Don't Read This...

...Unless you've already read Two Wheels and a Map. (Otherwise this won't make much sense.) What's below is a bit of follow-up information about some of the people I met on my bike trip, as well as a few anecdotes that were not included in the book.

If you liked Two Wheels and a Map and wished there just one more chapter...now there is. Recently I revisited the Wilmington, N.C., area and finally biked a 30-mile segment of my route that I had been unable to ride during my trip due to a bike malfunction. Read about it here.

Here are links to other interesting bits of info about my trip:

• Rev. Steele: The Preacher From Hell
• How did I get back home from Ft. Lauderdale?
• Why did I wait a year between trips, but make it seem in the book like one came right after the other?
• Did I keep in touch with any of the people I met?
• In my song "Southern Man" at the end of the book, I mentioned making a phone call to a bike shop. Why wasn't that in the book?
• More about the Parrot Man.
• Dangerous situation not mentioned in the book
• Any gay experiences on the road?
• What's the deal with your hatred of lycra cycling shorts?
• Come on, Bob, didn't you have even one bad experience with a stereotypical southern "redneck?"

Whenever I tell people the story of my entrapment by the sadistic preacher in Snead's Ferry, N.C., they invariably inform me that they would have walked away from the man after only five minutes. No one can understand why I allowed myself to be subjected to his sermonizing for two hours. And right now, even I can't believe that I put up with him for that long. But before you condemn me and assume you would have handled it much differently, consider this:

1. I was exhausted after riding through that horrible Camp Lejeune Marine Base with my wheel so impaired it barely moved.
2. I had heard it was going to rain and Jones offered me a pavilion.
3. I had seen no other suitable camping spots.
4. I kept thinking he was almost finished.

And then there's the fifth reason. The entire time he was talking, I was composing a letter in my head that I planned to write to him when I got home. And that was exactly what I did. I was merciless in letting him know how I felt. I didn't just insult him, and thus turn him against me, I took the tactic of explaining to him why he had failed to convert me and in what ways he had pissed me off. Here's what I wrote him, days after I returned home. Though I was tempted to reword a few things, I left everything exactly as I wrote it years ago. (I should reveal at this point that I changed the name of this awful preacher in the book. I called him Rev. Steele. His real name was Rev. Jones. "One of the Jones boys," he had laughingly said to me when we first met and I still thought he was a nice guy.)

Dear Rev. Jones,

I trust you will remember me as the bicyclist whom you allowed to camp on your lawn in late June. You may be pleased to know that I made it successfully to Ft. Lauderdale without any problems or accidents. I wanted to thank you again for allowing me to spend the night on your land.

As I rode, I gave a lot of thought to your words of that night. As I enjoy helping my brothers and sisters on this earth, I felt I should let you understand why exactly you failed in your quest to convert me into the Born Again faith. I respect the fact that you're trying to bring people to God on this earth, but you're dealing with human beings, and humans do not generally like to be insulted. Although you kept it low key, this is essentially what you were doing by continually making an issue of the fact that I call the Bible "the Bible" and you call it "the King James Bible." To me it is the Holy Bible whether you call it King James or King Jones, and attempting to make me look stupid did not endear you to me at the onset.

Also, you made it obvious that you did not approve of my cycling adventure by telling me stories of your unfortunate friend's cycling death. I realize you thought you were cautioning me, but did you seriously expect me to halt my trip right then because of the stories? And there was a definite subtle condemnation of the fact that I was a "college boy," which did not help me to keep an open mind to your message.

Now, I came to you totally exhausted and you answered my request for a place to sleep. I was even willing to listen to your words, despite the subtle condemnations. But, being as exhausted as I was, I was not ready to listen to anyone, even a human messenger of God's word, for two solid hours! It was a direct affront on my politeness.

This "college boy" studied communications and there are two things that I learned that may help you:

1) People have short attention spans, lasting no more than a half hour. A speaker must get his message across in the first 20 minutes. This means he must establish an amiable rapport and get right to the point without repetition.

