(Attached below is chapter five of my newest book, "Tales of a Cycling Nomad 1982." With Father's Day coming up, it's a great gift for friends, loved ones, bicyclists, people looking to challenge themselves in life. 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 1982
Chapter 5
Chased
One of the scary issues about bicycling across the country is the uncertainty. You don’t know the upcoming terrain. You don’t know what the weather holds. You don’t know who or what you’ll encounter while riding or setting up your camp at the end of the day.
So far, I’ve been lucky. Everyone I’ve met has been wonderful, kind, helpful. That can’t hold, and it doesn’t.
After another long day (I’m averaging 60-100 miles per day at this point in the trip), I again pedal into a small town with no place to stay. There’s no city park, no camp grounds anywhere nearby.
I can use a shower and a roof overhead for protection against more impending spring storms, so I seek out the local Salvation Army. They’re supposed to be accepting.
It’s clear when I arrive that I’m breaking in to a clique. The guy who runs the building has several local buddies hanging out with him and I’m intruding. Brad (we’ll call the guy running the show) doesn’t want me there as he shoots me dirty looks and talks down to me. I don’t know what I’ve walked into, but don’t want to look for another place, so I keep up the dialogue.
His grumpiness recedes ever-so-slightly after we talk more, but he’s still frowning, yacking with his buddies and doing his best to ignore me in hopes that I’ll go away. After a bit, we sit down for dinner, say our prayers and dig in. It’s typical dorm-type, industrial strength chow, but hits the spot. The two other guys staying in the shelter for the night start asking me questions. Slowly we bond. They see I’m not a bad guy.
When you bike long distances, you become the permanent stranger, hat in hand, the vagabond those you encounter have no way of knowing whether to trust, help or attack. Because you’re frequently in positions where people could take advantage of you, it’s important to show you aren’t a threat. The more real threat comes from those whose actions are directed at a bicyclist. There’s nothing to stop something bad from happening to me. I’m alone. I have no witnesses defending me. I must rely on wits and good will. The good ‘ol boy network is alive and well at this Salvation Army.
I have my book to read. Brad takes my bike and stores it out back. It’s lights out early.
Morning comes and Brad seems more approachable. He greets me with a smile to start the morning. He’s firing up grits and eggs on the griddle. It’s filling. All three men pepper me with questions, wanting to know what Milwaukee is like, why I decided on the journey, where the physically most difficult days were.
The conversation transforms Brad. He opens up, smiles, asks questions. Whether he just had a good night sleep or the grits and coffee hit him right, he’s a new man this morning. It does appear that he’s come to some form of consideration over night to accept me into the fold. How will he look back on this encounter? I hope it is with openness.
Brad heads out and brings my bike back, shaking my hand, smiling, wishing me well. Another brief positive connection created. It’s a good feeling as I pedal off.
+++
I haven’t met many other bicyclists out touring. That surprises me a bit. It might be that I’ve headed south and there aren’t as many riders in this part of the country. Or it might be that I’ve taken a route in the middle of nowhere, through the Arkansas Ozarks.
That’s about to change in an unexpected way. As I’m heading through another small town, a young man charges out in the road, waving his arms at me to stop. I pull over. He asks where I’m headed and I respond, “Down to Dallas to see my brother and sister-in-law, then up to Kansas, out to Colorado, over to Washington state, then into British Columbia and back through the southern section of Canada to Minnesota and Wisconsin. He’s wide-eyed. He wants to know if we can grab dinner so he can quiz me on the trip. I readily agree.
When he gets off work, I meet him and another buddy and we get food and head to his place for a few beers and to eat. He wants to do exactly what I’m doing. Tony (could be his real name) recently graduated from high school and is working at the local hardware store. He’s tall, rangy, with long blond hair. He’s enthusiastic about the trip and wants to join me, but doesn’t have the gear at this point.
My initial impressions are this is a great guy open to the world and its possibilities. He’s been nowhere in his life. He’s lived in a small town and never traveled beyond a state or two around his home. But he wants to. He wants to explore. A bicycle for him is a natural way to do this, meeting others, seeing the United States, expanding his horizons. I sense his need for this, to do more with his life, maybe answer some questions we all have during those teenage and early adult of years of, “What else is out there?”
