(Attached below is chapter one of my newest book, "Tales of a Cycling Nomad 1982." I hope you like it. It chronicles by 3,800+ bicycling journey across North America in 1982. 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].)
Chapter One
Leaving Milwaukee Behind
May 1, 1982. Tom Ake, Carl Lindquist, and I head to a local dive for breakfast on Oakland Avenue on Milwaukee’s East Side. Our breath makes thick white plumes in the air. The temperature hovers around freezing. I’m going to stoke up for a 100-mile bike ride south as part of my first day on a four-month bicycle journey by myself across North America. Nerves, yes. Excitement, yes. Trepidation, yes.
Tom, Carl, and I work at Sentry Foods on Downer Avenue and attend UWM (University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee) with varying degrees of focus. I’ve spoken to my professors and have either finished up my classes early for the semester or they’ve allowed me to take the final when I get back at the end of the summer. They support this quest.
My older brother Peter and his wife Pat gave me a pair of pants/shorts that can be adjusted (you can shed the bottom half if it starts to get warmer). I wear these to start the day.
We eat. Goodbyes are said. I launch my bicycle loaded with bare minimal necessities (a sleeping bag, a day’s worth of food, a one-person tent, a flashlight, one change of underwear, a shirt, a pair of socks, a pair of pants, two books to read, my journal, and a map of Wisconsin/Illinois).
There is no GPS, no smart phone, no Internet, no credit card. I have $220 in my pocket to make it four months, and I know that I will have to work at some point along the way to continue this trek. Multiple friends have donated $1, $5, $10, and $20 bills and signed them so that when I spend them, I will remember their faces and our friendship. Tom’s and Seth Duhnke’s, another Sentry coworker, have been stored in a special place for motivation. Their words resonate about philosophy, jazz, and the journey of life we all must choose to experience on our own, the challenges we face, the niche we carve on the planet.
The map will get me through southeast Wisconsin and into northern Illinois. I’ve chosen only to bring that one section with me. As I approach or cross state borders, the plan is to pick up the next map at that point. I can’t get ahead of myself.
My hands are cold. There’s a hazy blue to the sky, promising a warm-up. We hug, and I shove off.
The desire to hit the road, be free, explore America, see the great Pacific Northwest, and do it on two wheels fuels me. I want to see much more of this country, be face-to-face with people, put a finger on the pulse. The itch has been with me for years, starting after graduation from the University of Illinois (UofI) in 1978. Here and there I began taking longer jaunts on my bike, pushing myself, wondering how far I could go, what the next day would hold if I just continued exerting myself. What would it be like to keep pedaling away and see where you end up? The question captivates me.
The motivation grew from there. Now I’ve got the time to take off and not worry about a job, school, or other responsibilities. A career can wait this summer. I’m ready for the road.
+++
Drivers in Wisconsin are nice. Navigating the metro area proves easy. Slowly, houses and businesses fall away. Farmland, rolling hills, and open space beckon. A rhythm develops. The sun rises in the sky. I stop after 25-30 miles and take the pant legs off, leaving just the shorts on. The result feels good, like emerging from a cocoon.
I’ve trained for this odyssey for most of the spring. The highest mileages as part of the training regime were two 50-mile days with the bicycle loaded with most of the trip’s gear. I needed to test my stamina and distance. How far would I be able to go? What would the body endure?
There were no issues then and none today. The day heats up. I finish my water and fill up (two water bottles are on the bike, one under the top of the rim and one angled up where most bicyclists place it). The extra bottle isn’t needed today, but getting out to the western part of the United States, I know there will be huge distances between towns and extra water capacity could be a potentially lifesaving measure.
I experience a mental victory crossing the border into Illinois. I’m closing in on my younger brother Kurt’s apartment in what he facetiously terms Rolling Ghettos (Rolling Meadows). I navigate the two-lane highways, which slowly change to suburban streets, until I must stop to look at the map and figure out where his apartment sits.
For the first and only time that summer, I crash. My thin front tire on the 18-speed touring bike wedges between the concrete of the curb and the asphalt of the road. There was a small gap. The tire slides into it as the bike stops, and I teeter for several seconds, then crash with a string of profanity. Nothing scraped, bloodied, or broken, just a bit of my pride going south. You think you know how to ride a bike and handle yourself, and in the most mundane situation, you eat turf.
I didn’t think about crashing my bike. I’m surprised when I fall, and it’s a small reminder to pay attention to my surroundings. The slightest incident can become dangerous and imperil the trip. I don’t want that to happen, so I file away the situation in the memory banks.
I determined before the trip, and the day’s ride reinforces, that biking gloves are one of the most important pieces of equipment when you ride a bicycle a lot. Get your hands out when you fall, let the gloves take the impact. You avoid scrapes and gravel raking your hands, and you help prevent more serious injury by using your hands to break your fall.
Pizza awaits. Kurt’s buddy Greg Tamm joins us. I eat a large pizza by myself. We drink some beer. I marvel while I’m standing on his back deck looking out that I covered 100 miles on the first day. There’s a buzz from the adrenaline – and the beer.
The conversation ranges all over the place. Greg is a roommate of Kurt’s from UofI and is a thoughtful, funny, and iconoclastic individual. We cover everything from how bridges are constructed to the prospects of the Cubs in baseball. But mostly it’s good to be with friends, knowing there’s a comfortable bed waiting.
I’m grateful to have a place to crash the first evening. There is fear in the back of my head when I have to be totally on my own, finding a place to camp and sleep by the side of the road. Tonight brings me the comfort of family and friendship. The game plan is to stay with friends through Illinois and down to St. Louis before hopping off into the great unknown of the Ozarks on my way to Dallas. I sleep well.