried fruit into my mouth. Then I wander over to the swing where I play for a while with the kids who are here. And I think long about my own three with whom I used to do things like this. I plan to sleep on this bench. Its slat bottom doesnt look as inviting as the slab table I slept on last night, but I figure Ill manage. I havent figured on the mosquitoes, drawn I guess by the nearby lake. When they attack, I move inside the laundry room. Away from the mosquitoes, Im also warmer. But where to sleep? Other than the concrete floor, there is only a small table for folding clothes. By drawing myself into a fetal position and sleeping on my side, I make it through the night on that table. Again at 5 a.m. I am on the road. Since leaving the courthouse yesterday, I have been going in the general direction of home, though by no means as the crow flies. Now for the first time I think seriously about getting back. My first priority is a big country breakfast in a small town cafe. I find a likely looking town on the map. It will require a significant departure from the most direct route home, but that voice tells me to take it. By 8:30 Im sitting in Ralphs Cafe in Lathrop, Missouri, dining on rural ambrosia. A light rain is falling as I leave Ralphs. My glasses and the rear-view mirror protruding from my helmet are soon spotted with water droplets. Rather than a hazard or a distraction, the mist-like rain enveloping me heightens my appreciation of this fine summer morning, the magnificent landscape Im traversing, the elegantly simple meal I have just devoured, and the intricacies of this efficient, aesthetic machine known as the human
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hand. How dare that doctor say I couldnt be active. Id show him. Before I was told I am sick, I thought there was nothing I could not do. That attitude is gradually returning. To sustain and nurture it, however, I find I must put it to the test. I can tell myself I could sing at the Met, but I know in my heart I cannot. Self-confidence is hollow until the basis for it has been demonstrated.
body. The ambiance of it all is a state of mind I have returned to time and again since that glorious day. It is raining harder as I come to Liberty, my home town; and also, as a result of this trip, once again a mayor quality of my life: Sweat, solitude, and aching muscles have liberated me from paralyzing fear. I still have trouble walking when I alight from my bicycle. But having ridden 150 miles, fighting traffic, dogs, insects, and heat; having eaten like a horse and worked like a dog; having had no bed in two days and no one around for miles who knows Im sick, I know I have established a beach head: LIBERATION is at
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Its late in the day when I see the sign pointing off to the left down a one-lane dirt road. After riding all day yesterday in the rain, I dont have my customary pen and paper with me. So for the remaining seven or so miles into Beaufort, I repeat the name over and over to myself: Bud Ryans Path. Something about that name stirs my imagination. Was Bud the first person to live there? Is that how the road got its name? Why path? Why not road? Or street? Or avenue? Or Place? Or lane? I see those names everywhere. But never path. Path makes me think of Hanzel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood and fairies and elves. And when I was a child. Im a child again this week. Out on a bike, riding the Outer Banks of North Carolina. In the wind and rain. Eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and picnic lunches.
Bud Ryan s Path
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As highway 70 makes a right hand turn some ten miles before I come to Bud Ryans Path, I spot two blue bikes at the little convenience store. I hurry in. Win and Barb are talking and eating. Youve got to have some of this, Barb says as she thrusts a big cup of ice cream for my inspection. And dont ask for two scoops. Barb and Win agree on this. Give me Death by Chocolate, I say to the lady behind the counter. She lifts the lid. Sorry. All gone. We have Moosetracks, vanilla with chocolate chunks and Reeces peanut butter cups. Taking their advice, I ask for one dip. Three times the lady reaches deep into the round cardboard tube to bring up heaping mounds of ice cream. She crams them into a big drinking cup, and when it is over flowing, she hands it to me. And a spoon. Thats one dip? How much? Seventy-three cents. When the lady is busy with other customers and Barb and Win and I are out of earshot, I say to them, Baskin Robbins would charge $5.00 for this. A man who says he moved here 13 years ago directs a nonstop monologue at us as we eat. Im a Christian. People here hate me. If youre not a Baptist or a Catholic, just a Christian, they hate you. How far you ridin? We came over on the Cedar Island Ferry. Were riding to Beaufort for the night. You got 15 miles to go. Be careful. People throw things at you. They throw things at me. Im disabled. They dont like me. Im an artist. Got my hand in a fan. Cant paint. What kinda bike you ridin? Wish I could go with you. As we stand and eat and listen, out of the corner of my eye and through the window, I catch a glimpse of Harry and Karen as they ride by. We eat fast and listen enough to be polite as we plan our next few miles. Simon said this morning that traffic from here on in would pick up. Logging trucks and semis and cars. And when 70 merges with 101, youll have traffic on both sides. Be careful.
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And watch those grates. Theyre not bike friendly. You and Win ride on together. Ill slow you down. Ill be okay, says Barb. Jim and Jan on their tandem are ahead of us. Harry and Karen passed a few minutes ago. Ralph is up there somewhere. Eight of our group are somewhere behind. The road has been flat, as promised in the ads that lured us here, but headwinds and mechanical problems have taken their toll. What Simon says is true. Like random shots from an oversize Burp gun, big trucks lumber by. Cars whiz past. Two or three times I stop to examine the route map atop my handlebar bag. Mileage figures and landmarks fill the page. Inside its rainproof holder, Ive had to scroll the page forward as we near the end of our day. A couple of times I stop to drink and look at the map. Win and Barb pull up. We compare notes. Mile 32.7, the T-intersection. The light turns red as I arrive. I pull into the left-hand turn lane. I crane my neck and spot Win. Wheres Barb? I dont know. She said shes okay as long as somebody is behind her. The light turns green. Food Lion is 3.5 miles ahead on the right. Cedars Inn by the Sea, our home for the next two nights, is 2.4 miles beyond Food Lion. Down on front Street, running parallel to the beach, past sailing ships and nautical shops. As Win and I roll up just at 5 oclock, police block the street. A camera crew is shooting a movie. Bud Ryans Path, Ill bet. I cant wait to see it.
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About 15 minutes late. Thats what she says when I ask if the plane is on time. The TV in the corner tells of violent weather across the Southeast and the Midwest, not a good omen for flying from Coastal Carolina to Kansas City. The Craven County
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Regional Airport in New Bern is modern and attractive, with rocking chairs in the waiting room. But the clean white interior is acoustically challenged. The several announcements of flight delays and cancellations are mush-mouthed, more entertaining than informative. Fifteen minutes becomes three hours, and we are back again before the same nice lady. She is now working overtime, and the line behind us for re-ticketing is long. She buries her head in her hands for a long moment. We offer sympathy. Out at 5 oclock was the plan, through Charlotte and into Kansas City by 11. Home to Liberty by midnight. Coming in we had cut it close. Arrive in New Bern at 2 oclock, bike fitting from 3:30. Dinner at 7. Without a hitch it went, time even for a leisurely ride around historic New Bern, catching the tail end of a band concert in the park. The airport here locks up at 10 PM, so the nice lady gives us a voucher for dinner and a hotel. The nice lady gives us several choices of departure times for tomorrow. We choose 9:50 in the morning. A 12:08 connection in Charlotte will get us into Kansas City at 1:30. As we go to sleep tonight, thunder and lightening and torrential rain cause us to bless the nice lady who put us here rather than up there with it in a small plane. As sleep comes, I think of that line from High Noon about a craven coward. But it wasnt cowardice that grounded planes tonight. It was that discretion that is the better part of valor. Because of it, we will flyand bikeanother day. Thank you, nice lady. Thank you, US Air.
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No matter how winding the road, that wicked wind will not abandon its assault. At every turn a cross or headwind tries mightily to stop me or blow me over. Never does it fall in behind to assist.
Wicked Wind
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After four involuntary months off my bike, Im in desperate need of assistance. The late November chill of Mid-America does not help bones and muscles de-conditioned by months in a hospital. Everything hurts and nothing works as it did. But Im out and about on my bike. Weeks went by as I lay in a hospital bed when ever being on a bike again looked impossible. I had to use a walker, and even a few steps exhausted me. My balance deserted me. I developed infections and blood clots. They inserted a filter to keep clots from going to my lungs or brain. I was put on blood thinner. I was so constipated they had to more than once dig it out. Even to use the urinal beside the bed, I had to push a call button and wait for the nurse to come. My urine and feces had to be measured and recorded. My legs swelled. A doctor mistakenly told me that I had a history of high blood pressure and put me on monitors and medicine I didnt need. A nurse mistakenly told me I had congestive heart failure. Young women gave me sponge baths. Practitioners of various medical skills came with their instruments to poke and prod and stick and call me Honey and Sweetie. I was diagnosed as situationally depressed and put on a daily dose of a powerful antidepressant. Hospital staff talked to me about nursing homes. They sent me to skilled nursing. For several nights running, the best I can manage is a groggy near-sleep that brings no rest, renders me mute but aware of noises from the hall and occasional intruders who come to perform their prescribed procedures on my inert body. Sounds are muffled beyond comprehension, giving them a chilling and disquieting aura at odds with a place of healing. To my depressed mind comes the thought that I have entered eternity and this is hell. I am destined forever to lie in this bed, visited by paid strangers in the dark, aware that my family is heartbroken and financially ruined by my longtime habitation of a place where I live but have no life. The day shift comes bringing a breakfast I have no appetite for and pills I hate to take. Im exhausted to face another day. A friend from church comes. I tell her these things. She comes back with a big sign she has made. She puts it on the wall:
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NURSES ARE ANGELS THIS PLACE IS HELL I had come to this hospital in my hometown because I do business locally. Here I know and am known. I support my town. My town supports me. Out-patient surgery it was to be. I had an old mans prostate. No cancer. Just big! Things went wrong. I was in and out of the hospital for two months, three times by ambulance. When finally I went home, nurses and therapists made regular visits for eleven days, followed by three weeks of outpatient therapy. I was forbidden to ride on the road. Our local bike shop brought a state-of-the art stationary bike to my house. Home now almost two months, I am at last on the road again. Into a stiff north wind and over rolling hills, I have come to one of the five Greater Liberty small town cafes. Years now Ive been coming. Alone on weekdays. With anywhere from half-adozen to 25 or 30 on Saturdays. Mill Inn today has beckoned me. I love them all. I never in print or in conversation compare one to another. Each in its own way is superb, and I will do nothing to cause anyone to think otherwise. By name the others in alphabetical order are: Catricks, Fubblers Cove, JJs and Sarahs Table. Kay is behind the cash register and greets me as I enter. I speak to Milton, and draw up a chair at a nearby table. Kayla waits on the both of us. Carl comes from where he lives across the street and takes a chair beside me. One Saturday, he brought his homemade blackberry cobbler to share with the guys who always sit together at the round table in the middle of the room. When I came with my Saturday Riders, he brought me a bowl brimming full. A grilled cheese sandwich and homemade vegetable soup is todays lunch special. Together with a cup of coffee, good conversation and at-home ambiance, I am for most of an hour nearer to heaven than I get on a typical day. When I go to pay my bill, Kay says, I took care of it. I choose to return by another route. The rolling hills I came by, I decide, are more than my swollen legs can endure. My doctor
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thinks my legs will return to near their former condition if I work my leg muscles to force the blood to find alternate routes where clots have blocked the flow. He looks pensive when I ask how long that might take. Hard to say, he says. Six months, he ventures when I press him. My doctor is a good man. When my long-time doctor retired some 10 years ago and I met with the new guy for the first time, I said, Dan, heres the deal. I called Dick by his first name. He called me Ed. I told him my symptoms. He told me what he thought I should do. If I disagreed, I told him so. And we talked until we both agreed. Can we work like that? When Dan said yes, I added, Your job is to keep me on my bike. He already knew that bike riding is the only medicine I take to keep my MS at bay. Ill do my best, he said. During my hospital stay, Dan shepherded me through a maze of doctors and esoteric procedures. He came every morning to listen and explain and encourage. He was the only one who understood me as more than a particular diagnosis. I caught a fleeting glimpse of some hospital record about me. Elderly Male, was written across the top. That was the only image my other 10 doctors had of me. But Dan knew. He knew me as a long-distance bike rider with the heart of an athlete and the will of a winner. Many mornings as he left my room, he would say, I have to get you back on your bike. I went yesterday at my wifes urging to ask Dan about blood vessels that I could see on my chest. He explained that these were some of the new routes my blood was finding and told me their prominence would be temporary. I told Dan that in the past couple of days I had ridden a few miles on the road and was planning more. He smiled. Delighted! he beamed. And shook my hand. Dan did his job. And today for the first time in over four months, I ride to Mill Inn. That cold stiff wind and those hills to climb are tonic for my mind and soul. Tethered to machines and confined to bed in a series of sterile (hopefully) hospital rooms, I longed for the wind in my face and the feel and sounds of the road. And the small town caf filled with friends and food that comes
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always where the road ends. Today its Mill Inn.
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I didnt realize until after I had left the restaurant what I had done. I had just eaten one of my dads favorite meals. Lettucesalad. Pinto beans and ham, with chopped onions. And cornbread. Coffee and a piece of coconut meringue pie. We had that often for the meal coming at the close of day and called supper in 1950s East Texas. But its more than I usually eat for lunch in 2003. Coming to the Mill Inn after pedaling 20 miles in a cold rain has revved my appetite into overdrive. Everything on the menu looks good, but Todays Special jumps out at me and calls its name when the waitress comes. Each time the waitress comes to fill my cup, I tell her how good this all is. Then one last time to the cashier as I pay my bill I praise my meal. How far you rode? The young woman asks. Twenty miles to get here just now. But Im at a thousand since January 1st. Ive promised to ride 10,000 this year. Thats 1,000 miles every 36 days. Ive made my first thousand with three days to spare. And Im here to celebrate with a piece of pie. Its gotten colder and its raining harder as I leave. I need to put on the sweat-shirt Im carrying in the bag behind my seat. Before I do, I rush back inside to hold it beneath the dryer in the mens room. Im a mile or two north of Excelsior on my way toward the Pasta Plant when I think of Dad. Hes been dead for 16 years, and memories of him do not come regularly. Why at this moment? That meal! His favorite. Maybe thats why it jumped out at me. Thanks, Dad. Rain becomes sleet and stings my face. Not enough to cause me pain. But enough to keep me focused. Then to snow. Temperature in the 60s the last two days has warmed up the ground,
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and the snow vanishes as it hits. The wind is in my face. Cotton-ball snow puffs melt on my glasses. Im on B Highway nearing Glen Ridge Cemetery when an irate driver in a red pickup leans on his horn and comes screaming up behind me. He gives way just enough to pass me, and with his free hand as he roars past, he makes threatening motions. If, by chance, dear driver, you are reading these words, please forgive me for riding on your private road. And I beg your forgiveness in advance for the next time I do it.