My advice to him: “If you want to do it, go for it. You need a bike, tent and sleeping bag, some minimal clothes and money for the length of your trip.” I repeatedly encourage him to do it if he’s passionate about exploring the country. We finish eating and I head off as there is still enough daylight left to get a few more miles down the road. It’s not the last I’ll hear of Tony.
+++
Finding a place to sleep is a daily challenge. As I reach the western edge of Arkansas, I stop in a local supermarket and strike up a conversation with a young assistant manager in the dairy section. He’s intrigued with my trip and offers his church’s bus as an overnight place to sleep. More big thunderstorms loom for the area, and I readily accept the offer.
I wait for him to get off his shift, toss my bike in the back of his small white Ford Ranger pickup and we’re off to Oklahoma. It’s a huge historical lesson as Will goes on and on and on about the paper mill we pass, the logging operation up the road. He tells me about the closed businesses, the challenge of finding a halfway decent job in the area, and his church’s preacher.
“Father Jeb likes to preach.”
“How long is his normal sermon?”
“Aww, he’ll be talkin’ for two or two-and-a-half hours.”
My jaw drops, “Uh, you mean he’ll still be preaching when we get there?”
“Yeah, he’s only about half hour in right now. When we get there, he’ll be about half done, so we’ll be able to hear him for about another hour or so.”
I’ve never heard of a sermon that long. It’s a Pentecostal church, Will explains. All that means to me is they speak in tongues and handle snakes. In other words, I know nothing about Pentecostal services. I’m looking forward to the experience though.
The preacher is in full swing as we walk down the aisle and slide in next to Will’s wife and two young children. The “AMENS” are flying, the preacher is ranting about wicked Oklahoma politicians taking $100 and $200 bribes and how they’ll rot in hell. Spit is flying from his mouth. His face looks like a ripe tomato. I swivel around and watch as you hear from various parts of the congregation, “That’s right Jesus. Shame on them. PRAISE THE LORD. Preach it brother!”
The preacher’s cadence picks up as the wailing and support from the congregation increases. He plays his audience like a fine fiddle. Will’s kids are playing in the pew, punching each other and laughing, as Will and his wife nod and chant with the others.
Will is correct, and the preaching lasts a good while longer. When he is exhausted, I am brought out for display like a newly minted android. “I met this here young guy back at the supermarket and thought I’d bring him along to the service. He seemed like a nice man and I told him he could sleep in our church bus for the night.”
Everyone steps up to the newcomer, eyes wide, shaking my hand, “Glad to have you. Thank you for attending. Pleasure to meet you. God bless.” It’s a bit intense, but I hold my own. A prayer session follows and attendees are encouraged to find their comfortable place to pray. I kneel and give thanks for the kindness given to me on the trip, the help so many have provided, and for my personal safety.
As I’m silently sending my prayers, I hear wailing and crying. I open one eye. Will is rocking on his knees and very loudly chanting, “I want to thank you Jesus for everything you’ve done for me,” then he totally breaks down in tears. I’m flummoxed about what to do.
I open my other eye to look around. People have scurried off to different corners of the church, almost like bugs and are leaning, rocking, wailing, crying, screaming and chanting their message to Christ. I’m fascinated. Will’s kids continue punching each other playfully, hopping up and down and climbing on the pews like kids everywhere.
When the prayer session ends, I’m surrounded by well wishers as we walk to the front of the church to get some food and locate the bus. In the back, there is a man in convulsions, legs and arms flailing. This concerns me. Two people appear to be subduing him. “What’s going on?,” I ask.
“Oh, he’s getting the holy spirit,” Will explains.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re laying hands on him to bring the Holy Spirit into him and heal him.”
After some homemade peanut brittle, I’m escorted out to the yellow school bus. It smells like every yellow school bus you’ve ever ridden in. I leave my bike up front, unpack my sleeping bag, and thank Will for his kindness. It promises to be another booming night.
