​Many years ago, I vowed to take a positive outlook on life. That principle has guided me through many circumstances and continues to frame how I look at the events shaping our world and the way I CHOOSE to respond to them. You can be negative or positive. You can look for solutions or you can complain.
 
For those of you who read my column regularly, you know that I frequently bang the gavel about our finger-pointing, “blame the other guy” culture. This attitude is the essence of negativity and helps no one.
 
A healthy sense of inquiry is good. A heightened willingness to dig below the surface is important to informed opinions. I don’t expect everything to be rosy. There are huge problems the world faces, that our country must address, and that each of us must deal with on a daily basis. Life is not easy. But it doesn’t mean you have to drop the fun out of life. It seems to me that we’ve lost the sense of the absurd in our hyper-critical, social media-saturated environment. Perhaps we’re all just taking ourselves too seriously.
 
As my last column of 2018, I look back on many things. Staying positive in how I treat others and sharing that attitude is worth commenting on. When I made that decision years ago to keep a world outlook driven to make things better, it was an easy one to make. It’s harder to keep. In 2018, I found a few new ways to share and influence, and though my voice is small in the grand scheme of things, I receive consistent feedback to keep doing what I’m doing. Positive reinforcement. Thanks to those of you who encourage me along.
 
For those of you wanting to do more, here’s what I found. On Facebook, when something good happens, I share the event with my friends. I “like” or “comment” on fun, humorous of family-related posts. I ignore the rest. Let us know how you have fun. Make me laugh.
 
On LinkedIn, I share solutions. I find news that can help solve some of the problems the world faces and post those items. It might be an innovation to fill potholes quickly and cost-effectively. Or a recycling technique that removes plastic from the environment and crafts the discarded material into a usable product. I could find an article that discusses how to purify water more effectively than current technologies.
 
There is a lot of good news in the public arena. There are HUGE numbers of good people committed to making the world a better place to live. We don’t hear from them as often as the complainers. I choose to WALL off the complainers and seek out the doers, the ones getting the job done.
​
There is no requirement for a New Year’s resolution in 2019. Stay positive. That’s easy. Compliment others. Smile. Listen. Dig below the surface to find out what’s really going on.
 
Look for news clips that show our human capacity to turn shore slop into pure guava. Stay on it.
 
We can turn things around, folks. Influence others. The world will change. Slowly, but it will.

​
Chapter 4
Snakes and Armadillos
When you thread the border into a new state on a bicycle, your mind imagines a significant demarcation, some geographical transformation at the border signaling you’ve entered new territory. There’s not. The Ozarks thread through both, the hills growing steeper, the trees denser. I switch maps to Arkansas after crossing the state line.

Thunderstorms threaten again. When you’re hit by one, you want to avoid future encounters. I’m hoping for a small town hotel on the road ahead.

The sun bakes me to a crisp brown. I’m lost in thought as a blue Mustang pulls up next to me with three teenage males, and one yells out the window, “Get off the road nigger!,” and they peel off, laughing, exhaust smoke trailing. Incensed, I pop up the gears and race after them.
Thoughts of yanking them from the car and smashing their teeth in rage through my mind. Even pedaling as fast as is humanly possible their car recedes in the distance. After 3-4 miles of explosive riding, I’m soaked and exhausted and dial back my anger and pedaling.

There is no blue Mustang in town, but there is a run-down motel for $8.99 a night. I pay, walk my bike in, and examine the dump – no shower; paint peeling; soap that barely creates suds. But it’s a roof over my head and safety from the impending storm.

The water is hot in the tub and I soak for a long time as the grime dissolves from my body.  A black ring of dirt stains the tub afterwards. Rumbling comes closer. I’m asleep though before it hits. In the morning, the air is clean, the humidity down.
+++
The names of towns stand out. I pass through Nimrod, AR, and play around with it in my head, “You Nimrod. Quit being a Nimrod.” Makes you wonder how the town got named.
I pass through Toad Suck, AR and Toad Suck Lock and Dam, and spend hours afterwards playing around with the name, weaving imaginary short stories around it.

There are few towns with more than 20,000 souls in Arkansas, and I will pass through only one on the journey – Conway. The roads are sparsely populated. Many homes have 2-3 trucks up on blocks for spare parts to keep another truck in running order.

Chickens and pigs are not uncommon on plots surrounding the homes. Many have large vegetable gardens, laundry hanging on the line and large stacks of wood for heating and cooking. People appear more self-sufficient as you get farther away from civilization.

Late one afternoon, I pull up to a country store. The owner, portly and balding, swings in his rocking chair. He is warm and inviting. We chat for a bit, and a young man stops his church van and gets out. The owner hails him, “Whattaya believe, son?”

“I believe in Jesus Christ as my savior,” he replies.

The young man is scrubbed clean, short hair, fresh clothes and a wide smile. He’s making the rounds for his church, spreading the gospel, handing out the pamphlets. It’s a different situation for me. This is the Bible belt. You find out that people wear their religion on their sleeves more in the south, verbalizing their faith in Christ. As a northerner, this is new for me – a learning experience.