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I spot a small hand-lettered sign as I ride C Highway through Rayville, headed for Lawson. Ive ridden more than 40 miles by a circuitous route from Liberty when I see the sign. Rayville is a tiny town of 204. Im not expecting a place to eat. The sign sits at ground level. Black, hand-lettered script on a white board: Bakery Open, Cinnamon Rolls, Breads, Pies. With an arrow pointing up the street to my left. I wheel to the left. Next door to the Calvary Baptist Church in a small frame building, I find the Rayville Baking Company. Jason Van Till welcomes me inside. He and the fritters and doughnuts and scones and other goodies spread in the glass case draw me in and make me want to stay. I explain to Jason that we plan to route our bike ride for 100 riders through Rayville in just over two months and I am looking for a rest stop. I fell in love with your place the moment I stepped through the door. Our riders will need a bite to eat and a rest room. Jason gets his dad on the phone as I read their brochure: We have resisted the temptation to use the cheapest inputs and sacrifice the flavor, nutrition and satisfaction which comes when youve tasted the best. When Cliff Van Till comes on the phone we quickly decide
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that his place needs to be on our route. Cliff recently moved his family here from California. Cliff is a native Californian and has been growing vegetables, grains and nuts for over 25 years. His family has developed a line of specialty foods, including farm products, artisan breads, pies, and pastries from their own freshly ground whole wheat and unbleached organic flours. Missouri lured the Van Till family. A friend was pastor of the Presbyterian Church in Rayville. Good farmland was available. Now the Van Tills own 200 acres. They will grow fruits and vegetables. They have free-range chickens and will have hogs. Rather than the San Francisco Farmers Market where they used to sell their goods, they have a bakery. When word gets out that this California treasure now resides in a tiny Missouri town, they will come. Those legions of folks who remember good taste and fresh air and open spaces. They will come. Jamie, Jason and Brian Van Till do not leave home for their schooling. Missouri is home-school friendly, Cliff tells me. We have always home schooled our children. And a fine job they have done with them, judging from my brief meetings with them over the next few days. In my years of riding all the country roads I can find, I somehow never have come to Rayville. I would not be here now, except that Rich has routed our ride through here. Even then I expected that we would pass through the town with hardly a notice. That ground-level sign beside the road spoke to me. Now in the space of a week I have been three times to Rayville. I have not yet met Mrs. Van Till. But I will come again. I now know that I want all our riders on May 31st to stop by the Rayville Baking Company to meet the Van Tills. We have placed a brochure describing the bakery in each riders packet. Im asking riders to spend a little money at the bakery. Then go and tell all your friends about this good place. May our bike ride through Rayville and to its bakery begin the magic in that line from Field of Dreams: Build it and they will come.
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From miles around by wagon and horseback to Mount Gilead Church they came on Sunday mornings in the 1850s and 60s. Now in 2006 from miles around we come by car and pickup and bicycle on Saturday mornings. Now a State Historic Site, the church and nearby school serve as our gathering site for the dozen or so times each year that we pedal to Plattsburg for breakfast at JJs. From Blue Springs, Independence, Raytown, Gladstone, Kearney, Liberty, Kansas City, Roeland Park, Leawood and occasionally other far-flung satellite cities in the Kansas City Metro, we converge on Mt. Gilead, eager for our 7:30 AM start. Only once every four or five weeks do we begin our rides at Mt. Gilead. Only for JJs is Mt. Gilead our starting point. When we ride to Fubblers Cove in Orrick, Mill Inn in Excelsior Springs, Sarahs Table in Kearney or Catricks in Lawson, we begin our ride at Biscari Brothers Bicycles in Liberty. Because we begin most of our rides in Liberty and because more of us live in Liberty than in any other one place, we have come to call ourselves the Greater Liberty Riders and to think of the places we ride as part of Greater Liberty. More than 140 riders have ridden with us on Saturday mornings since our first ride in 2003. A dozen or more usually ride with us every Saturday. By chance this morning when I pick up one of the logbooks I always carry on my bike, its open to a ride to JJs back on January 14, 2006. Today is June 10. We have been several times to JJs in the intervening months. But I suddenly think of Dorothy McClain, a dear friend who died a year or so back. Dorothy used to tell me, Nothing is ever just coincidence. At first I argued with her. Then I started trying to understand everything that happens to me as anything but coincidence. So what do I make of the fact that I picked up one of the several logbooks I keep that just happened to be open to a trip to JJs in the month of January? And here we are in
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June, ready for another ride to JJs. All those Js! Just coincidence. Dorothy would say no. Scott and Waynell Gregory live in Roeland Park and ride a tandem. Often! And in distant places. They have ridden with us before. But not to JJs. So in our cars we meet at Biscari Brothers this morning at 7. And I lead them to the church. Rodgers car is already here. But hes gone. Rodger loves our rides. He often drives from Independence and leaves early so he can be home for family affairs. Since I always ride last, I expect to meet him coming back as I near Plattsburg. I grab my bike phone and put in a quick call to JJs to tell them 15 bike riders will be there in about an hour. I wont! But most will. These 15 hilly miles will take me nearly 30 minutes more. Everybody will have ordered by the time I arrive. I ride a loaded bike. The biggest rear panniers I could find, half-fenders front and rear, a rack with a bag on top. I carry tools and tubes and food and clothes and notebooks and pens and business cards and glasses and assorted coins and other things as seasons dictate. So anyone seeing me ride would understand why Im slow. Riding this way became a habit when I was teaching and rode every day to campus, carrying books and papers and things needed in my office. I ride this way still because no compelling reason to do otherwise has ever presented itself. My natural slowness is somewhat disguised by a bike that resembles a freight wagon. Absent all the add-ons, my lack of speed stands exposed as my natural state. Three miles this side of Plattsburg I spot Rodger riding toward me. Hey, we yell as we pass. Then two more riders come toward me. A big truck lumbers past just as we pass. I cant make out who they are. One rider peels off and rides with me back to JJs. Two empty chairs remain at the table for 15. We take them. I pass the logbook. Everybody sign in! Tom Raines, Nick Baumgartner, Michael Calabria, Ann Dahl, Sharon and Steve Hanson, Elaine Ethier, Cindy and Brian Harvey, Scott and Waynell Gregory, Greg Snodgrass, Tim Griffin, David Eaton, Ed Chasteen.
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Richard Bowman was here. He left already, someone says. Rodger had to get back for a grandsons first birthday party. Our January ride to JJs occurred the same day that Jennifer and Julies parents, Don and Vita Felin, had flown here from their home in Birmingham, Alabama to visit their grandchildren. JJs is one of our sponsors for our yearly Greater Liberty Ride for MS, held on the Saturday before Memorial Day weekend. I have brought a Greater Liberty T-shirt for Jennifer and Julie, the sisters who own and operate JJs. Attention everybody! I have an announcement. Next Saturday we ride to Kearney. And we go to the VFW Hall for breakfast. Their cafeteria style breakfast will get us out fast. We can be back at Biscaris for the 11 AM presentation to the MS Society of the big check from our Greater Liberty Ride. And on to another subject. The logbook I brought this morning shows that we rode here on January 14 this year. Some of the same folks came: Kevin White, David Eaton, Steve Hanson, Brian and Cindy Harvey, Petra Toye, Ed Chasteen, Rick and Nan Lueckert, Rachel Palos. All you can eat pancakes for $1.99 every Saturday at JJs. I had an egg, sunny side up, and a glass of iced tea with mine. Im standing at the counter to pay my $4.13 bill when Jennifer hands me a T-shirt commemorating their Main Street celebration just held. We had a little fiasco yesterday, she says. Another group of bikers came in. While they were eating we saw one of them unscrew knobs off those little drawers and put them in his shirt. He walked out with them. But he paid by credit card. We know who he is. Wow! Im sorry a bicycle rider would do that. Hell give us all a bad name. I say. We know you guys arent like that, Jennifer says. Everybody go off and leave you? The question comes from a man just leaving the restaurant and getting in his curbside car. Oh, thats ok. Im always last. I say. Mine is the only bike still around. I take another few minutes to put away my stuff and slather myself in sun screen. Then Im off. Im surprised to see another car
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still at the church when I roll in. I havent seen another rider since leaving JJs. Its Michael. How long you been here? An hour? I ask. Not long, he says. I was talking to Scott and Waynell. They just left. Thanks for waiting on me. I say.
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Clumps of children stand on random street corners in our town this Monday, June morning. School buses will soon come to take them where minds are made and dreams are born. Have a great day, I yell as I pedal past. Rounding a corner onto the street where Princess lives, Im resigned to not seeing her. She finished sixth grade just a few days ago. Shes taking swimming and is just now across town in the pool. She calls me Papa and signs the art she creates, Papas Princess. I pull to a stop across from her house where a young mother stands in her yard, awaiting the school bus with her two daughters. Hows your father-in-law? I ask. Weve been gone and just heard. Hes in Smithville now. His left side hasnt come all the way back. Makes his balance hard. Can he have visitors? Yes, he can. Do we need to call? Or can we just go? I think you could just go. I dont know when he has therapy. By a route I would never take in my car, I come about an hour later to Kearney and Sarahs Table. You comin in, Ed? Betty calls out as I stand in the door. You bet, I say. Have a seat, Mel says as he motions to a chair at his table. He has just finished his usual bowl of oatmeal. Whats J.D. doing this summer, Betty? I ask. Still keepin bees. Has seven new hives. Gonna take EMT
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training in August. Cant get his license till he graduates. But having his EMT will give him a leg up on being a fireman. Hes a senior next year? I ask. Doesnt seem possible. Betty smiles. Raises her hand near a foot over her head. Hes a big boy now, she says. Have you met my daughter, Tracy? She works at Liberty Terrace and is going to National University out at Zona Rosa. You introduced us a couple of years ago, I say. Tell J.D. we need to go for another ride, I say as Im leaving. Where you headed? Mel asks. Think Ill head for Holt. Dont go there much since Rosies closed. Anything downtown open anymore? Dont know, says Mel. Ask Betty. She lives there. Mel has been talking to the couple at the adjoining table about places they like to eat. All three of them praise Grannys, just off I-35 at the Holt exit. Grannys has the best biscuits in the world. Melt in your mouth. Fried biscuits. Ever had em, Ed? Mel asks Sorry to say I havent. But now I will. I say. Betty names several new businesses in downtown Holt. Dollys Diner is the only one that sticks. Its where Rosies used to be, she says. By another round about route no car would ever take, I come a good while latter to Dollys You open? I call to the woman who stands in the doorway. Till 2 oclock, she says. My watch says 11:30. I think I can make it in by then, I say. The menu offers all the standards of small town cafes. But I have only one test for a first-time caf. Half order of biscuits and gravy, I tell the waitress when she brings my ice tea. Shes back in a moment. It looks right. Its hot. Creamy. Chunks of sausage. Tender biscuit. A+. Ill be back. As I sit to write these words, the rain thats been threatening all morning finally comes, giving me time to try the pie. Can Dollys pass both my tests the same day?
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Meringue! High and stiff, lightly brown, topping rich chocolate. Thats my dream pie. I find it now and then. Cream pies Dollys has. But we make our own, my waitress says. I prefer my chocolate pie recently from the oven and with a flakey crust. Dollys is cold, crust firm. Not tough. And not bad:B. Next time Ill try the pecan. Inside the door of Dollys one unisex restroom this bit of poetic advice: Dont sit in here just contemplatin Us folks outside git tired of watin I hardly ever return by the same way I came, thinking I need to see whats down other roads. Today, though, I do retrace my route. Sarah herself is at her table, with Carl, her husband. Hes the meat cutter at the grocery store across the street. I heard you were off today, I say to Carl. Howd you know? He asks. I was here for breakfast. Betty told me. As I near home a shiny black pickup comes from a side street and stops to let me pass. As I ride by, the driver yells, Hi, Ed. Im a doctor. Not a M.D. A PhD. I dont doctor the body. What happens between us! Thats my field. Inter-group Relations they called it in grad school. Race Relations my specialty. Relations between religions a recent addition. Three rounds I make. A daily one around our town. Seeing and being seen. Over years becoming part of our towns ambiance. Then several times a week, I ride to towns an hour or so away to visit my satellite clinics that appear to most folks only as eating places. Then occasionally to the outer limits of Greater Liberty I need to ride. When in the paper or on TV I learn that hate has come among us, I find a way to be invited to come and help. The town called Liberty has long been my home. But even longer I have done what I can to set folks at liberty from those limitations that restrict where we can go, to whom we can talk and what subjects we can discuss.
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The purpose of my practice as a doctor of relationships is to lead us all to become World Class Persons, able to go anyplace at anytime and talk to anyone about anything and feel safe. A less ambitious objective could more likely be achieved. But Id rather fail at something grand and noble than succeed at a lesser goal. Riding a bicycle is my way of getting there. Join me sometime.
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NPR is always on in my car, but Im not always sure I hear things right, my mind being on some just completed or soon coming bike ride. But something I recently heard causes me to picture planet Earth whirling in space at one thousand miles per hour. Im not certain thats what I heard. Or if it is what I heard, Im not sure its true. But that picture now blazes in my mind like neon in the night. I live, we all live, on a little ball suspended in space and moving in and through that space at incredible speed. And here I am with my bicycle on a bitterly cold February morning in the company of a dozen friends in front of our local bike shop, preparing when our watches say 8 AM, to mount our bikes and pedal away from this place at speeds so slow in comparison that we seem hardly to move. Even so, I will soon be last and wont see the others for some 90 minutes until the 20 miles have been pedaled and we gather around tables far in the back and up a few stairs at Ginger Sues. There is not far from my house a fine brick building that most of the year sits empty, coming to life only a few weeks before the Fourth of July, when its owner has returned from China with an exotic array of fireworks and he offers them for sale. From passing by this building in all seasons, I have come to a new picture of loneliness. Nothing, it seems to me, is as lonely as a fireworks stand in a February snow. To escape such loneliness is a part of the reason
Ride to Ginger Sue s
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Remnants of previous snows are still visible here and there as we pedal out Old 210 to Missouri City, hang a left on Stillhouse Road over to H Highway, and left again back to Liberty. We have covered every possible piece of skin against the biting wind and are exhausted by the time we come to Ginger Sues. Coffee and hot chocolate!! Holding the cup produces a tactile winter pleasure. And the welcome warmth as the contents sooth our inner being brings a euphoria unavailable to those who have come by less vigorous and more sheltered means. Tales of the road sandwiched around and between mouths full of fine foodomelets, pancakes, biscuits and gravyoccupy us for a good hour and a little beyond. No one is anxious to step back into the cold. And no one plans to return to the bike shop by the route we came. To do so would get us a 40 mile round trip, about the distance of our longest Saturday rides. But rather than riding to a nearby town as is our custom, we have today ridden an unnecessarily long route to come to a place back in Liberty that by the most direct route is only a mile from the bike shop. Cold weather riding takes more energy and is fun of a different sort. Muscles do not warm so agreeably in the cold. And tales of having ridden in the cold we find more to our liking than another actual ride. We shall have to do so again in order to retain our self-image as hardy riders and our bragging rights in conversation with fair weather riders. But we really do actually enjoy being out and about on our bikes on days like these. Enough is enough, however. We all choose the direct route back. Some of us have ridden from home. Some here in Liberty. Some in Smithville. Some in Kearney. Some have driven to the bike shop and return to get their cars. We say our goodbyes as we pay our bills and before we step from Ginger Sues back into the cold.
we ride.
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After I emailed this account of our ride to Ginger Sues, I got this reply email from Seth, one of our riders. Actually, were rotating (spinning) about 1,000 mph at the equator. Earth rotates once every 24 hours and the distance around the Earth at the equator is about 24,000 miles. Doing the math 24,000 miles covered/24 hours = 1,000 mph. We are actually moving through space relative to the sun at about 67,000 mph. Yes, 67,000 mph. It takes Earth one year, or 8,760 hours to complete its orbit around the Sun, which is a distance of about 584 million miles. Doing the math - 584 million / 8,760 hours = 66,666 mph. But theres more. Our solar system is revolving around the center of the galaxy (it takes 25 million years to complete this revolution) and the galaxy is moving away from what many scientists believe to be the big bang at a very high speed. Add all of our motion up and Earth is really moving a few million miles per hour. I know its tough to believe, but its true. Product of a boring childhood and a great National Geographic book about the Universe. Seth Ed,
Epilogue
For the first time in months, Saturday has not dawned frigid. Todays predicted 66 is still 30 away as we mount our bikes, wearing more than will be comfortable on our return. And the March winds have arrived on schedule, a tail wind as we go, a hammer in the face coming back.
