04.27.03 The Atlantic is far, far away as trek begins

By DICK MAYNARD, Special to The Daily Sentinel 

 FLORENCE, Ore. — Six months of constant waiting have come to an end. No more talking the talk. The time has come to ride the ride.  

 I’m awaiting the sun's rays on the eastern horizon amid a foggy, gray Oregon dawn. I could be waiting a long time. April, Oregon and sunshine aren’t a combination anyone anticipates with any regularity in this part of our country.  

 Sitting in Room 103 of the Regal Motel, "Best Bay View in Florence," the tappings on my laptop mix in my ears with the nearby Pacific crashing against the Oregon shore. My red-and-white bike — the overriding constant in my life in the next two and a half months — stands in the corner, sharing the room with my wife and me because to leave it on our van overnight would offer easy pickings to anyone in search of a great bike at an unbelievable price.  

 In just more than an hour I’ll head east, setting sail on my two-wheeled ketch. But first I’ll be certain to perform the ritual of dipping the front wheel in the foam of the Pacific. Then I intend to conduct my own ritual. Just for this occasion, I’ve stored a couple of really ugly golf balls in a small bag. I plan on teeing them up and driving them far out into the Pacific.  

 Well, the "far" part may be a stretch. If, and it’s a big ht and my swing catches the ball squarely on the screws, it’s possible to hit maybe a 200-yard drive into the wind at sea level, And then it’s hit-the-road time. Off we’ll go on the beginning of a journey inland that will inch toward Connecticut and the distant shores of the Atlantic. More than 4,000 miles lie ahead and the only way the bike and I are going to cover the endless uphill and downhill that is the United States is by my keeping my feet and pedals in constant motion.  

 The hope of all hopes is that what lies ahead is indeed uphill and downhill rather than uphell and downhell. It doesn’t portend well for one’s self-confidence to be staring eyeball to eyeball at 400 hours of bicycling over the next two and a half months. That’s 10 weeks minimum, allowing for some down time to eat, sleep, sightseeing and golf.  

Ten weeks, provided the body is up to maintaining a pace of 10 to 14 miles per hour while not only powering the two-wheeled steed but also towing more than 60 pounds of gear on a bicycle trailer called a BOB. BOB is an acronym for "beast of burden." But since the beast is doing nothing more than trailing its solitary wheel while I supply the power it would seem the beast of burden is really the grunting guy trying to keep this very small procession moving ever forward.  

 A 4,000-mile bicycle trip. Not exactly the weekly Sunday morning sojourn over East Orchard Mesa with a stop for pancakes at the Palisade Cafe.  

 Here’s hoping the ride lasts a minimum of 4,000 miles. For the past six months, one thought has constantly been gnawing into the sub-conscious. On the training rides out K Road to Fruita and on to Highline Lake and back, a little voice keeps whispering: "What if you don’t make it?"  

 On East Orchard Mesa, up and down the Colorado National Monument, almost 500 miles of riding in the winter cold of Colorado, the same voice asks, "You really think you can do this?" Life has taught me all too well how easy and natural it is to rationalize failure. Quit. Bail. Pack it in. There’s a whole country ahead of me, miles and miles offering an almost daily opportunity to raise a white flag of surrender.  

 Friends were guarded at best about my chances of reaching the shores of Long Island Sound.  

 "Aren’t you a tad old for this?"  

 "What do you have to prove?"  

 "Sounds to me like your mind is writing checks your body can’t cash."  

West to East. Conventional wisdom dictates it’s how the prevailing winds blow in America. So that’s the direction I’m heading. But research shows a trans-am bike ride doesn’t involve a straight line east but travels roads that continually meander north and south. And winds don’t "always" blow out of the West. They "usually" come from that direction. Big difference, especially on the days locals exclaim, "Boy you’re here on the wrong day, we hardly ever see the wind coming outta the East."  

 Several well-meaning folks asked if I had a concealed weapons permit. Not this kid. I’m firearms challenged. You’ll never hear me quibble with my fellow countryman’s right to arm him or herself. But inexperience with things that go "boom" puts me in more danger than any adversary.  

 And have you ever seen bike shorts? Just where do you conceal a weapon in what could best be described as human shrink-wrap? You suggest I conceal my weapon in BOB (the bike trailer). Please remember I packed that trailer. And well-organized fellow that I am, it would take, at a minimum, a millennium to find said concealed object, making my weapon of limited destruction just a tad more concealed than permitters had in mind. All that is left for weapon storage is the bike bag attached to the handlebars. Wrong! I am not bumping down the road of life, or Montana for that matter, with a live weapon jiggling mere inches from my nose.  

 I admit that my fellow man doesn’t concern me as much as he should. You don’t see bald-headed cyclists listed as prime targets for the highwaymen of our land. Eighteen-wheelers on the other hand, I worry about. It is certainly not my goal to start the trip as a bicyclist wandering Oregon only to end my journey as the hood ornament on a Kenworth hauling logs into Idaho.

 So is coast to coast on a bicycle doable for a 60-something geezerpalooza like me? Beats me. Maybe by the time I reach the Idaho border I’ll have a better feel for the possibility. Because before I can cross the country I have to cross Oregon. And before you can traverse the land of Beavers and Ducks you must make Eugene.  

 Eugene, Oregon. The name doesn’t really bring to mind a small city. No, it sounds more like the guy with the thick glasses who sat next to me in Botany 101. He mumbled on and on how he just loved the chapter on pistils and stamens. Said it was a Playboy for petunias.