The owner inclines his head slightly, giving his assent for the young man to put out a stack of his literature in the store. The young man engages the store owner further, letting him know where the church is, when services are, and encourages his attendance before he hops into his van and off to the next small town store. Spreading the word.

As he drives off, we resume our conversation, talking about where I’m from, where I’m headed. He’s lived in the area his entire life. If you first met him, you’d think he’s a bit off, as he wears Coke-bottle glasses and is slightly cross-eyed. You’ be misjudging him though if you stereotyped that as not being up with things.


The guy is sharp as a steak knife in a high-end restaurant. He rocks in his chair, asking insightful questions, clearly interested in my journey. He offers insights on the country, the direction it’s taking and how things can be improved. It’s a pleasant conversation, one that takes several different directions, and he offers consistently up-to-date perspectives on what is going on. He’s a reminder to me to get to know people. Don’t assume, based on an initial perspective, that you know someone. There’s always more there. There’s always a story to tell.
He invites me to dinner, a house a few miles back the route I’ve just come. I agree and push off. He closes the store and plans to join me in a few minutes.

Pedaling back to his house, there are two boys shooting hoops in the front yard, yelling, “It’s Super Seed. He’s got the ball. Super Seed shoots. He scores! Super Seed is dominating.”
Who the heck is Super Seed? I play a lot of pickup basketball and am a bit of a student of the game and have no idea who these two kids are yelling about.

I ask the owner when he arrives. “That’s Super Sid Moncrief of the Milwaukee Bucks. He played here for the University of Arkansas.

Now I get it. He was one of the big three that put Arkansas men’s basketball on the map, along with the Machine Gunner (so known for machine gunning shots in rapid fire) Marvin Delph and defensive specialist Ron Brewer. Local slang and a southern drawl threw me off. Super Seed will stay with me the rest of the trip, a story that speaks to local culture and the universal nature of basketball as something that brings us all together.

We eat heavy food and I sleep like a rock. Carbed up, I wake with energy and hit the road early.
+++
Throughout Arkansas I notice dead animals on the highways – particularly turtles, armadillos and snakes. It’s a sad statement about gasoline powered vehicles. They hurtle along with such speed that these creatures often have no chance to cross the road, getting splattered and crushed with regularity.

I try to count how many I see through the Ozarks and northern Arkansas, but the number is too great. Instead, I estimate how frequently I see a dead animal on the road. After several days of personal tracking, it turns out to be approximately one dead creature per mile. Though I’m not a big fan of snakes and don’t have much knowledge of armadillos, the carnage bothers me when I think of our modern vehicles destroying precious wildlife.

On the bicycle, you are immersed in nature, tied to the local habitat, and able to see long stretches in front when a reptile or mammal is edging across the pavement. Multiple times I stopped to help a turtle across. Why they cross the road is beyond me, but speaking with locals, it sounds like it has something to do with the time of year, mating season, and getting back to their water habitat. But that doesn’t explain why they were on the other side of the road to begin with. It’s perplexing. A mystery for the trip.
+++
Roads up the hills of the Ozarks tend to be steep. Rather than snaking side to side to decrease the incline, the engineers decided to head straight to the top. This makes for tough riding. I’m typically down in the lowest gear, pedaling standing up and out of breath by the time I reach the top of each new hill.

Looking down makes you think of roller coasters. You see how you can rocket down. After days of getting used to the speed of the descent, I become more and more daredevilish, and finally decide to let it all out. Almost a BIG MISTAKE!

To gain speed like a bike racer, I drop my head down low on the handlebars and contract my body. This streamlines your speed to cut through the wind. A car passes me going the speed limit most likely – 55 mph. I coast to a stop, then push off to see how fast I can get down the hill.

It’s exhilarating feeling the wind whip through my ears. I’m dialed into the surface of the road, hands locked to hold the bike steady. The slightest bump can set you off course.
​
I close in on the car, so I’m close to 55 mph when I hit a very small rock. The front wheel wobbles and veers off. I struggle with the frame, fighting the fall. Quickly I right my cycle, hit the brakes and slow my speed. An adrenaline rush. Not one I wish to emulate in the miles ahead.  One more lesson: Apply the brakes coming down big hills and mountains or I might not finish the journey.
+++

(Attached below is chapter three of my newest book, "Tales of a Cycling Nomad 1982." With Christmans coming up, it's a great gift for friends, loved ones, bicyclists, people looking to challeng themselves in life. I'd love it if you ordered a copy and shared my journey with others. You can purchase a copy on Amazon or Barnes and Noble, or by contacting me directly by email to get a signed  copy at [email protected].)
​

​
​

CYCLING NOMAD 
Chapter 3
Leaving the Comfort Zone

Heading south from St. Louis, I leave the comfort zone. For the first week or so I’ve been able to crash on a couch or bed at friends’ houses. It’s time to hit the road, pitch a tent and find someplace safe each night. That produces anxiety.