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Twenty-five riders! By 8 oclock we have gathered in front of Biscari Brothers Bicycles, sponsor of our Saturday rides and our yearly Greater Liberty Ride for MS. One of our riders this morning is expecting a baby most anytime. Her husband asked her to leave him the route, so if needed, he could come get her. She emailed me requesting the route. Of our several ways of getting to Kearney, I emailed her the most direct and easily found. Another rider is 11. He and his dad have come. Our Saturday riders are tied together during the week by email. Anyone who has ridden one time with us has his/her address in my computer. A few who are listed have not actually ridden, but someone who has ridden has asked that their names be added, so they might know our schedule and perhaps join us sometime. And a few non-riders have asked to be listed so they will get the stories I write about our rides. At this moment, we have 184 members of this group I call the Greater Liberty Saturday Riders. Six years now we have been riding every Saturday year round. Kearny is one of our five regular destinations. For the first year or two, we went to Sarahs Table for breakfast. A delightful little place where everybody knows our name and the biscuits and gravy couldnt be better. But when our numbers grew, Sarahs Table could not hold us. Then we discovered that the Kearney VFW Hall serves an all-you-can-eat-one-price breakfast every Saturday. And only on Saturday. So before we depart Biscari Brothers, I take out my bikephone, where I have all our Saturday morning cafes listed, and I punch the call button. Is this the VFW Hall? I ask. Hello, Ed, she says. How many this morning? Twenty-five. In about an hour. Thanks. Ill tell the cook. She says. If I were to ride the whole way, I wouldnt get there until some were ready to leave. So I drive out to Mt. Gilead Church and ride from there. Even so, several pass me and get there before I do. But Im there in time to have everyone sign in. Are you eating? Chris asks. Always do. But this morning I have to stop by Sarahs Table. I was there on Thursday and
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wrote a story. I need to take it to them. I wanted to buy your breakfast. Dave says. How about next time? Okay, he says. Scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, French toast, pancakes, bacon, sausage, coffee, orange juice. All for $5.00. Hand your money to someone at the table, step up to the kitchen window and tell the server what you want and how much. The VFW is staffed by volunteers. All profit supports their cause. If coming about every five Saturdays makes us regulars, then so we are. About 10 times a year that would be. And if when we come our average number is 20, we contribute about a thousand dollars every year to the cause. These folks here are good to us, and were delighted to help them out.
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My home office is downstairs next to the laundry room. I love it. My word processor. My desk. My books. My Email portal. Online, Im connected to the world. I hear often from African widows with fatal diseases who want to give me millions. I get frantic pass-alongs from friends who tell me that Congress plans to tax the internet and that assorted calamities are about to come. When I forward these Cassandra messages to my wife, she checks them out on Truth or Fiction and its several cousins. None has yet to be verified. Back fence, beauty parlor and bar room gossip live well in cyberspace. But my aim in life is to spend minimum time in my home office. I get there in a few steps and down a few from our kitchen. I long for my satellite offices. I get there after 15 to 25 miles on my bike. Virtual community is possible in my home office. Real community is present where I ride. Its 4:30 now. Ive been here at Sarahs Table since 11. This is the third story Ive written. Ive talked to Carl Moore, who, with his wife, Sarah, owns this place. We talked about how he and Sarah can help with the big fundraiser bike ride we plan four
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months from now. Ive talked on my bike phone to my wife and son several times. Ive stayed longer than Id planned. Cold weather and my still-recovering-from-the-hospital body, thwarted my plans to visit several satellites today. Mill Inn and Catricks will have to wait. Since I got my word processor years ago, Ive been jotting down a few notes in the book I carry on my bike at my satellite offices. Thats enough to prompt a torrent of words when I get home and sit in front of my keyboard and screen and play with my mouse. Several screens are soon saved and then sent. But there would be no words to send if not for my satellite offices. The miles I must ride to and from there bring the words to mind. Must be some sort of intellectual corollary to the neurological endorphins fired up by the physical exertion of getting there. My body at work works my mind and takes it to places my body at rest cannot go. Bobbie, my wife, went out to eat this noon with her bridge group. She would have cut her playing time short if and come to pick me up if I had asked. I didnt. Or I could have asked who at Sarahs Table might be going and/or have time to give me a ride home. I didnt. Sitting here long after Ive eaten gives me an inexplicable feeling of being right with the world, surrounded by a Norman Rockwell perfection that Im reluctant to leave.
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Several pickups are parked in the snow in front of Logans Bar and Grill, and I expect to find a roomful of guys when I step inside. The room is cavernous. But only one table is occupied. Three grey-haired women talk earnestly to one another. Im about an hour earlier than our first rider. Ive come in my car to check out the road and alert the cook to expect 15 bikers.
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We all had gathered at Ferrellviews Christian Church at 8 AM for the 20-mile ride to Dearborn on Interurban Road. The sun is bright on this cloudless morning, but ice still lurks on curves and bridges and shady places. I call Steve a time or two on my bike phone to alert him. Ice on a bridge under repair puts most riders on foot until across the bridge. One rider goes down but still makes it to breakfast. Around a big table in a far corner of the room the 15 of us have gathered by half past nine. The one waitress on duty is attentive and efficient. Still we have ample time to talk before our food begins to arrive one or two plates at a time. Some have finished before others are served. No one complains. We have time to hear everyones plans for coming rides, cruises, marathons, new jobs. With many talking at once much can be said in little time. We are all friends, but we seldom see one another except on these Saturday morning rides. E-mail keeps us tethered. But cyberspace offers a pale imitation of breakfast conversation. A few at a time we make our way to the cashier to pay our bill. With us fed and nobody else in the place, the woman who cooked our breakfast sits at a nearby table. She says to me, If you could let me know next time youre coming, I could be ready. I only have a one burner stove. But Im getting a bigger one. And I could have more help if I knew. I put your number in my bike phone. Ill call you on Friday before the next Saturday we come. And we will be back. Im thinking to myself as we talk. B&G could stand for biscuits and gravy, my yardstick by which I measure all down-home eating places. Having just had Logans Bar and Grills rendition of this classic, Im resolved to come again. And not just on Saturdays.
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Give or take a few, weve averaged about a dozen riders for years on our Saturday breakfast rides to JJs. Snow still clings to
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roadside ditches along Plattsburg Road this morning as we converge on Mt. Gilead Church to begin our ride. Im still a bit puny from my long hospital stay and dont feel up to cold weather riding. So Ive left my bike at home and come by car and am first to arrive, some 30 minutes before our 8 AM starting time. Coming to Mt. Gilead Church from Liberty, the church sits off the road and up a slight hill to the left. I swing onto the gravel driveway that makes a half-moon back to the road about 35 yards later. I pull along the drive almost back to the road, leaving maximum space behind for the cars Im sure will come. Mark Gordon comes next. Soon Kevin Tyler, Ken Fields, Alex and Petra Toye. They busy themselves with road preparation. A few minutes before 8, Steve Hanson and Greg Snodgrass ride up on their bikes. They are neighbors in rural Kearney, just a few miles back up Plattsburg Road toward Liberty, and, as is their custom, have ridden their bikes to join us. The seven of them cover as much skin as possible against the 20 something temperature and hit the road right at 8. I call on my bike phone to JJs and tell Julie to expect eight of us in about an hour. Our usual table just inside the door is taken by another group this morning. They have set up a table for us near the old soda fountain. When years ago this was a drug store, the soda fountain was the heart of the place. It still has that feel. In the middle of the long narrow room, it is the command center from whence waitresses go to customers and where customers go to pay their bills. By shortly after 9, the eight of us are seated around the table and have placed our orders. Three weeks running ,we have planned this time at JJs, but icy roads kept us away. Finally we have made it. Not quite Sir Edmund Hillarys sense of accomplishment when he summited Mt. Everest, but closer than those at home in warm beds this morning might think. Were all talking at once, eager to make up for lost Saturdays, wanting to catch up on each others lives, when someone spots a rider outside on the sidewalk. His face is covered. We speculate on his identity. Then another rider! Are they with us? Have
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they chanced upon this good place. Then Rick Lueckert and Randy Mohr step inside. They are neighbors in Smithville and have ridden from there. They thought they might catch us on the road. Rick is here today without Nan. She is training for the Boston Marathon and running the trails at Smithville Lake this morning. We pull up another table so the 10 of us can sit together. Each of us in turn takes a minute to tell some good thing just past or just ahead for us. Several say how they look forward to these Saturdays when we come from miles around to ride and eat together. From the smiles and body language, I would say the feeling is unanimous. Next Saturday we meet at the Christian Church in Ferrelview to ride Interurban Road to Logans Bar and Grill in Dearborn.
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The nearly 12 miles of Interurban Road from Ferellview to Camden Point are newly paved. And new bridges. Hardly any cars pass Rich and me as we pedal. Weve ridden this road many times and never seen it in such good shape, as we remark to one another as we ride. But about two miles past Camden Point the road abruptly turns to fine gravel. My narrow tires dont take kindly to such a surface. Changing lanes becomes treacherous. Several big trucks appear from nowhere and send clouds of dust that choke and blind. Caution takes over the last few miles to Dearborn Logans Bar and Grill has been flashing off and on in our heads the last few miles. Their biscuits and gravy have lured us here before. This mornings October chill adds to their allure. Rich is the first to arrive, his wide tires more at home on this unfriendly surface. Theyre closed, he announces as I ride up. Little Toot just up the street had been our breakfast place until it burned some five years ago. After a few months Logans Bar and Grill appeared. Our Greater Liberty Riders had come here once,
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more than 20 of us. Rich and I had come several times. Now its closed. If there is no new incarnation of country cooking in this tiny town of boarded up facades, the nearest eating places are in Edgerton, some eight miles ahead or in Platte City, some 13 miles away, but back in the general direction we came from. Halleluiah! Kitty-corner across the street from the still standing and still burned out Little Toot, we spot an inviting place Cooks Corner Caf. We prop our bikes in front and step inside. A Norman Rockwell ambiance permeates the place. Two older men are the only customers. Weve arrived just past prime breakfast time and before lunchtime. One of the men has lived here all his life. We discover we know some folks in common. A year now this place has been here, says our waitress, owned and operated by sisters Charlene Cook and Darla Dubois and Home of Darlas Blue Ribbon Pies. Coffee and a half order of biscuits and gravy we both order, then split a short stack. The meringue stands tall and proud atop the coconut pie. Rich and I split a piece. This place deserves an encore we conclude. As we mount our bikes and prepare to leave, a car pulls up. The window rolls down. Wheres the museum? He asks. Scrawled across the side of the building just behind us in giant lettersLICKSKILLIT MALL. Cooks Caf is housed the other side of this wall. Couldnt beat this place for a living museum, I say. We choose another route back. Highway 371 was known before I-29 stole its traffic simply as 71. Now its meandering over hill and dale carries an occasional big truck and local cars. It brings us to Platte City for a sandwich stop at Country Cookin. Then through the hills on an assortment of alphabet roads to Ferrelview.
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This August Saturday morning is unusually pleasant. Hot and humid is the norm for Missouri. But its in the 70s as we arrive
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at the bike shop. And the prospect of rain promises day-long cool. By 7:30 and time to ride, Im guessing there are 50 of us. Too many come too fast to count before were off. Fubblers Cove in Orrick our destination. A couple of hills on Ruth Ewing Road as we leave Liberty, then flat for miles before a long ascent into Missouri City and a flat nine miles to Orrick. Heather has the table set for 20 when we arrive. Thats the number I gave Tim, the owner, when I called him on Thursday. I didnt call back this morning to increase the number. Some of us never stop to eat. But 35 of us come to breakfast this morning. From Pleasant Hill, Belton, Grandview, Raytown, Blue Springs, Lees Summit, Kearney, Gladstone, Liberty, Overland Park, Lenexa, and other parts of Greater Liberty. Weve been riding here for breakfast for years. I thought when I first began to call ahead that they could have more waitresses and serve us faster. But Heather alone has taken care of us. And everyone else in the place. And a good job she does! But a helper would be nice. Then this morning, Heather explains to me. We have only one cook. And a good one. Owner Tim Heady! He does all the cooking. His biscuits and gravy are unsurpassed. And my usual. His Friday night Walleye fish dinners draw crowds. Being long at the breakfast table this morning tightens legs. Excited conversation and stories of the road trump that. The food when it comes is more than worth the wait. And the wait has been well used. On the road we are strung out over time and distance. Breakfast brings us together. Now we stand in line to give Heather our money, less than we would give elsewhere for comparable food. And as we wait in line, we talk to some who might have sat at a distance from us at table. Pitchers of ice water Heather has brought to our table. We have drunk our fill and filled our bottles. Now to our bikes and the 22 miles back to Biscarri Brothers Bicycles and our cars. Until next Saturday. To Kearney. And breakfast at the VFW Hall.
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For weeks I had been thinking about what I should say to you this morning. Earl asked me to preach for him several weeks ago and Ive been trying to decide what my message should be. I almost talked myself into staying at home yesterday so I could work on my sermon. But the call of the road was strong. The sun was out, and the snow was gone. So I got on my bicycle and headed for Clems Cafe in Kearney, where I go most every Saturday for breakfast. From long experience I know that my mind will work out all my problems as I pedal. All the way to Clems I was thinking about you and what I would say. From Clems when the weather is bad, I usually turn toward home. But with a whole day of sunshine before me, I wasnt ready for home. My muscles were crying to be used. So I headed for Lawson and the Penn Street Cafe. On MM Highway just above Watkins Mill I spied three small children off to my left behind a split rail fence. A full grown and belligerent boxer emerged on my right. He growled and barked and ran along beside me, darting at my legs. I was flying down the hill; if I should hit that dog, I would lose control of the bicycle and splatter myself on the road. Thats when I heard the voice. It was the little blond haired girl now on the fence. No more than five or six, but the oldest of the three, she yelled in her little voice, Hey, bicycle rider, dont worry about that dumb dog. Why is it when we pray for guidance that we dont get it. I think its because we dont recognize it when it comes. I was myself five years old. I was sitting in that hard wooden pew in Henderson Street Baptist Church in Cleburne, Texas. The morning sun was streaming though the stained glass window behind the pulpit; the preacher to my five-year old eyes was a black silhouette with a booming voice. I thought he was God.
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He told a story. A man was working on his roof. He began to slip. Impulsively he cried, God, help me. Then he muttered, Never mind, Im caught on a nail. Hey, Bicycle Rider, dont worry about that dumb dog. For months now I had been worrying about a situation with my job, a situation that threatened everything I hold dear. I couldnt concentrate. Things I needed to do I couldnt find the energy or motivation to attempt. Hey, Bicycle Rider, dont worry about that dumb dog. Here were the 23rd and 37th Psalm condensed by a five year old and delivered in code. Ostensibly advice about a dog, this was in reality a lesson in living. It was the answer to my prayer. Suddenly it didnt matter what those with power over me should decide about my job. All things work together for good to those that believe. Suddenly the ball was back in my court. Because I believeno, thats not strong enoughbecause I know, I know with a certainty beyond words that I am a child of God. Each of us is a child of God. So I need never worry. God loves me. Just as I would move heaven and earth for one of my children, God will do so for me. I will cast all my cares on God. And with the energy freed from worry, I will do unbelievable things. Didnt God say that we can move mountains with faith no bigger than a mustard seed? All God requires of us is faith. Faith is the evidence of things not seen, the substance of things hoped for. We are all pilgrims, moving between birth and the grave, looking for meaning and purpose. Hey, Bicycle Rider, dont worry about that dumb dog. Peace, power, purpose, and joy await us if we can but heed the innocent advice of that little angel. I find much meaning in the little things that happen to me. I do it by telling myself that nothing is ever just coincidence: that little girl, that dog, and me. We didnt just happen to be in that place at the same time. Some people would dismiss it all as simply coincidence. Those are the people who never are able to decipher the
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coded answers to their prayers. Those people rob their lives of their grand meanings. They have not been transformed by the renewing of their minds as Romans 12:1-2 says we must. Not only did my little messenger deliver her advice to me, she also pronounced her judgment on the immediate threat to my welfare. The dog is dumb, she said. I could have braked my bicycle to a stop so I could inquire as to her precise meaning. If by dumb she meant mute, she was obviously wrong. That fool dog was barking his head off. If I had stopped to ask, she would not have known what to say. She might have been frightened. The two smaller children might have begun to cry. The dog might have done more than bark. The parents might have called the police. That little girl likely would never offer advice again to a passing stranger. I didnt think I needed to ask that little girl for clarification. Maybe she had some prior knowledge of that dog. Perhaps her name was Pollyanna. It could have been that she thought I might be scared and simply wanted to encourage me. I will never know. Neither can I ever know the mind of God. The best I can ever do is to try to hear the voice of God when little girls sitting on fences blurt out words of wisdom as I hurry past. She doesnt even know that I heard her. That dog was so much on my mind: all I could think of was that I must not let him get in front of me where I might hit him and do damage to the both of us. Never in that little girls life will she know that the bicycle rider heard her. She will not know that the rider was a preacher in search of a sermon. She will never know that her simple words caused it all to come together in that preachers head. She will never know that he sat for an hour and a half over lunch at the Penn Street Cafe in Lawson writing out this sermon that she had named: Hey, Bicycle Rider, dont worry about that dumb dog. So is life! Dog days will hound us all. So is our relationship to God. We never know God hears us. For all the praying I have done in my life, I have never gotten an answer that some of my
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skeptical friends could not explain away. But Ive come to see that these friends have one thing in common: They all are worrying about that dumb dog. I choose instead to hear and head the little voices from beside the road, the anonymous good Samaritans who bind up my psychic and spiritual wounds with the balm of healing words boldly spoken. Hey, Bicycle Rider, dont worry about that dumb dog. Jesus put it this way in Matthew11: 28-29. Come unto me all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart.