Sure enough, massive storms rock the bus and I say some more prayers of thanks for Will, these kind people and the yellow school bus that protects me for another day.
+++
CYCLING NOMAD 1982
Chapter 5
Chased
One of the scary issues about bicycling across the country is the uncertainty. You don’t know the upcoming terrain. You don’t know what the weather holds. You don’t know who or what you’ll encounter while riding or setting up your camp at the end of the day.
So far, I’ve been lucky. Everyone I’ve met has been wonderful, kind, helpful. That can’t hold, and it doesn’t.
After another long day (I’m averaging 60-100 miles per day at this point in the trip), I again pedal into a small town with no place to stay. There’s no city park, no camp grounds anywhere nearby.
I can use a shower and a roof overhead for protection against more impending spring storms, so I seek out the local Salvation Army. They’re supposed to be accepting.
It’s clear when I arrive that I’m breaking in to a clique. The guy who runs the building has several local buddies hanging out with him and I’m intruding. Brad (we’ll call the guy running the show) doesn’t want me there as he shoots me dirty looks and talks down to me. I don’t know what I’ve walked into, but don’t want to look for another place, so I keep up the dialogue.
His grumpiness recedes ever-so-slightly after we talk more, but he’s still frowning, yacking with his buddies and doing his best to ignore me in hopes that I’ll go away. After a bit, we sit down for dinner, say our prayers and dig in. It’s typical dorm-type, industrial strength chow, but hits the spot. The two other guys staying in the shelter for the night start asking me questions. Slowly we bond. They see I’m not a bad guy.
When you bike long distances, you become the permanent stranger, hat in hand, the vagabond those you encounter have no way of knowing whether to trust, help or attack. Because you’re frequently in positions where people could take advantage of you, it’s important to show you aren’t a threat. The more real threat comes from those whose actions are directed at a bicyclist. There’s nothing to stop something bad from happening to me. I’m alone. I have no witnesses defending me. I must rely on wits and good will. The good ‘ol boy network is alive and well at this Salvation Army.
I have my book to read. Brad takes my bike and stores it out back. It’s lights out early.
Morning comes and Brad seems more approachable. He greets me with a smile to start the morning. He’s firing up grits and eggs on the griddle. It’s filling. All three men pepper me with questions, wanting to know what Milwaukee is like, why I decided on the journey, where the physically most difficult days were.
The conversation transforms Brad. He opens up, smiles, asks questions. Whether he just had a good night sleep or the grits and coffee hit him right, he’s a new man this morning. It does appear that he’s come to some form of consideration over night to accept me into the fold. How will he look back on this encounter? I hope it is with openness.
Brad heads out and brings my bike back, shaking my hand, smiling, wishing me well. Another brief positive connection created. It’s a good feeling as I pedal off.
+++
I haven’t met many other bicyclists out touring. That surprises me a bit. It might be that I’ve headed south and there aren’t as many riders in this part of the country. Or it might be that I’ve taken a route in the middle of nowhere, through the Arkansas Ozarks.
That’s about to change in an unexpected way. As I’m heading through another small town, a young man charges out in the road, waving his arms at me to stop. I pull over. He asks where I’m headed and I respond, “Down to Dallas to see my brother and sister-in-law, then up to Kansas, out to Colorado, over to Washington state, then into British Columbia and back through the southern section of Canada to Minnesota and Wisconsin. He’s wide-eyed. He wants to know if we can grab dinner so he can quiz me on the trip. I readily agree.
When he gets off work, I meet him and another buddy and we get food and head to his place for a few beers and to eat. He wants to do exactly what I’m doing. Tony (could be his real name) recently graduated from high school and is working at the local hardware store. He’s tall, rangy, with long blond hair. He’s enthusiastic about the trip and wants to join me, but doesn’t have the gear at this point.
My initial impressions are this is a great guy open to the world and its possibilities. He’s been nowhere in his life. He’s lived in a small town and never traveled beyond a state or two around his home. But he wants to. He wants to explore. A bicycle for him is a natural way to do this, meeting others, seeing the United States, expanding his horizons. I sense his need for this, to do more with his life, maybe answer some questions we all have during those teenage and early adult of years of, “What else is out there?”