Before leaving on the trip, multiple friends were concerned about my safety. Getting hit by a car or truck is certainly a possibility. Getting attacked by a stupid human at night could be another. Maybe a marauding bear or wild boar would annihilate my tent while I slept. I had my own fears and pushed them away. You couldn’t even start the journey otherwise. Survival requires conquering fear. You must leave your comfort zone.

I get onto Missouri Highway 67, a two-laner undergoing construction to become four lanes. To the west, dirt has been moved and graded. You can see the two new lanes taking shape.
​
As the sun eases down, my anxiety increases. Where to camp? There are no state parks along the route, nor city parks. It’s trees and occasional rolling farmland. Finally I decide to stop, walk my bike as far over the two dirt tracks to the west and set up my tent. I’ve been riding for 8 hours. This area seems to provide a bit of protection, far enough off the road to prevent any marauding motorists. I want to be hidden and away from the noise as much as possible and this seems the best option as the sun goes down. I looked for miles and miles, and this spot appeared to be the best choice. I can burrow a bit into the woods and get away from the traffic for safety reasons.

Cars roar by occasionally, preventing sleep. My tension being alone and sleeping by the side of the road also keeps me awake. Suddenly a car stops and a door slams. SHIT! I clamber for the tent zipper as a spotlight hits me. WTF?

wasn’t as hidden as I thought. A farmer called the police to report me camping. The officer appears as afraid of me as I am of him. He’s a young man, probably my age (26), slightly overweight, with a short blond buzz. He asks for ID and runs my driver’s license. He comes back and asks a few questions. Where you from? How long you been riding? Where you headed?

He’s probably looking at my super short hair and beard thinking I’m a punk rocker.

The conversation warms. We start sharing stories. He probably doesn’t have much to do in a sparsely populated area like this and enjoys talking as much as I enjoy connecting with him. After 15-20 minutes he has to get back to his rounds and I’m sorry to see him go. Once he leaves, I think we should have gone to the local eatery and grabbed a cup of coffee. To this day, I wonder if he remembers that meeting.

The following day is my first bathing on the road and another challenge figuring out where to safely sleep. You crave human contact when you are on a bicycle all day. There’s a natural desire to have other humans around at the end of the day.

Mid-day, I find a quiet stream by the side of the road and peel off my shirt, riding shorts and underwear. I’m not using socks. There’s a bar of Ivory soap in the saddlebags for washing myself and clothes. I change into my extra shorts, wet the dirty shirt and shorts, scrub, rinse and set them on the bike to sit in the sun while I rest for an hour. They smell clean. The air is fresh. Birds sing. Spring permeates the air.
​
Later in the day, I’m again faced with where to sleep. There have been no towns, only occasional houses by the side of the road, and I stop at a house where kids are playing out front as it is towards dusk to get some water. I strike up a friendly conversation and the parents suggest I sleep in their backyard. I readily agree and pitch my tent. This type of kindness occurs repeatedly over the course of the tour.
+++
The terrain grows hillier and more wooded with each passing day, though the riding is still relatively easy. Thunderstorms are in the air. You can smell them. The ability to predict the weather (and time) develop quickly.

You feel the wind currents so you know which direction a system is coming from. You notice the change in moisture, signaling humidity and rain.

The sun wakes you up in the morning, giving you an initial time gauge. As it ascends during the day, you watch it trek across the sky and accustom yourself to where it is all times of the day. Very quickly I’m able to tell time in my head accurately within 15-20 minutes.

Sensing impending storms, I seek cover for the evening. Again, no quick options emerge. I settle on a site under an overpass. BIG MISTAKE!

Almost as soon as I’m zipped in, the noises start. Something starts slapping the edge and top of the tent. My first thought is local teenagers harassing me, but no way I wouldn’t hear more noise if humans were traipsing about.

Is it a bear? Maybe a raccoon? A wild pig? Those thoughts, too, are quickly dismissed.
My body is rigid with fear, trying to figure out what the heck is going on. There are fluttering sounds, along with slapping of the tent. It comes and goes.

Finally, I need to take leak and unzip the tent quickly and let out a loud scream, flailing my arms to ward off any intruders. I hear some scuttling but don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Relieving myself, I look around and up. Sure enough, I see a bunch of pigeons. They’ve been dive-bombing me, those bastards! Amazing how your fear takes over.

Relaxed and with an empty bladder, I return to the tent and settle in for a comfortable evening. I look out at the brilliant night sky and see a light flash and dart. WHOA, a shooting star. Then there’s another one. What the heck? Then I see a light go and off in the distance. Gulp. Is there a UFO out there? Did some satellites just fall from the sky?

Having defeated the pigeon fear, I’m faced with another one, but now I’m fortified and ready to use logic. I concentrate on the light. Hmmm, it’s not up in the sky, it’s just hovering above the weeds. AH, it’s fireflies.
​
If you’re ever out camping alone and think you’re seeing UFOs off in the distance, check your eyes first to see if it’s fireflies. You’ll sleep better.
+++