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I smile to see a young llama scamper after its mother at Turkey Ridge Farm on Plattsburg Road. When I get to Bert and Ernies just at noon, the place is packed, and I take a seat at the bar. Several months have passed since last I was here, and I dont recognize the young woman who waits on me. I take her to be a high school student out for the summer. I order a Kay Loin and iced tea. She doesnt know thats what I always have in the summertime. After all my visits, I still dont know the name of the goodlooking woman who always is here and seems to be in charge. I should know her name, but after all this time, Im embarrassed to ask. She asks where Ive been. Then she begins to tell my waitress who I am. She doesnt say my name. Likely doesnt know it. My waitress has seen my two water bottles on the bar. You rode a bicycle here in this heat? She asks. He rides all over, the older woman explains. Excelsior Springs, Polo, Kearney, Lawson, Lathrop. He lives in Liberty. Its not so bad, I say, You sweat. The wind blows. And cools you off. I ride so I can see all of you and see things along the way.
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the long table directly behind me. Six guys in baseball caps, jeans and overalls sit together at another table. They havent all come in together, but they must know each other. They acknowledge one another with nods of the head and comments about the heat. They say a few words to each other as they eat and make in-house jokes with several who step to the cash register to pay their bills. The Bold and the Beautiful shows on the TV behind the bar, while another soap opera plays across the room. The sound has been muted, but by their body language and their enticing dress, their words are not hard to guess. You take care now, you hear, I say to my waitress and my nameless friend. She says an encouraging word and pats my shoulder as I leave. Whether Im laboring up a long hill or flying down its backside, I say a silent prayer of gratitude every time I pass one of those newly sprouted magnificent homes surrounded by manicured acres. I love looking at them, but I cant help thinking how much time and attention they take. Do the people who live there own those houses, or do those houses own the people who live there? Yesterday in Kansas City, Joel introduced me to a friend of his as a bike rider. You ride a lot? He asked. Everyday, I said. Youre lucky, he said. I know, I said. I doubt I could ride this much if I lived in a house as nice as many I see on the Plattsburg Road. I make up my mind to assume that their house gives them as much joy as my bike gives me. Thinking so brings a smile to my face. I wheel my bike off the road and up the graveled drive to the Mount Gilead County Park, site of a Civil War era church and school. I spot a Golden Retriever asleep beneath the picnic table in front of the church. Dogs and bikers have a mother-in-law reputa-
Through three tall glasses of iced tea I sit. And survey the room. A dozen women are celebrating someones 29th birthday at
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tion. Though I personally love my mother-in-law, I have been bitten by a dog while riding my bike. So I turn toward the spot where times before I have pumped water from the well. With only a little priming, that pump would gush water. Enough to drench my head, fill my bottles and replace the buckets of sweat I had lost. But by applying a wisdom beyond my understanding, someone in the recent renovation of this place had capped the well and removed the pump. The Civil War ambiance of the park was not enhanced by the modern water fountain that took its place. And the fountain is not so generous with its water. Nevertheless, I spend long minutes at the fountain and come away grateful for its presence. I take a seat at a table behind the church. A big black longhaired dog comes from beneath a red car, the only car in the park at the moment. The dog barks once. Without enthusiasm. As if its his job and hes putting in his time. Then he comes to my side, tail wagging, eyes eager. I speak kindly to him and rub his head. His Golden friend hears us and comes running. I give him a few strokes and begin to write. Both dogs lie down at my feet. After a few minutes I stand and reach for the water bottle on my bike. I lose my balance and fall backward, rubbing my shin raw against the wooden table. I scream. The black dog leaps to his feet and puts his massive head in my lap. He looks up at me with the saddest eyes. I can almost hear him say, Im sorry youre hurt. I will make it all right. And in the way that only dogs can do, he does. He looks so sad that I burst out laughing. And the pain is gone. Buckets of sweat pour from every pore as I ride. Rivers of sweat cascade across my glasses, blurring my vision and requiring frequent stops. Drops of sweat pick up residue of the sunscreen Im wearing and plop into my eyes like love-taps from a baby bee. I squint to force them out. Squint hard. Plunging down a long hill is not the ideal time to be temporarily blinded.
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Dolly Parton is singing. I cant make out all the words above the conversation going on about me. Three young guys in the corner are talking about how O.J. got off. Three older diners eat quietly, now and then exchanging hushed remarks. The room is an eclectic collection of memorabilia from half a century ago. The cafe sits beside a busy state highway and was in the 1950s a Texaco station and diner. Harry Truman and Jack Dempsey are said to have eaten here. Opposite the table where I sit and on the far side of the room is a photograph of Babe Ruth hung beneath a color collage called Gone With The Stars. Clark Gable stands in the center, in top hat and tails, one arm around Marilyn Monroe in a long red dress. John Wayne flanks Gable on the left, backed by Fonda, Cagney, Tracy, Gene Kelly and others I cant identify. Early October it is. Halloween pennants hang at either end of the room. Pumpkin faces, spider webs, witches, and ghosts decorate the walls. Christmas tinsel and blinking lights are strung around the room, giving it an all-seasons ambiance. Dorothy, Tin Man, Scarecrow and Cowardly Lion sit just in front of E.T. and Jurassic Park. Gene Autry and Dick Tracy point guns at unseen bad guys. Giant saws and assorted implements and feed signs occupy the wall my table sits against. From the watch on my wrist to the scores of incarnations in these five rooms, the overpowering presence in this Old Crockery Antique Restaurant is Mickey Mouse. Owner, Ron Prewitt, here displays his life-long affection for this endearing rodent. I have come here many times by bicycle to sit for an hour or so. Country Cooking At Its Best is the claim in bold letters on the front of this building. Passersby who see this message from their cars and stop to taste then vouch the truth of this claim far and wide. Word of mouth has made it necessary for Ron and Brenda to expand
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their hours and their space several times in the five years they have been in business. Now seating 85 (and always room for one more), this is a non-alcoholic, plain food done well place. And the marquee that sits out front in the graveled parking lot announces: This Isnt Our Business Its Gods Business Please Join Us This Saturday night, Ron and Brenda have hired a country band and invited their friends to join them as they celebrate their fifth anniversary as a rural ambrosia outpost here in the Mosby flats on the bank of Fishing River, just off highway 69 to the north of Pour Boy. Norman Rockwell America! A place I extol with mixed feelings. This place and these people deserve to be known. But if too many come, can I continue to sit here, taking in the good feelings and good food I find in such generous helpings.? I hope so.
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From 10 miles out of Chattanooga, I call John Shearer at the Free-Press for directions. He says to take the tunnel under East Ridge. But when we I get there, I discover its illegal to ride a bicycle through the tunnel. Another call to John gets directions up and over the ridge. Bob and Jean are several miles behind, so I sit in a grassy spot in the shade of a pole, watching for their approach. If I wait too long, I wont get to the newspaper before noon. And the Human Family Reunion wont make the afternoon paper. If I dont wait, no telling when we will find each other. I wait 20 minutes. I told Bob this morning to call the chief of police if we get separated. We will get to see how that works,
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because Bob and Jean havent come when I have to leave. After a spectacular ride along Crest Drive overlooking Chattanooga, winding round and round the top of the mountain, I ask a man standing in his driveway for directions. I get to the paper shortly after eleven oclock. John is sitting at his desk on the second floor of the big brick newspaper building at the corner of two busy streets in downtown Chattanooga. Surrounded by desks and other reporters, we talk for awhile. Then we walk back to the cafeteria and fill our plates and return to Johns desk to wait for Bob and Jean. I filled my plate mostly with salad, and a giant handful of those large green grapes. Grapes are highly prized by bikers. They are full of juice and natural sugar. All the time Im eating my vegetable, Im eyeing those grapes. Finally I reach for one, toss it to the back of my mouth, sink my teeth into it, and wait for that sweet nectar to caress its way down my throat. Instead? Vinegar. I gag. And come straight up out of my chair. Those grapes are pickles! At that moment, Jean and Bob walk through the big double doors and toward us. They look hot and wilted. And in need of a friend. You two need something cool and refreshing, I say, have some grapes.
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Its a roller coaster road strung out over hill and dale that wends its way northwest out of Chattanooga like a gray ribbon pulled through green velvet. A profusion of plant life in more shades of green than the dictionary has names for borders the road, growing around and over and through in its never ending struggle to reclaim this temporarily barren strip so cruelly deprived of life. A bicycle affords long looks. So slow the pace, so unhin-
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dered and panoramic the view, cycling is more like being there than its like transit. And the quiet is cathedral-like. The only sound I hear is the sound that would be here if I were not. Listen. A bass staccato rumble. A high pitched off-key counterpoint. Frogs and locusts, a natural stereophonic symphony as we labor up the long, unrelenting grade of state highway 41, just before it parts company with the interstate. At the crest, the music vanishes, replaced by the roar of rushing wind as we plummet down the mountain at better than eight time our speed of ascent. Just out of Guild we cross the Tennessee River. Half-amile beyond the bridge, we wheel into a restaurant for a hot meal. We had been rained on back a piece; so cold, wet, and hungry, we plop down at a table and order everything in sight. In the newspaper rack in front of the restaurant is the Chattanooga paper. With a quarter Bob gives me, I get the story John Shearer wrote about my ride. And while we eat, we read. John was paying more attention than I knew. In the third and forth paragraphs of his story, he precisely describes the purposes of my ride. The purpose, Ed said, is to encourage people who have any problem to fight those problems, not to give up. Also it is to encourage people to get to know people who are not like them and to show them how easy it is, he said. But something John says further into his story describes a thing he saw me do as we sat talking at his desk, a thing I was not even conscious of, but a thing John thought his readers should know. John is quoting what I told him about the ride, and at the end, he makes an observation. I average about 50 miles a day. I try to get to town about three oclock every afternoon to meet people and to tell them what Im doing, he said. Actually, the ride itself is just a way to get from place to place and meet people, he added, in between loud and friendly hellos to everyone within sight. (Emphasis added.) How often, I wonder as I reflect on Johns observation of my unconscious behavior, are we consistent in the messages we give people? And Im grateful that what he picked up on in those
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spontaneous greetings served to reinforce the message I planned to deliver.
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All day long weve been getting conflicting information on the route up Mounteagle. In Jasper we get the last word from a woman in a pickup at the Dairy Bar; thus, we turn left out of Jasper to follow highway 41. For the next 90 minutes that seem like a week, we round curve after long curve at a constant climb that reduces us to granny gear, a top speed of four miles an hour, and a spinning of the pedals at a speed that releases torrents of sweat from every possible pore. Twice I wind up walking, interspersed between rests and gulps of water from my bottles. When I reach what I desperately hope is a final leveling of that monster mountain, I drag myself back on that bike, cursing myself for having thought of such a stupid thing to do. Finally! A store off to my left. An oasis I cannot pass. I rush in. And for two quarts of orange juice and a Gatorade, I plop down a sizable portion of the $10.00 someone gave me at the church in Chatanooga. As I gulp those drinks, I breathlessly try to answer store owner, Ron Nunleys questions. After a few minutes, I sneak outside and sink down in a heap beside my bicycle to wait for Bob and Jean, still out on the mountain. When energy enough to move has returned, I unzip the pocket on my bike bag where I keep my journal. Its not there. Quickly I undo all the pockets. Still no journal. Panic sets in. Losing my journal would be like not having made the ride: I would have no details to build my stories around. Hold on, I tell myself. I write in that journal several times a day. Think. When was the last time? The phone booth back at the Jasper Dairy Bar. I had tried
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to call John Shearer to thank him for the story. I rush back into the store. Can I use your phone to call Jasper? Is it long-distance? Just local, Vicki Nunley answers. Mary Picket picks up the phone at the Dairy Bar. She sends someone to check the phone booth. Yes, your book is here. How to get it? Im not about to bike down that mountain. Id never get up again. I call the sheriff in Jasper. Id like to help, he says, but we just had a big fire and three auto thefts. I cant spare the men. I thank the sheriff; then turn to the yellow pages to find a taxi. No luck. Jasper has no taxi. I call Mary back and ask if someone at the Dairy Bar can bring my journal up to Mountain Mart, my present location. Mary says theres no one there to do it. Just then, Ron Nunley motions to me. My son will take you. And he points to a topless jeep where a barefoot boy waits. I strap myself in for the long ride. How far? I ask young Ron. About three miles, he answers. I thought it was a hundred. We are there in five minutes. I run in. A smiling Mary hands me my journal as her four young co-workers beam. I promise her a book when my journal becomes one. And I offer her the copy of todays Chattanooga Free Press Id gotten when we stopped for lunch, the one with another Jim and Tammy Baker story on the front page and my bike ride on page B-6. Ron Jr. has that jeep back up the mountain in less time than it usually takes me to get on my bike. I give both Rons a poster and a card. The poster is a 10x17 black and white glossy showing my route and schedule, across the bottom proclaiming, America is an Italian name, and paid for by Marion Trozzolo, a Kansas City businessman. In the middle of the business card sits a bicycle; the card reads, The Pedalin Prof and his Thinkin Machine, from the College of Excellence, Ed Chasteen. Rain threatens as we prepare to leave for the final 10 miles
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of the day into Tracy City. In case we get caught by the rain and have to hole up at Foster Falls, three miles away, we ask Vicki to fix us each one of the bologna sandwiches with the works that Jean had watched her make earlier for others. Theyre on the house, Vicki says when she finishes and puts them each in separate bags. By now, Bob and Jean, and I are talking to everyone in the store. As we pull ourselves away, C.J. calls to me. Bless you, my friend. Keep up the good work.