My advice to him: “If you want to do it, go for it. You need a bike, tent and sleeping bag, some minimal clothes and money for the length of your trip.” I repeatedly encourage him to do it if he’s passionate about exploring the country. We finish eating and I head off as there is still enough daylight left to get a few more miles down the road. It’s not the last I’ll hear of Tony.
+++
Finding a place to sleep is a daily challenge. As I reach the western edge of Arkansas, I stop in a local supermarket and strike up a conversation with a young assistant manager in the dairy section. He’s intrigued with my trip and offers his church’s bus as an overnight place to sleep. More big thunderstorms loom for the area, and I readily accept the offer.
I wait for him to get off his shift, toss my bike in the back of his small white Ford Ranger pickup and we’re off to Oklahoma. It’s a huge historical lesson as Will goes on and on and on about the paper mill we pass, the logging operation up the road. He tells me about the closed businesses, the challenge of finding a halfway decent job in the area, and his church’s preacher.
“Father Jeb likes to preach.”
“How long is his normal sermon?”
“Aww, he’ll be talkin’ for two or two-and-a-half hours.”
My jaw drops, “Uh, you mean he’ll still be preaching when we get there?”
“Yeah, he’s only about half hour in right now. When we get there, he’ll be about half done, so we’ll be able to hear him for about another hour or so.”
I’ve never heard of a sermon that long. It’s a Pentecostal church, Will explains. All that means to me is they speak in tongues and handle snakes. In other words, I know nothing about Pentecostal services. I’m looking forward to the experience though.
The preacher is in full swing as we walk down the aisle and slide in next to Will’s wife and two young children. The “AMENS” are flying, the preacher is ranting about wicked Oklahoma politicians taking $100 and $200 bribes and how they’ll rot in hell. Spit is flying from his mouth. His face looks like a ripe tomato. I swivel around and watch as you hear from various parts of the congregation, “That’s right Jesus. Shame on them. PRAISE THE LORD. Preach it brother!”
The preacher’s cadence picks up as the wailing and support from the congregation increases. He plays his audience like a fine fiddle. Will’s kids are playing in the pew, punching each other and laughing, as Will and his wife nod and chant with the others.
Will is correct, and the preaching lasts a good while longer. When he is exhausted, I am brought out for display like a newly minted android. “I met this here young guy back at the supermarket and thought I’d bring him along to the service. He seemed like a nice man and I told him he could sleep in our church bus for the night.”
Everyone steps up to the newcomer, eyes wide, shaking my hand, “Glad to have you. Thank you for attending. Pleasure to meet you. God bless.” It’s a bit intense, but I hold my own. A prayer session follows and attendees are encouraged to find their comfortable place to pray. I kneel and give thanks for the kindness given to me on the trip, the help so many have provided, and for my personal safety.
As I’m silently sending my prayers, I hear wailing and crying. I open one eye. Will is rocking on his knees and very loudly chanting, “I want to thank you Jesus for everything you’ve done for me,” then he totally breaks down in tears. I’m flummoxed about what to do.
I open my other eye to look around. People have scurried off to different corners of the church, almost like bugs and are leaning, rocking, wailing, crying, screaming and chanting their message to Christ. I’m fascinated. Will’s kids continue punching each other playfully, hopping up and down and climbing on the pews like kids everywhere.
When the prayer session ends, I’m surrounded by well wishers as we walk to the front of the church to get some food and locate the bus. In the back, there is a man in convulsions, legs and arms flailing. This concerns me. Two people appear to be subduing him. “What’s going on?,” I ask.
“Oh, he’s getting the holy spirit,” Will explains.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re laying hands on him to bring the Holy Spirit into him and heal him.”
After some homemade peanut brittle, I’m escorted out to the yellow school bus. It smells like every yellow school bus you’ve ever ridden in. I leave my bike up front, unpack my sleeping bag, and thank Will for his kindness. It promises to be another booming night.
Sure enough, massive storms rock the bus and I say some more prayers of thanks for Will, these kind people and the yellow school bus that protects me for another day.
+++