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Brian was badly hurt several years ago on the MS-150 when another cyclist clipped his rear wheel and half a dozen riders went down on top of him. He hasnt ridden much since. But on a recent late-spring day, he and I have left his house in Lees Summit for our first ride in years when he says, I think it would be fun to go on a week-long ride. Over lunch in Pleasant Hill we discover than June 25 to July 1 fits both our schedules. Back home I spend a few days searching the internet and talking to other bikers. I find several organized rides that might fit. But my mind keeps coming back to Van Buren. I call the phone number I find on their website. My son and I cant come in August. We would like to come in June and ride the route by ourselves. Could I get a copy of this years route? Sorry. We cant give out the route early. She says. Then could I get last years route? Maybe the last two years? I ask. Ill mail them to you, she says. I had never spent more than two nights in Van Buren County. Now with a week to book, I go looking on the internet for B&Bs. Bobbie and I fell in love with bed and breakfasts when we lived in England many years ago. We have stayed in many American B&Bs since. I choose three in Iowa: Bonaparte Inn,
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Mason House and Grandview. Pedaling toward Cantrill about 2:30 on Sunday afternoon, Brian and I see hills rolling before us and over us as far into the distance as we can see. And hanging over the most distant hill, an angry purple cloud coming in our direction. We stop beside the road for a quick conference. If we turn back, we might beat the rain. I say. But the cloud moves faster than we do. We are soaked by the time we get back to the Bonaparte Inn. By 4:30 the rain has stopped and we take to our bikes again, bound for Farmington and back via Harmony High School. I own the antique shop up the street. Names Bob Hill. We meet him in front of our B&B when we get back at 7. Im 73. Moved here from Burlington four years ago. Loved the town. Wanted to help save it. Van Buren is the poorest county in Iowa. Only nine-thousand people in the whole county. Bonaparte has 468 people. And were the second biggest town in the county. A high school girl just had a baby. One of our old guys is about to die. We hold our own. Bill Grunwalds mother developed Parkinsons when Bill was two years old. By fourth grade, Bill was helping in the kitchen. Peeling liver was his first job. If you dont peel the skin off, its tough when you cook it, he says. Bill became a cook in the army. Bill was visiting his son who teaches here back in May. He stopped in to see how the work on Bonaparte Inn was coming. Bill met the owner. He offered to help if she ever needed a cook. Then he went back to Wisconsin where he was head chef at a YMCA camp. A few days later he got a call. The owner of the Bonaparte had planned to contract with a local restaurant to do their breakfasts. But the restaurant closed. Could he come be their cook? In short order Bill and his wife found a house in Bonaparte and Bill found his replacement at the Y. The breakfast he sets before us would be the envy of Bretons in old New Orleans. Bills mother gave birth to a master chef. The owner of this place should send that failed restaurant
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owner a thank you note. Bill in the kitchen is more than an ace in the hole. His breakfasts alone are reason enough to seek out this place. The rustic and rural yet state of the art ambiance of the place, if widely known, would fill every room most every night.
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Stockport has two Pepsi machines. They are a block apart in a line of sight on the road we ride in on. No other sustenance is available for purchase by hot and hungry riders. Weve drunk our bottles dry riding from Bentonsport. Were looking for water. Only the post office is open when we pedal into town about four oclock. The lady clerk says no water is available anywhere in town. We thank her and leave. While we had been talking to the clerk, a woman had come in to check her mailbox. Now on the sidewalk, she addresses us. You wont find water in Stockport unless some good person offers you some. If youll follow me home, Ill give you water. We follow. Soon we have full water bottles. With ice! And we have two new friends: Lela and Charles Heisel. Lela used to be a waitress at a Stockport caf back when Stockport had a caf. Charles had a meat locker. Now gone. Two of their six children live nearby. They buy groceries in Fairfield, about nine miles away. Brian and I have ridden since breakfast past Amish (and English as Amish know them) farms and fields of stunted corn. Weeks of unrelenting rain and rivers run wild have savaged Iowa corn and farmers. We have sweated through our water bottles several times and stoked a fierce hunger when we spot the little country caf. The 15 at the table are the only ones in the place. We take a nearby booth and strike up a conversation. They soon know who we are, where were from and what were about. And we know the same of them.
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From an island off the coast of Kenya, she sits now as one of 15 at a long table in a little caf at the intersection of two rural roads in the poorest county in Iowa. Two sons and a daughter of the matriarch of the family have gathered for reunion from around the world, bringing spouses and children. The island native is the wife of one son. The two of them now live in Romania, where he is a high-tech employee. The matriarch and her now deceased husband years ago farmed here. What started in that distant time is reflected here today at this table. This morning we stopped at Mistys Malt Shop in Keosauqua, Van Buren Countys biggest town (called village by locals) a place of roughly a thousand folks. We fell into conversation with a couple who just bought a log cabin and some acreage near here as a place to get away. A man sitting at our table says his family came here in 1838 and bought a farm. A county park down a gravel road a few miles from town is named for his family. Nearing four oclock Brian is riding ahead of me when his front tire goes flat and he goes down. The front wheel is bent. No more riding for him today. Were still discussing how to proceed when a van pulls up. The driver opens the sliding side door, Brian puts his bicycle inside and off they go. Just as they depart, Brian and I agree to meet at Mistys Malt Shop after I ride on to our B&B in Bentonsport, get the car and come back to get him. About two hours we figure this will take. He tells Brian his name is Will. He emigrated from Holland more than 50 years ago. For prosperity, he says when Brian asks why he came. He now lives in Iowas poorest county. His van is filled with potted plants he bought cheap because theyre sick. He will nurse them back to health. Will apologizes to Brian because he must hold one of the plants displaced by Brians sick bike. Im about three miles from our B&B when my bike-phone rings. Its Brian. Will has driven out of his way to take him to our B&B.
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My nerves are frazzled by the time I get to the Fort, and I lie down under a tree in the yard of a small motel to collect myself. Im hot, nervous, and not wanting to get back on that road. Nothing in my panniers that I brought to eat looks good, though Martha has made some delicious sandwiches and loaded me down with fresh fruit and nuts. I eat some. But I cant face that traffic yet. Then I see a sign at the small store nearby. Ice cream. Thats what I want. When I spot that drumstick in the ice cream box, Im a little boy again, gone barefoot to Crows grocery to get something for mother. Shes at home with Dad, Jerry and Pat waiting supper. Im okay. Nobodys gonna hurt me. And I eat a second drumstick. And buy one for each of the small boys wandering around the store with their mother. The boys come out to see my bike, and we talk for awhile about the trip to Disneyland Im on. Their enthusiasm and sense of wonder leave me charged up and ready to hit the road again. About 10 miles south of Hopkinsville, I come upon a little Gulf station grocery standing all by itself along the southbound lane of this four-lane highway. At the crossover just past the store, I wheel around and come back for something cold to drink. No cars are about; Im not sure the place is open. But the door swings inward with my touch; I step inside. She is sitting just by the door, and at first I dont see her as my eyes sweep the sparsely stocked shelves searching for the freezer. May I help you? The voice is small. After she has directed me to the cooler and has taken her place beside the cash register and behind the counter, Nora Cunningham and I begin to talk. Nora opened this store in 1956, when my husband was well and able to do most of the work. Now he has been gone six years. Nora is 87, and staring at the walls is hard to take. Nora lives close by and opens up every day but Sunday. Twice on this day
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I have come, Nora has had to close for a while to go back to her bed for a brief rest. After we talk for a while about the reason for my ride, I ask if she has ice cream. The drumstick I get is rubber from being so long in her freezer, but I eat it all when she says, Eat it on me. I want to support what youre doing. Nora tells me about a 15-year old boy who robbed her of $28.00 at gunpoint last year. Her grandson who works nearby and keeps and eye on me ran him down in his pickup. Nora didnt want to go to the courthouse with such a young boy. So the 15-year old and his 17-year old accomplice were taken to Georgia for trial in the robbery and beating of an old man. What do you think of Jehovahs Witness? Nora asks. Theyre good people, I reply. We all need to learn to like one another Nora nods approval. I take her hand; tell her I have to go.
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I change back into shorts in the mens room and bike up the street toward the heart of the city. I come to a Wendys across the street from Centennial Park, where Bobbie and I brought the kids years ago to see the replica of the Parthenon. Up to this time, I have not stopped in any commercial establishment to ask for help on my bike trip, calling instead on churches, synagogues, and police departments. I prop my bike against the window so I can watch it and step inside. I tell the young woman what Im doing. I have no money, and Im hungry, I need a baked potato and a salad. She directs me the manager who is sitting at a table near the door. Tell the cashier to fix you up and charge it to me, he says. After I have eaten, I go across the street to Centennial Park. I stretch out on the ground for a short nap. Then I sit watch-
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ing half-a-dozen young men in knights armor club each other off under some trees about fifty yards away. Suddenly an excited young woman runs up to me to ask about my bicycle. Quickly she tells me that she has biked the Great Dismal Swamp off the Outer Bank of North Carolina and is planning to bike Nova Scotia. And I give her a quick report on my travels. Where are you staying tonight? she asks. When I say I dont know, she invites me to stay with her But I wont be home, she says. Ill draw you a map, and the key to my apartment is under the floor mat in my brown Honda Prelude with Georgia license plates in the parking lot. Help yourself to pasta in the refrigerator. There are fresh towels for your shower. Use the phone. Watch TV. Make yourself at home. How can you do this? How do you know I wont rip you off? Nobody whos been to the synagogue and is going to a Baptist Church tomorrow could be all bad. Besides, you look honest. A few hours later I find the key in Anne McRaes brown Honda and let myself into her apartment. I take her at her word about making myself at home. A hot shower and several plates of pasta, followed by stretching out on the couch, and Im thinking Anne is an angel. Early in the evening, Anne and Al pop in for a few minutes before leaving again to go to a costume party to benefit cancer research. Turns out Anne is a physical therapist at Baptist Hospital here in Nashville, and Al, the young man with the motorcycle they were on in the park, is a PhD graduate student in endocrinology at the University of Georgia; he plans a career in basic research and teaching. I had brought my bike up to Annes third floor apartment and leaned it against the railing outside her front door. When Anne and Al arrive, Anne insists I bring my bike inside. Hers rests against the wall just inside the door. I prop mine against the dining table. I leave Anne a note telling her she is an angel as I leave her apartment about 7 a.m. to bike the three and a half miles to First
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Baptist Church. Im to meet Wes in Bill Chaneys class at 9, where Wes has arranged for me have about 20 minutes to tell the men of that class my story. Im at the church by 10 minutes after 8, and I begin to look around for someone to talk to as I cruise the streets around the church.
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Hey, youve got the light, I hear someone call. As I glance overhead at the green light, I also notice the source of that voice. Just to my left, stretching up the block in single file, one behind the other, is a line of men. Poorly dressed, some bearded; a few on crutches; one or two sitting with legs stretched across the sidewalk, backs leaning against the building: a dozen or so men all together. Black and white, young and old. I pull away with the light, make the block and come back again. As I approach, I notice another group of similarly dressed men around a corner hidden from me earlier. They are just arriving from someplace, and moving to join the line. As I draw abreast of that line, I brake: Whats here? I ask. Coffee, replies the same young black man who had announced I had the light. But youre too late for breakfast. They stop servin at 8. After a few questions about my bike and learning that I travel without money, one of the men says I might still be able to get a bowl of cereal. Whered ya stay last night? One asks me. I found a friend in the park, I answer, who let me stay the night and fed me breakfast. How about you? We stayed at the Salvation Army, and he motions across the street to the familiar symbol Ive not seen until he points it out. Costs three dollars a night and you have to be gone by 7. Theres a lot of work in this town. The young black man
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has done all the talking so far. Good looking and about the best dressed, John is from California. Took him four months hopping freights to reach Nashville. An older, unshaven white man in a garish, green checkered coat saunters up, mumbling something John takes exception to. Kiss my foot, the man says to John. Cut it off, and get it up here where I can, John replies. Several have gathered around my bike now, offering advice on where I can get work and food. I point to the church behind me where I tell them Im going to meet a friend. I went there, says a young white man with a beautiful brown beard. I needed a prescription filled, and they did it for me. I speak briefly to each man I can make eye contact with. I arrive at a back door of the church a few minutes later, pull my bike inside where the greeter suggests, and go in search of room 303 where the big notebook on the table says Bill Chaneys class meets. As I am introduced, one of the men says he will need to leave before I finish to carry out obligations for the worship service. Another says the same thing. Neither leaves, and as I finish my story I ask them to help me figure out what is happening. I have no idea why Im doing this. All I know is that this thing is consuming me. Id be miserable if I werent here right now doing what Im doing. By way of answer, Lloyd Householder begins to sing, Farther along, well understand why. Something clicks: Thats it. The answer is waiting somewhere out there. Ive got to keep looking. Will I know it when I see it?
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Paycheck-six -pack-time! What better description could the bard himself devise for the eruption of traffic at 4:30 on Friday afternoon. The noise and speed and smell of traffic is suddenly
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overpowering, and Bob and Jean decide to sit it out. But I figure I better get into town before all the people are gone and things are locked up for the weekend. So I leave Bob and Jean about three miles out of Murfreesboro, promising to find a place for the night, then to find them. When I come to the city limit sign a little later, there is little traffic. But that sign has sprouted here recently. What I think to be fields of rye grow all around. As I draw closer, big yellow caterpillars sit in scraped-clean fields. A little closer to town, newly minted homes have become the cash crop. Suddenly bedlam breaks loose. The decibel level runs off the scale as vehicles of all types come from everywhere. All at me. Suddenly the South Central Office of State Farm Insurance heaves into view off to my right. To negotiate any leftward movement in this sea of traffic would have been suicidal. So I pull into the State Farm parking lot and sit down under a tree. Im nervously eying traffic and an approaching rain thunder storm when a young black man runs up. My names Gideon. Can you help me? How? My car quit. I need to push it in a parking place. In the five minutes it takes us to run to his car and push it into a parking place, I tell Gideon what Im doing and why. I get off at 10:30 tonight. Youre welcome to stay with me. He says. Gideon is on his way to a job he hasnt had long. He has two room mates and no extra beds. We cant ride our bikes after dark. But I can feel the sincerity of his offer. I never turn down anybodys offer, Gideon. But I dont know if I can find my friends and then find your house in the dark. Ill try. And I love you for offering. But if we dont make it, please know that well find a place. And Ill call to let you know so you wont worry about us. Gideon dashes his address and phone number in my journal before he runs off to work on foot. I sit down under the tree,
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hoping Bob hasnt turned off 41, hoping he can manage the traffic, and that the thunder I hear rumbling means nothing. Up the street I see a motel. In a few minutes, Im explaining myself to the desk clerk. I tell him to say no if he can. He does. Id like to help, but Im just the desk clerk. The managers not here. He tells me where the police station is. And as I try to find it, thunder growls, dark purple clouds swirl and twist in a cauldron stirred by the wicked witch of the west. I pray there will be no lightning. Visions of lightning bolts dance in my head as I think of the cyclist I read about who was literally fried on such an occasion as this. When I get to the police station, Bob and Jean have been there and have left the name of their motel. With a quarter the desk sergeant gives me, I call and tell them not to worry: Ill find a place. They want me to come stay with them. I cant. Thats too safe. And there are people still to meet. The sergeant meanwhile has gotten a name and number from somewhere. He calls. Reverend Bunch says hell be down at 7:30 (its 6:45 now) to let me in the mission. Captain Bill Todd leads me in his patrol car to West Main Mission, just a few blocks from the station. Before he leaves me there and pulls away, he points out the laundromat next door and says if the weather gets too rough before the preacher comes, I can go there. I choose to stay on the street where I can see more. Clay Lawrence wanders over shortly and begins to talk. He has lived in Murfreesboro all his 63 years. For the past twelve years, he has worked two jobs: as school janitor during the day; as manager of the laundromat from 4 to 9 p.m. He doesnt want to retire when hes 65, thinks hell sit down and die if he does. Murfreesboros growing fast. Soon Clay expects his old farm home to be taken in by the city. The new Nissan plant in Smyrna, 12 miles away, opened four or five years ago, and brought a lot of people. The new Chrysler plant will too. A bunch of Mexican men live in a nearby motel and work in construction, building all the new plants and all the new houses. Clay cant understand them when they come in the laundromat and
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wouldnt know if they wuz cussin me out. Three black boys about 12 walk toward us. Clay says they give him some trouble now and then in the laundromat. They stop to admire my bike: Thats a bad bike, man. Where ya goin? California, I say, Disneyland. Youre not, says one. I explain how everything works, to murmurs of admiration for a beautiful machine. You better lock this up. Someonell steal it. I will, I tell them. When the preacher comes. Whatre your names? Rodriguez, says the nearest. Eddie, say the next. Tony, says the third. All are laughing. Whats so funny? I ask. Rodriguez speaks. My names not Rodriguez. I lied. My names Chuck. Whatre you fellas doin this summer? Swimmin, they say, almost in unison, as they run off toward home. Better hurry; youll be swimmin tonight. Roy Bunch drives up just then in his pickup. Roy is a former Southern Baptist preacher. He attended Ouachita Baptist College in Arkadelphia, Arkansas for two years, knows my boyhood pastor I discover as we talk, and the head of the religion department at William Jewell. Roys wife is from St. Joseph, Missouri, just 60 miles from Liberty. And Roy knows my college, one of the few people Ive found who ever heard of the place. Until a few years ago, Roy was a school counselor. But I gave all that up to start this mission. And now Im on 24 hour call. Roy had been sitting down to eat when I called. He drove 20 miles from Smyrna to let me in. And back again after we talk for a while. Im the only one here tonight. Its clean. Nicer than some motels Ive stayed in. Towels, food, the works. Roy shows me how
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to leave in the morning by the back door. And when he leaves by the front door, I hear it lock behind him. Im now cut off from the supplies in that part of the building. And from the phone. I understand the reason. But still, I feel strange; somehow, less. And I know some people have to live with this feeling. I told Jean Id call at 9:30 to let them know Im okay and promised Gideon Id call him at 11 to let him know where we were. Now, I cant do either. And I think how people get blamed when they dont keep their word. Sometimes they cant help it.
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Katherine asks me for my doctors name. Back at the DeBoers, I find a note to call Dr. Walt Franz at The Mayo Clinic. Walt wants me to see a doctor in Nashville to make sure Im maintaining my weight. He will take it as a bad sign if Im not. While Walt is on the phone, he mentions that a reporter just called him. How can Ed do this when M.S. patients are told not to get hot and to rest. That they cant be active? Thats what she asked me, says Walt. Because hes got a message to deliver, something he believes in so totally that he can over-ride his physical problems. He wont be stopped. Thats what I told her, Walt said. Lang Smith was in medical school with Walt. He weighs me and takes my blood pressure: 169 lbs.; blood pressure, 136 over 74. Same as when I started. Instead of Zora, Lib shows up to get me. Elizabeth Lib Chastain is a retired army sergeant living back on the home place with her sister Zora and brother Ed. Zora had chores, and Lib agreed to come get me. We take the front wheel off my bike so we can get it in the trunk of Libs old Lincoln Town Car, and off we go at better than the speed limit. In Morrison, a few miles out of McMinnville, we meet Zora,
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who is waiting on grandson Jason to arrive with his bicycle so together we can make a grand entrance into McMinnville. When Jason hasnt arrived after the time Zora thinks its appropriate to wait, and the police car has, I jump on my bike for the short ride into town. The police escort drives just ahead of me: Lights flashing, on-coming cars pulling off the highway. And when I see big trucks braking and pulling onto the shoulder, I laugh with pure joy. So far in my ride, truckers have given me no problem, but I have made sure to give them wide berth. I never expected them to leave the road to make room for me. For the last 16 years Lib has been a county commissioner of Warren County. Lib didnt get to be a sergeant or a commissioner by being retiring or shy, and I suspect her pull got the police escort. But I feel important riding into a strange town in such dramatic fashion, especially when we go right through a red light. At the Warren County Courthouse on the square in McMinnville, Jason and his mother are waiting for us. After some picture taking, Jason and I ride our bikes out to the Chastain farm, about five miles from town. Zora had talked the editor at the paper into putting my picture and a big story on the front page last Friday. As a result, several people call to me as we ride by. A quarter mile from the Chastain farm a young woman and two children wave: We heard you were coming. Were kin to the Chastains, too. I had felt at home with Lib the moment she stepped out of the car back in Nashville. She talks loud and a lot, as unpretentious and open as anyone I ever met. When I walk into the Chastain farmhouse home, it has Libs character stamped all over it. Sister Zora and brother Ed, though much quieter, are cut from the same cloth. Ed and I talk for almost two hours after dinner. Chores had kept Ed from eating with us, but Im still at the table when he comes to supper. Ed is up and milking at 5 oclock every morning. To the post office by 7 a.m. Ed drives his 102 mile, 449 box mail route. Home usually around three in the afternoon, Ed is milking again by four. His garden and other chores keep him busy till supper, usual-
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ly after everyone else has eaten. And to bed by 8:30 so he can do it again the next day. Ed grew up on the place. Never married. And never moved. Four years back he took on a mail route to subsidize the farm life he loves. Without the extra money, I probly would have lost this place. Unemployment in Warren County is at 17%; the number of dairy farmers in the area has fallen from over 1,300 twenty years ago to just over 200 today. Eds only vacation in years was two years ago when he and two other mail carriers drove to the gulf for deep sea fishing, and back again in under three days. Ed is a deacon in Shellford Baptist Church, just up the road about a mile and down another one to the right about another mile. I was out of the church for years until I was in my 40s, Ed says, then the Lord brought me back.
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The rabbi is busy when I walk in, but he talks to me briefly and tells me I will be welcome in the evening service. After our conversation, I spend about half-an-hour out in the parking lot going over my bike to make sure everything is tight. Then I bike up Broadway to First Avenue and the river. A couple of river-going ships are anchored here where the City of Nashville started. One of the ships has been taking tours up and down river for the past 18 years. Riding back to the Temple, I make a brief stop at the West End Synagogue, where I meet Joe Cohen and Paulette Smith. They are very friendly, and they already have a BikeAmerica poster on their bulletin board. They got it from the Jewish Federation here in Nashville a few days ago, and they were hoping I would visit them when I came through town. Paulette is a member of First Presbyterian Church and a
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secretary at the synagogue. She is also a reporter for a small newspaper and asks me to tell her my story so she can write it up. Before I leave, Paulette gives me $2.00 and she and Joe invite me to come back in the morning for services. I get back to the Temple shortly after seven. Services start at eight, giving me time to find a safe place for my bike, change from my riding shorts and Eastern Airline T-shirt to my only pair of long pants (blue jeans), and my T-shirt that identifies me as the Ambassador from Second Baptist Church , Liberty, MO. Im wearing this shirt every time I go into a religious community. It hardly ever fails to entice questions, giving me an opening to talk about my plans to visit with as many communities of faith across the country as possible. Rabbi Fuchs message this evening is called, My Philosophy of the Bar and Bat Mitzvah. The rabbi remembers his bar mitzvah, and in detail he uses his experience to guide his congregation in thinking about their approach to this time of great significance. For the week immediately before his bar mitzvah took place, Rabbi Fuchs was bragging how well he would do. The night before, though, he was so nervous he couldnt sleep. When he crept into his parents room late in the night for comfort, his father asked, Wheres the big shot now? One of the Rabbi Fuchs major goals is to restore the bar mitzvahs sacred stature. As he speaks, he reads from a popular novel a caricature of what the bar mitzvah has become: a cross between a Hollywood extravaganza and a trip to Disneyland, an event that frees the young boy or girl from further study of the Torah or attendance at the synagogue. The rabbi remembers his bar mitzvah, along with his wedding day, the birth of his three children, and his ordination, as the most significant days in his life. Symbolic gestures have immense impact. As sincere and sometimes impassioned as the rabbis word are, a little thing he does at the end of his sermon signals to me how deeply felt his words have been. And how likely he is to accomplish his goal.
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When the Torah is ready to return to the ark, the rabbi bounces down the steps from the pulpit into the congregation, and, with what I can only describe as angelic glee, quickly chooses halfa-dozen young children to help him prepare the Torah for the ark. The children each perform a small and specific task, then return to their seats. As they rejoin their parents, I am sure I can detect in their bearing and in their faces a satisfaction with who they are that bodes well for the rabbis dream. As the service ends, Rabbi Fuchs announces my presence, speaks a few words of support, and suggests that people might want to speak to me during the social time to follow. We adjourn to another room, and to some beautiful sweets, cheeses, and fruits. No doubt traveling without money makes everything look bigger and taste better. But its hard to imagine as I stand looking at that table, reaching like an octopus for every thing at once, that King Solomon in his temple ever felt so wealthy or so at peace. Leon Levy approaches, wanting to talk bicycles. Is that your bike in the cloak room? He asks. Leon has a Japanese racing bike and puts in about 20 miles a day, mostly mornings, before he begins his day as a salesman traveling Tennessee and Kentucky for Esprit sports clothes. Leon asks where I spend my nights. Funny you should ask, I say. With whoever invites me. Leon takes the hint. We put my bike in the trunk of his BMW for the short ride to his condo. Leon is divorced. He bought the condo three years ago, and says that girls he dates keep asking when hes going to fix the place up. Im doing it, he says, as I think its right and as I can afford it. Leon says women want to do everything right now and complete. He doesnt work that way. Leons place: three floors, and not very wide. I sleep on the hide-a-bed on the third floor, a room Leon uses for an office: two phones, a computer, a microfisch reader, and a desk. Friends having marital problems sometimes stay here, Leon says. Hearing that, Im glad I called Bobbie earlier today and worked out plans for her to fly to St. Louis to meet me next week-
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end. Otherwise I wont see her all summer. Leon and I have a bowl of cereal in the kitchen before I get on my bike for the short ride to West End Synagogue that Leon has mapped out for me. These early morning rides are invariably pleasant, hardly any traffic, and it may be only my imagination, but everybody and every thing seems friendlier, even the dogs. After hearing Rabbi Fuchs last night at the Temple long for the restoration of the bar mitzvah to a central place in the spiritual life of the Jewish community, its fitting this morning that the service is the bar mitzvah of Brian Allen Stein. This is a Conservative Synagogue and the service is in Hebrew. Brian chants the Haftorah as his bar mitzvah draws to a close, and he ends his reading from the Haftorah with an English commentary. Then Brian mentions his friend Igor Iosovich, a 13-year old boy who lives in Russia, whose family cannot practice Judaism, and who is not allowed a bar mitzvah. In the program for his bar mitzvah, Brian has included a postcard addressed to Igor which he asks everyone to write a message on and mail. And for the last few months, Brian has sent letters to Igor explaining his preparation for and excitement about his impending bar mitzvah. The bar mitzvah lasts from 9:15 until noon. Rabbi Ross invites me to stay for the luncheon in Brians honor. Im hungry and flat broke, but I dont want to intrude on this special day in Brians life.
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Joy! Joy is the only source of energy sufficient to fuel our ultimately doomed but momentarily magnificent struggle. Joy at each sunrise, each babys cry, each breath of life. Life is a problem to solve. A struggle to wage. Purpose is its goal. Death is not the dark at the end of day. It is the dawn. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. To those who do not fear, death is not defeat. To those who do fear, life is not
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Jim has brought my bike into the living room to keep it safe and dry. As a biker himself, Jim is sensitive to such things. As Im sorting the damp from the dry in my panniers, I overhear an argument between Jim and Betty in the next room. It starts over washing clothes. Jim wants to put socks in; Betty doesnt. You take all the joy out of it for me, he says. They arent talking about washing. And its obvious they have argued before. Apparently they remember me. Suddenly I hear the TV. A cartoon. Then I catch only a word here and there. Jim and Betty have six children; the youngest in college. And suddenly I remember the arguments Bobbie and I have had. We love each other, but we have a hard time living together. She has quit her job, to be a better wife. Probably wont last long, she just said on the phone. But the effort: The effort! Thats the important thing. Now I hear Jim and Betty. Calm after the storm, like the rainstorm that just passed through. Jim lives on the western edge of Spokane and Loretta on the eastern. I get a close-up view of downtown Spokane as I bike from one to the other. And as I ride, Im grateful for this vehicle that takes me quietly wherever I want to go. At my own speed. And does not shut me off from the smells and the sounds. With an on-time record an airline would envy, I get to Lorettas exactly at 4:00. Back door is open. About 5:30 they get home from the picnic and have brought food for me. I meet Chuck, Lorettas husband, and thank him for letting me come.
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Back on I-90 at a rest stop about 20 miles later, Im standing beside my bike trying to muster energy to walk over to the faucet to fill my bottles again when a man about thirty, a little boy of about five in tow, walks up to ask where Im headed. As we talk,
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his wife and their small daughter join us. The man introduces himself and his wife as Rob and Cindy Caulfield, their children as Jeremy and Audrey, and Rob offers to help when I come to Ventura, California almost a month from now. The wind and the heat have slowed me down today, and I dont maintain my 10-mile per hour average. Its 7:30 by the time I come to the highway sign announcing Moses Lake and ride the several miles of state road separating I-90 from the town. Its so late and Im so tired that I abandon my plan to go to the newspaper, and I stop at the first motel I come to. Terry Jordan gives me a room. Im so hungry I could eat anything, and I would trade my bicycle for a pizza. I know its not far to my choice of restaurants where whatever I ask for would be given to me. But Im so tired I cant leave the room once I get in there. Out of the wind and the heat, I cant muster the will to return, and I flop across the bed until fierce hunger pains drive me to the peanut butter and bread and fruit in my panniers. Then into the shower where I turn on the water as hot as I can stand it and sit on the floor while that hot water drills its soothing course into my aching muscles. I sit until I am limp and the water has begun to cool. Then sprawled full out and flat on my back on the bed, I eye the TV that I flipped on as I stumbled from the shower to the bed. Choices of the Heart, about a young woman who goes as a missionary to El Salvador to help the peasants caught in the fighting between the government and the guerillas. Though her life is in danger and she loves a young man in the States who is studying to be a doctor, she chooses to go back after her furlough to care for the children. Shortly after she returns, she is sexually abused and murdered. If nothing is ever just coincidence, as my friend Dorothy back in Liberty persuades me, why do I happen to see this movie. Its the only thing Ive seen all of on TV since I left home two-anda-half months ago on my own Choices of the Heart. Earlier tonight, Terry Jordan said You have to be careful. Lots of people show up asking for things and claiming to be some-
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thing. Yet he didnt hesitate an instant when I asked for a room. We can do that, he said. Why did he do it? Why did he say yes to me? Back in Nashville, Lloyd thought I would understand it all farther along. Well, Moses Lake is a fur piece from Nashville, and I havent figured it out yet. Does the answer lie between here and Anaheim?
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Across the street is the Red Lion Inn, where the owner listens to my 30-second account of my journey. Okay, Ill fix you a hamburger, he says as he disappears into the kitchen. In a few minutes, the young man who waits tables appears with my hamburger. I eat slowly and wait for the manager to appear so I can thank him. He never comes. Finally, I go to the kitchen. He is in the back, behind some pots and pans hanging in a rack. I can barely see him. I thank him and ask his name, explaining that I am writing a book, and will list all who help me. Thats all right, he says and he turns from me. I leave his restaurant wishing he had not given me that hamburger. He didnt want to. Or if he did, he couldnt show it. I wish for him more courage, so he can do what he feels he should. But if he did really want to feed me, I wish him the skills to feed the soul as well as the stomach. Dee, at the House of Coffee, where I had breakfast this morning in Moses Lake, could instruct him in that department. Her reply to my request was immediate, positive, and delivered with a smile. She came several times to check on me, and once with a $5.00 bill a customer had given her for me. Obviously she had been talking about me. Chris Bach bought Carlyles Cafe two years ago. Kept the name because everybody knows Carlyles. Its been a neighborhood gathering place for 30 years. Carlyles is the only place open
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in downtown Ellensburg this early in the morning. Three men in a back booth are playing cribbage as Chris brings me breakfast. I have a good view of the cribbage players as I sit at the counter that runs across the front of the room just inside the door. They play every morning. They have been at it a while when I come in, and they leave while Im eating. Before their chairs can cool, a senior man and woman take their place at the table and at the game. I hear Chris telling the cribbage players about my ride: Hes got an 18 speed bicycle. That means we couldnt figure how to shift it, one replies. Id asked for oatmeal and an English muffin. Chris also offers juice. He stands and talks to me about his son and grandsons bicycle trip of several hundred miles. And he comes back several times. After pedaling all morning into that incessant river of wind, I pull off about noon in Easton, a little logging town. Across from the tiny post office, under a pine tree at the entrance to a mobile home park where half-a-dozen homes sit, I sit to eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and to escape that fierce head wind Ive been fighting all morning. After sitting as long as I think I can and still make Seattle before dark, I ride up the one street in Easton, past the abandoned service station, the closed and dilapidated seafood and steak restaurant to the one service station open. Where you goin? he demands as I enter the service station door. Can I fill my water bottle? He motions to an outside faucet. Could I use your restroom? Cross the street, he says, motioning again. Ignoring several signs declaring restrooms for use of our customers only, I follow his directions.
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After asking directions from a man on the street and pedaling through downtown, I pass a vegetarian restaurant to my left. The aroma grabs me. No time. Got to find a room. You can eat later, I tell myself. Half a block past, I have to stop for a red light. Over my shoulder I glance at the restaurant. And I cant resist. I wheel my bike inside the restaurant and walk back to gawk at the beautiful food. I get my food and sit at the table next to the only other people in the place: a girl, a young woman, a man and a woman; sitting at the same table and all talking about health food. And I feel the same urge to talk to them that I felt to come in this place. I almost turn around and blurt out my mission. But I cant quite get myself to do it. I sit there long past the time it takes to eat, trying to talk myself into talking to them. Why is it so hard? How is it different from how it has been all across the country? I dont know. But it is. Its past closing time. I cant figure out how to interject myself into the conversation of these four, so I walk up front to my bike. Theres no way out except past me. Ill stay here until they come past. Hopefully something will develop. But the door is locked; a waitress comes to say Ill need to come out the back door. So I roll my bike down the aisle between the tables, past where we have all been sitting. They are standing to leave. The woman says, My, thats a good looking bike. This is my opening Id been looking for. Quickly I tell her all about the bike and my ride. And needing a place to stay. You can stay with me she says. The loft in my garage hasnt been cleaned but youre welcome. I accept. Norma Corr draws me a map. The people with her are visiting from Chicago. They are out to see the town and not planning to
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be home for a while. But Ill need to get there soon or it will be dark. I find my way along the streets and the bike paths Norma has listed, but not without asking supplemental directions from two older women walking their dog in the park. When I get to Normas, I take a seat on the bench in the small flower garden in front of her house. When Norma and the others get home, we spend an hour in her living room talking about health foods, spirituality, her moving from Illinois to Oregon eight years ago, recycling trash. From out of the blue, Norma asks if I have heard of Peace Pilgrim. And suddenly I know why I could not pass that restaurant by and why I had to speak to Norma. Twice before in my life I had met Peace Pilgrim. Those two meetings shaped my life and the planning for this ride. Now this third meeting promised to make sense for me of this crosscountry odyssey. This was not a rational and conscious notion that came to my mind as Norma spoke, more a spiritual understanding that settled over me, an assurance that I was now farther along and about to know what Lloyd said I would. The first time I met Peace Pilgrim I was a 21-year old English teacher at Round Rock High. My wife and I were also house parents at Texas Baptist Childrens Home. I was on my way to that home after school one day. Up ahead and to my right, I saw someone walking. As I drew close, I could read the words, 25,000 Miles For Peace across her back. As I drove past her, I turned my head. Across the front of her blue tunic, it said Peace Pilgrim. I had to know this person. I pulled off the road and stopped the car. I stepped out and ran back to her. Who are you? I blurted. My name is Peace Pilgrim, and I walk to tell people about peace. World Peace. And inner peace. I had heard people talk about peace before in my young life. But I had never been in the presence of absolute peace until that moment. Would you come home with me and talk to the girls in our cottage? I heard myself asking her. She did. And the next morning, I took her to school to speak to our students in a hastily called
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assembly. She enchanted those students as she had me. While she was with us, we lived in the world we read about in scripture, a world where people love each other and live at peace. Then she was on the road again. The second time I met her was twenty years later. I was teaching at William Jewell College when I read in the paper that she was nearby. I went to find her and brought her to campus to speak to my students. Her hair had been gray and pulled into a ponytail when I first met her. She looked no different or any older now. Her affect upon us all was the same. Another decade passed, and I found myself planning this cross-country bicycle ride. Alone and without money, from Orlando up to Seattle and down to Los Angeles, I would ride. I would tell people about the Human Family Reunion, where whos right is the wrong question and we all eat first and ask later. And when I sat to write about my ride, I found myself dedicating it to Peace Pilgrim. Now three months into the ride, I had come to Eugene, Oregon. Passing that vegetarian restaurant in downtown Eugene, I had been overwhelmed with this irresistible urge to stop and go inside. Something would happen inside that restaurant that had to happen if my ride was to be complete. I laughed out loud at the craziness of that notion. And I rode past the restaurant. But the traffic light on the corner turned red, and I had to stop. While I waited for the light to turn green, I looked back at that restaurant. And when the light changed, I made an unthinking U-turn. My third meeting with Peace Pilgrim awaited. Do you know she was killed in a car wreck? Norma asked. I didnt. Have you read her book? she asked. I didnt know she had one Ive got a copy Ill give you, she replied. I was up most of the night. Reading. And thinking that I had ridden across America to meet Peace Pilgrim again. And at last I knew what it was that Peace Pilgrim could do that so attracted me to her. She could go anyplace at anytime and talk to anyone about anything and feel safe. She was a World Class
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Person, the first and one of the few I would ever personally meet. And because I had met her, I had long been on my way to becoming World Class. Since that first meeting, I had been on my way, though not until now could I put that longing inside me into words. Now I can say it, and now I must live it: My mission in life is to move daily in this direction and to take everyone who wants to go with me. I came into this world as a white male. I became a Christian. I have grown old. But color, gender, faith, and age are only the obvious descriptors of who I am. There are no boundaries on my soul, as there are none on yours. We are more than people see or hear or think of us. We are tailor-made in an off the rack world. None of us is meant to be compared to any other; we are unique in the world. Those boundaries people draw cannot contain us. Boundaries are needed when we are new to life. We must learn one language, one faith. Essential, though, that is, such learning equips us only for the first part of lifes journey. This is not the full armor we must have for lifes long pilgrimage. Because we cannot learn a second language first or appreciate any faith until we are committed to one, we must be schooled early in our life in one language and one faith. Having learned well one language and one faith, we then are ready. Ready to move about in a world of 3,000 languages and dozens of faiths. Ready to become a World Class Person, able to go anyplace at anytime and talk to anyone about anything and feel safe. We will forever approach this world and its people through the filter of that first language and faith, but we can in differing degrees become multi-lingual and appreciative of other faiths. My approach to the world will forever be shaped by the fact that I am a white, male, American, Christian. But I now know that I am more than these names given to me by those who seek thereby to limit where I can go and to whom I can talk. I want to be a World Class Person. I want to be at home wherever I go. All people are my people, all places on the planet are
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my home. This is the Declaration of Independence required of all who long to be World Class. Any person on the planet has the potential to become World Class, and in the world as I would have it, many millions of people would choose to do so. That might be too much of a good thing, though. Millions of people the world over are needed to maintain those first languages and faiths that nurture young life. Unless some, however, become World Class, these first languages and faiths become too exclusive and arrogant, too likely to war on one another. World Class Persons become ambassadors between languages and faiths, by their presence and behavior moderating the extremists in all camps, giving hope to all that even if they cannot personally endorse human differences, they can endure them. World Class Persons likely will never be widely popular, for their allegiance is to timeless and universal values. Since all of us live but a short time and in a peculiar place on the planet, we must devote most of our time and attention to local affairs and concerns. A few World Class Persons from each language and faith community are all we need. Knowing they are there and hearing now and then of what they do and think, millions of people will give grudging respect and will be less likely to heed the home-grown agitators who sprout like dandelions in every place. The message of World Class Persons lingers long in the collective human memory. In sacred books and political documents and oral traditions passed unbroken but transformed from that time when humans first talked, the words and deeds of World Class Persons buoy our hearts, minds, and souls amid the troubled waters which might otherwise overwhelm us. Our mission as World Class Persons is expressed in our motto: Red and Yellow, Black, Brown and White Christian, Buddhist and Jew Hindu, Bahai, and Muslim, too All are precious in our sight Now to sit in Normas living room and have her show me
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the book Peace wrotea book I didnt know existedis to me confirmation of my life and the direction it has taken. Lloyd was right. Farther along I am understanding why. After sleeping in the loft above Normas garage, she fixes me an early breakfast of millet and raisins, and delights in showing me the natural foods she uses. Norma was an elementary teacher in Illinois and owned a health food store for four years. She retired from teaching, sold her business, and moved to Eugene to find what I was supposed to do. She chose Eugene because, You can live here for nothing. Everything grows. And people are conscious of the environment. Norma shows me books and literature from a variety of spiritual sources and viewpoints. She is searching. For direction. And for relationships. For two years a Downs Syndrome woman lived in her house. The house is always full of interesting people. Norma says. The people in the house this morning are her daughter and granddaughter, and Howard, the daughters boyfriend, who has come out from Chicago to meet Norma. Normas husband died. Her daughter is divorced. Eugene is bicycle heaven. People are so accustomed to bikes and have made such accommodations to them that I hate to leave, the way a kid feels about leaving a candy store. But I cant wait to see what lies ahead.
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Nothing to do but call the Lutheran Bible Institute. The motel clerk places the call. Is Greg Thompson around? I ask. This is Greg. Lisa Clore was in the prayer group at Minnehahha Covenant Church back in Spokane. When she learned what I was
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doing and where I was headed, she said I could stay at the Seattle Lutheran Bible Institute where she is a student. She had called Greg Thompson at LBI to make the arrangements. But I hadnt been able to get Greg on the phone, so when I got in late, I figured I would just get a motel room. When the clerk at the store where I stopped for directions told me that LBI was three miles out of town and up a mountain, whatever interest I might have had in staying there evaporated. But when the desk clerk said there was no room in the inn, up another mountain didnt sound too bad. Where have you been? Greg wants to know. Weve got your room ready. Little light is left after Greg has finished his directions. The road is narrow: the traffic heavy, until the last right hand turn and up a long hill on what looks like a brand new road. As I turn left at the hilltop, I can see the lights of Issaquah below, and I can understand why Seattle Lutheran Bible Institute chose this outlying smaller place as home. This hilltop affords a magnificent view of the fading sun and the emerging lights of the town. Jack Eichorst is President of Lutheran Bible Institute and one of the people Greg wants me to meet, though he doesnt know if he is in town. But Im standing in the hallway the next morning talking to the switchboard operator when Jack walks up. I saw you on TV in Spokane. And here you are. I cant believe it. Jack invites me to his office; we like each other immediately. Ive said only a few things when he asks if I mind if he calls the press and TV. I hear him say: Ive never called the media about anyone before. But I just met this guy. Im convinced hes genuine, and people need to know what hes doing. Jack calls the Lutheran Bible Institute in Anaheim, just a short distance from Disneyland and asks them to provide a place for Bobbie and me to stay when we get there. Then Jack introduces me to Rolf Goetzinger, the public relations director at LBI. Rolf photocopies and mails my journals back to Jewell.
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Completely out of food, not a thing in my panniers and not much in my stomach. Got to find a store and a restaurant. And fast. At the Safeway just across from the motel, the manager arrives a little after nine this morning, and Im there to ask if he can give me food for the road: two apples, three bananas, two oranges, a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. He tells me to get it off the shelf and he will pay for it. Then I decide to go back to the Dennys that turned me down last night. They were very busy when I appeared about eight. The manager had little time for me and couldnt help. This morning they are not busy; a different manager is on duty and happy to feed me. While I am waiting on my oatmeal, a waitress sits down at the counter beside me. Are you Ed? she asks. Would you mind if someone from our local paper came out to talk to you? While Im waiting for the reporter, I have a second bowl of oatmeal, and a piece of sour dough toast. And I think, first about the long bloody scratch on my left calf. Just this morning I had finally discovered why for the past month my left calf had been getting all those cuts when I start off on my bike. The pedal has apparently hit something, making a small metal protrusion that rips my flesh when I push the right pedal to the ground in preparation for starting. I also think about whats happening to me this summer and wonder if I can keep it all in perspective. I dont want to talk about it in my classes back at Jewell. Thats not what I owe my students. Until I get my book written, I wont know why this summer happened; until then, I have nothing to say. While Im waiting on my second bowl of oatmeal, the reporter comes. My name is Wu Wei he says. We move from the counter to a table so we can hear better, and we talk for an hour. Wu asks me if Id ever been fearful on the trip. I say no.
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Why not? Because I dont feel in charge. Im just along for the ride. Hundreds of other people are as much a part of all this as I am. Together, we are invincible. Nothing can harm me. I believe that. This thing thats happening cant be stopped. That sounds crazy. But thats what I think. It doesnt sound crazy to me, Wu says. I feel like an athlete before a big game. I know I cant lose, I say to Wu. Thats not rational. It sounds boastful. I dont mean it that way. But I have to be honest with you. And thats the way I feel. Like Im in another dimension. Im impervious to hurt, immune to illness. Cars and trucks wont hit me. Im riding a wave, buoyed by a spirit I cant name. Cant resist. And nothing can stop it. As we are talking, someone walks up and stands quietly at my arm until I look his way. They told me you were here, Ed, my name is William Cheung, and Im the owner of this restaurant. Wu gets excited. Bill, Ive been trying to meet you. I was supposed to stay with you, but the paper already had a place for me. Wu is doing a summer internship from Stanford at the paper. He and Bill have been looking for each other, and in meeting me, they meet for the first time. Both are Chinese-Americans, and in making her call to the paper, Debi Christensen, the waitress, causes them to meet and me to know them both. Thats the way the Human Family Reunion works
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How far to Weed? I yell. You sure you want to go this way? Id had the uneasy feeling I was on the wrong road. Angie, Charlie, and Sherry had told me how flat the road to Weed is, and here I was going up and down Mount Everett. But I dismissed the feeling. I shouldnt have.
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Its all downhill going back, says the man in the pickup. He means to be encouraging. He isnt. Id climbed 1,500 feet in less than five miles. Up and winding Ill take anytime over down and winding. Id have to ride the brakes and worry about overheating the rims and blowing a tire. Id worry about not going so fast I couldnt make the turns. I would try not to see over the edge of these cliffs. I get back to Yreka, having been gone near on three hours. Back at Ma and Pas, Sherry and Angie give me a steak; they say a customer ordered it, then said it wasnt rare enough. They ask me if I will eat it as a favor to them. While Im waiting on the steak, I go out in the parking lot to use the pay phone to call George and Ginger Mattos in Mt. Shasta to tell them I took the wrong road, that I am still in Yreka, and wont be able to stay with them tonight. But Ginger wants to know where I am and says they will come and get me. Back inside, Im eating my steak when Charlie appears and asks me to spend the night with them, if you dont mind the dogs. I tell him I will if my friends cant find this place. But George and Ginger come about eight oclock, and I go out to the parking lot to put my bike in the trunk of their Honda Civic. Before we leave, I ask them to come inside to meet my friends. We all stand in the middle of the restaurant and talk so loud that the half-dozen customers hear us and join in a pep rally for the Human Family at Ma and Pas. The ride to Mt. Shasta at sunset is awesome. Suddenly as we drive, the mountain lurches onto the horizon. From nowhere, it suddenly dominates. Snowcapped. A classic profile against the evening sky, lingering rays giving its peak a glow not of this world. George says Mount Shasta lures people from all over the world. Just this weekend hundreds will meet on the mountain as the lead group for the Harmonics, a smorgasbord of people who will congregate simultaneously world wide to be at one with the universe and with each other. George has taught choral music at the Junior College in
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Weed for the past 18 years. Ginger is an administrator in the Mt. Shasta public schools. And I try to imagine what it would have done to George to drive daily for those years from Mt. Shasta to Weed and back. As the sun comes up. And goes down. In every season. That mountain by now is part of his psyche. Making music in these mountains must mold the mind and adapt the person to a specialized environment the likes of which the rest of us long for. A little bit of heaven. Gingers father, in 1925 when he was 18, took a four month bicycle trip with a friend: 3,600 miles over rocky roads. Lots of flats. Sold postcards to get money to pay for his trip. Now as we sit in their kitchen, George is going over my route for tomorrow and telling me about some friends of theirs in Redding he will call so I can stay with them tomorrow night. We talk late into the night. And I want to hear what they say. But the view of the mountains through the sliding glass doors demands long and loving looks. Ginger packs me a lunch, and by 7:30 weve had breakfast and Im ready to go. The chill in the air has me shivering in my shorts, but I dont figure that will last long once the sun is up and Im out of the shadows of trees and mountains. What I havent counted on is the 40 miles of free fall down Interstate 5 from Mt. Shasta to Lake Shasta. Giant mountains and giant trees tower above and around me, the cool breeze in my face as I plummet down the mountain carries the scent of pine and fir and sawdust and earth and flowers. Giant trucks and luxury cars and jeeps and motorcycles and the full inventory of Japanese factories pass me by. But the road is wide and smooth and no cliffs dropping to nowhere do I see. So I let it go and feel simultaneously safe and scared. A mountain high has me in its spell. The spell now and then is broken when signs announce that bicycles must exit but are not so straightforward in announcing where they should go. These are usually the times I sit to eat and drink in the scenery. The 40-mile free fall is abruptly ended at Lake Shasta by a mile long climb thats like pulling yourself up by your own boot-
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straps to the next crest, followed by two miles of 5 percent downgrade. Up and down after that for another 10 miles, with the last 10 miles to Redding fairly flat.
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I havent looked at the map. I havent carried one except now and then when those who helped me thought I should take one. Somehow, though, I didnt keep them long. So I dont know how far from where I am Rob and Cindy Caulfield live. But when we had met back at that rest stop on I-90 a month ago, Rob told me to call when I came to Ventura. I figure Im closer now than I will be tomorrow night. And I need help. Im too tired to look any further. So I call. Cindy answers. Rob is in the yard. Cindy doesnt know how far Carpenteria is from them. I tell her Ill be okay. And we hang up. Now what do I do? And I think of a map I think I remember at the bottom of one of my panniers, buried under a bunch of stuff and all wadded up. Some searching and I find it. Talking to Cindy, I learned that they dont actually live in Ventura, but in Santa Paula. And looking at the map, I see that Carpenteria is about 15 miles from Ventura. I think maybe I could make it to Ventura if Rob could drive there to get me. So I call back. Cindy answers again. Before I can explain my plan, Cindy says, Im so glad you called back. Rob said he would come get you. Its only 30 miles. Im talking to Rob from a phone booth in front of Super Taco. He isnt sure how to get to me, so I run inside and ask the man behind the counter to come outside and give Rob directions. Half an hour later, Rob drives into the parking lot in his white pickup, and we load the bike in the back. Before we drive away, I dash back inside to thank Hector for his help. Five-year old Ryan has come with his dad, and he sits
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between us on the drive back to his house. He is too shy to say much, but I saw how big his eyes got as he watched us load the bike. I heard him ask his dad, Whatre those? as we took the panniers loose and swung them up onto the bed of the pickup. And he eyes my helmet as it lies between my feet as we drive. And what a drive. Along the ocean for much of the way just as the sun is going down. Gazing into the ocean at sunset conjures hosts of poetic images, and I think because I have satisfied my muscles needs this day for stretching and bending and work, my mind is able to feast on the aesthetic abundance around me. When we get to their house at eight, Cindy has chicken enchiladas and other good things waiting. Cindy asks me to take the seat at the head of the table thats perfect size for five to pass food and to talk. Just to my right sits Rob, and to his right is Ryan. Across from Ryan in her highchair sits Aubrey, a little blond angel with the light of a thousand fireflies in her blue eyes and the radiance of moonglow in her presence. On my left, between Aubrey and me, sits Cindy, who divides her time four ways during dinner. She negotiates with Aubrey what and how much to put on her plate; she jumps up for the three steps into the kitchen as the table runs low; she eats her dinner; and she takes an active part in the conversation. During dinner, Ryans mother comes over: She lives nearby. Rob and Cindy have been married less than five years, and Ryan is Robs son from his first marriage. Aubrey is almost three, and Rob and Cindys daughter. Ryan calls his real mother Mom, and calls Cindy by her name. Aubrey copies everything she sees or hears; so she calls her mother Cindy. Rob works for Sunkist, designing and maintaining the equipment that sizes, grades and packs the millions of oranges grown in Southern California and elsewhere in the world. Rob has made two trips to Israel as a consultant to their citrus industry, and he talks about the Spanish and his interest in the equipment they use. And I learn about oranges more than I ever knew there was to know: that Florida oranges are more for juice, while California
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oranges are grown to eat; that Sunkist is a cooperative agreement between growers and marketers; that Sunkist does not own trees or land; that oranges are cleaned and waxed so they appeal to the eye; that to bring top dollar, oranges must pass taste tests, be of the most desirable size, and without brown spots; that Sunkist stands ready to advise and counsel its client growers; that competition to sign up and keep the top growers is fierce. This morning Im sitting at the desk in the kitchen making phone calls. Aubrey is right beside me with her toy phone. She dials as I do and carries on a parallel conversation. After a while I notice that Aubrey has a pencil in hand and is gently tapping on the desk. Odd! Then I catch sight of my own right hand beating out a staccato rhythm with my pen. I havent been up long and Im barefoot. A while later, I go to the bedroom. Aubrey pads after me. Whatcha doin? She asks. Puttin on my shoes, I answer. She wiggles her toes and holds up her small foot for me to see. Then she disappears. Im at the desk again making phone calls when Aubrey reappears to ask her mother to tie her shoes. Dare I hope that people across the country have been responding to the Human Family Reunion the way little Aubrey has picked up my unconscious behavior and off-hand remarks? Aubrey notices everything and immediately plays it back. She is not yet sophisticated enough to provide variations on a theme. What she sees is what she does, and ones influence is immediately obvious.
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All across the country, under my breath and off-key, I have been singing Amazing Grace, a habit I got into a couple of years ago when my car radio quit. Its still not fixed, and now its almost automatic that I break into song as I slide behind the wheel of my little Rabbit diesel that no one but me will ride in because of the
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noise and vibration. I think of this as the young man begins his rendition of Amazing Grace. Its not the version I sing. But of all the songs, why this one? Is it simply coincidence? Dorothy wouldnt think so. If not, though, what am I to make of it. Back in Nashville when I had asked for help in understanding why I was making this ride, Lloyd had sung his answer: Cheer up my brother, walk in the sunshine, farther along well understand why. Were all these coincidences part of the answer? Am I so dense that Im destined never to know? John and Barbara Lim arrive about seven in the evening. Bobbie and I havent seen them in years, only once or twice since John graduated from Jewell. They have been in California since John came here to minister to the spiritual needs of Malaysian people. He had been a pastor back in Malaysia for years before he came to the States to finish his college and then to study at the seminary. Barbara, Grace, and Paul had stayed behind, intending to see John at the end of his studies when he came home. John had been here better than a year when people in the church brought his family over. They had endeared themselves by their gracious manner and their unsurpassed skills in the kitchen. To be invited to the Lims for dinner came to be the most coveted invitation in town among those who knew them, a number that was increasing rapidly. The outdoor service begins as the sun is setting. Its conducted entirely by women and tells the story of Moses mother, sister and Pharaohs daughter, helping us all to glimpse the character of God apart from the usual male imagery. John and Barbara sit with us for the service. Early the next morning John is back with one of his parishioners to drive us to Anaheim for our day at Disneyland. A bus has wrecked on the freeway and we are just a few minutes late when we get to Milts office a little after eleven. I like Milt immediately. In his 70s, with a full head of shining silver hair, ruddy complexion, booming voice, ready smile, pearly teeth, eyes that twinkle, and a firm handshake, I know in an instant that he loves his job and has fun doing it.
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If cast by Hollywood, the Disney persona could not be better captured. Milt has been with Disney since the beginning and knew Walt personally. Milt walks me from his office to the parking lot and locks my bike in the van where it will stay until tomorrow. As we walk, Milt maintains a running commentary on this place he knows so well. Main Street is modeled after Marceline, Missouri, he tells me, where Walts parents moved when he was five years old, but it had to be scaled down to accommodate the space available. Disneyland covers only 40 acres, a Magic Kingdom surrounded by freeways. Main Street is designed so that to arriving guests it looks longer than it really is, giving the illusion of more space than actually exists. To the guest walking out Main Street at the end of an exhausting day, the street appears shorter, less an obstacle back to their waiting car. I get the feeling that more is afoot for tomorrow than I expect. To be in the parade Disneyland has each afternoon and to meet Mickey: thats what I asked Milt if I could do. When he said yes, I was in Heaven. Milt had said it would be good if I could be here in September for the State Fair Day they are planning, but I had to be back home to start a new school year on September 1. Milt expected 80,000 people in the park on August 27 and my arrival would not be as big an event as it would later. But you come ahead. Well make it nice, he said. As I called Milt every week or so from the road, I could feel his excitement growing. Milt had called the college about a week ago to say that he would need for Bobbie and me to stay in the Disneyland Hotel so we would be close enough to coordinate the activities Disney had planned. I didnt know about this development until yesterday when Bobbie told me. Since Seattle I had been planning to spend our nights in Anaheim at the Lutheran Seminary here. Jack Eichorst had called his fellow president here and arranged our lodging. And last night on the phone to Bobbie, Milt had told her he needed a private meeting with her when we got to Disneyland. After Milt takes me to lock up my bike, he and Bobbie and several Disney
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people disappear up the stairs for about an hour. Bobbie then floats down the stairs, glowing as if what she has seen and heard has transformed her. You wont believe what they have planned for you, she says. Then she falls silent. I see in her eyes what I saw when she was seventeen and stole my heart. Milt is bubbling as he tells me about it, though he gives me none of the details. But if he aims to get me excited, he could do no better than one thing he does say; Ill pick you up in the morning at 5:45. We have rehearsal at six. Rehearsal! Rehearsal? Me? Robert Redford, eat your heart out. When I was a boy a Saturday morning radio program called Lets Pretend would transport me to a land of castles and kings and beautiful ladies and noble deeds. Now in real life as an adult I have been transported here at Disneyland for an adventure bigger than I ever imagined. The woman at the hotel desk makes me feel like King Arthur as she asks about my ride and says she is proud of me. She hopes the Human Family Reunion fires the imagination of all the worlds people. Then she sends us up to the twelfth floor suite. A living room bigger than our apartment when we got married. And more furniture. A two-room bathroom. Closets big enough to sleep in. From the bedroom we can see a waterfall, a swimming pool and a paddle-boat lagoon, some shops, another hotel, and Disneyland. While we sat in the hotel lobby waiting for our room, Milt showed me the script for tomorrows TV filming. They are having a parade just for me, and all the Disney characters will be there to welcome me. Milt said Disney is spending a lot of money and time on this. We want to do it for you, he said, but of course theres something in it for us. If that films as good as we hope, itll be seen all over this country. When I meet Milt outside the hotel a little before six the next morning, the sun is coming up into a cloudless sky; the air is cool and clear. Just inside the front gate, half-a-dozen people are busily arranging the stage. Following introductions all around, Milt drives me back into the parking lot, explaining as we go the route
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and the speed I am to ride at ten oclock when the ceremony in front of the train station is to take place. And now they tell me that I am the only one in the parade. Its all for me! I will ride my bike in the main gate. Chip and Dale and Goofy will entertain the crowd as I ride through the parking lot, commenting on how long it will take me to arrive. As I approach the train station, I will ride onto a red carpet, lined to either side by cheering spectators waving American flags. And when I make it the length of the carpet, I am to dismount. Someone will take my bike and I will grab Bobbie and give her a big kiss. Mickey will shake my hand and usher me onto the stage where I will be officially welcomed and presented a trophy from the Orange County M.S. Society and one from Disneyland, a statue of Mickey Mouse, appropriately inscribed and handed to me by Mickey himself. Then Ill make a short speech and be interviewed by the media. Everything will be filmed and put on TV for all the country to see. Then well go to lunch in Walts private club, followed by an escorted tour of the park with the Disneyland Ambassador. For two hours we rehearse, and as I hear the Disney characters talk about me in their irreverent way, I am one of them as they have all of my life been one of me. And when Milt drives me out to the marquee in front of Disneyland and shows me my name up there for all to see, when he tells me that this is something they just never do, that the last time they did it was for Richard Nixon more than 20 years ago; then, at that moment, I am in a dimension of life I have never known and cannot describe. Ten oclock comes. Everything proceeds as planned. This cant be real. All these people cheering for me, with their eyes embracing the day and each other and me. People of different colors and cultures and creeds standing to welcome and to listen to me. Gazing into that sea of salt, pepper and ginger faces as I talk, seeing the smiles and the endorsing body language, feeling the energy and the good will that has us caught in its spell, believing for one brief shining moment that the whole world is the mirror image of this place: The Magic Kingdom come alive.
by Ed Chasteen, the Pedlin Prof
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And now I do understand, Lloyd. Farther along, I have found the answer. Peace, power, purpose and joy are meant to be our constant companions. Life is supposed to be a glorious adventure. To become a World Class Person, able to go anywhere at anytime and talk to anyone about anything and feel safe: This is our destiny. Each of us intuitively knows all of this. If we can find the courage to talk to people about our mutual dreams of becoming World Class, then we shall together be swept upward in a benevolent commingling of beautiful thoughts and noble deeds, elevating us and all of life to the heroic dimension we long for.
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HATEBUSTERS
Box 442 ph. 816-803-8371 Liberty, MO 64069 e-mail: hatebuster@aol.com www.hatebusters.com www.greaterliberty.org Connecting People across Racial and Religious Lines We HateBusters never say no when asked to help where hate has hurt. We charge no fees. We are all volunteers. No one gets a salary. We give membership cards to folks everywhere we go. Since no one is born hating, everybody is a natural born HateBuster. We have no dues and no meetings. Only work to do. We keep in touch by email. We raise money for victims of hate crimes. We write them love letters from around the world and across the country. We go to court with them. We help in any way they need. We teach our book, How To Like People Who Are Not Like You, in schools and faith communities. If we can help overcome hate and teach people how to like each other, we go anywhere were asked to come and do anything were asked to do. And we never ask for money. But we do have expenses. Monthly we have to pay for utilities, our computer, our internet, our web site, our phone, postage, office supplies. And we have to have a little money in hand so we can respond quickly when needed. We make a bike ride a part of everything we do. Its fun. It draws interest. The media come to ask about our ride. We talk about overcoming hate and liking one another. It works. Weve been at it now for 20 years. Help us keep it up. Please make a contribution to HateBusters. We are a 501 C-3 non-profit.Your contribution is tax deductible. Send your check to HateBusters, Box 442, Liberty, MO 64069. Donate on line. Go to www.hatebusters.com and click on DONATE.

101 Bicycle Stories

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101 Bicycle Stories

By Ed Chasteen The Pedalin Prof

Book design and layout by Sharon Hanson

GREATER LIBERTY BOOKS Box 442 Liberty, Missouri 64069