2) When someone is forced, out of politeness as I was, to listen to a speaker for a discourteous length of time, their reaction is to turn against the message being presented. The longer the speaker continues to rudely take up the polite person's time, the more angrily the listener grows to detest the message. By forcing me to listen when I was so obviously tired and wanted to set up my tent before dark, you turned me away from your message.

I feel that had you 1) avoided your initial sarcastic subtleties, and 2) condensed your monologue, picking only important, convincing arguments (and avoiding repetition, which seemed to be your favorite flaw), you would have had a much better chance of allowing me to indiscriminately listen to your lecture. As it was, your method provided me with no chance to hear you with an open mind, since I was filled with resentment for the inappropriate length of time you were abusing my politeness. It's almost comical that you actually thought your monologue was so convincing and your oration skills so superb that I would actually drop to my knees and convert right then, solely because of your repetitive monologue.

The only answer, my friend, is to recognized when you have overstepped your time limit. Halt your words before you turn listeners against you sheerly through the unwelcome time imposition, not because they disagree with your words, the bible or Jesus Christ. Religious people seem to have a bad reputation simply because they seem pushy. Listeners resent having their time taken up. I sincerely hope you can remember some of my suggestions, perhaps changing that unfortunate image and gaining more people to your side.

I hope the time I put into this letter is accepted for what it is, an attempt at helping you, and not foolishly condemned as a blasphemy against God. I thank you again for allowing me to sleep there, but don't ever force an exhausted bicyclist to stay attentive for such an impertinent length of time again. It's nothing but detrimental to you and your message.

Since I didn't want him and his minions to know where I lived, I left off my return address, though I would have loved to hear his response. I was just a bit worried that he would try to take revenge on me, though after looking at the letter now, I think I was way too polite. I should have been meaner.

What do you think?

I flew. But the whole time I was biking, I never gave a thought to how I'd get home, which was crazy. I now know that if you don't buy a plane ticket two weeks before you want to leave, the price skyrockets. So I was the luckiest person on earth when a travel agent got me a ticket to Philadelphia for just $120, leaving two days later. At the time, though, I was actually pissed that I had to buy a round trip ticket to get that rate, since I assumed, wrongly, that a one-way would be half that price. But now I marvel that I got so lucky.

I spent 5 days at Dave's apartment in Davie, Fla., and we barely went outside at all. He had a huge collection of videotapes, so we watched movies for days. I kind of wanted to do something outside and see the area, but I also thought: "Screw it. I've seen enough." So I watched movies. Kind of a boring ending after all that activity, I know.

Yes, I'll admit I did mislead a bit in the book by not stating outright that my bus ride up to Bangor was nearly a year after I arrived in Florida. But though I tried to blend the two trips to make them seem like one, it was only to create a flow for the story. I thought that by bluntly explaining the passage of time, I'd ruin the mood and create questions (like this one) about what I had been doing in the year between.

Truthfully, I hadn't really thought about doing the Bangor to Pennsylvania part until months after I'd returned from Florida. But I did come clean in my introduction when I said that the book was a chronicle of my 1990 and 1991 trips.

Anyway, the Bangor trip stayed in my head as a dream for most of the year after I returned from Lauderdale. During that time, I managed to get a freelance writing position with the Philadelphia Inquirer. I worked long, odd hours and received very low pay, but the job got me writing, which was what I wanted. As summer 1991 approached, I realized that I was in a perfect position to stop dreaming about going to Bangor and start doing it. Because I was a freelancer, I could easily take two weeks off. So I sent away for state maps, packed my gear, and headed out.

What do you think?

I tried. I sent post cards to all the main people who helped me on the ride to Florida. At Christmas I sent cards to the Branhams, the Knights, and several others. I included my address, but I never heard back from anyone. Only Mrs. Doherty from New York City ever wrote me, as I noted at the end of the book. We sent letters and cards back and forth for a year. She told me about her son, who was my age and who got engaged at some point after my trip.

But this correspondence ended abruptly after I sent her a copy of the article I wrote for the Philadelphia Inquirer about my Maine to Pennsylvania ride. I thought she'd be excited to see her family's name in print. But she never wrote back. I've often wondered if she was pissed off at the article, and if she felt betrayed. After all, I did make it clear in that story that I thought all New Yorkers were insolent and not to be trusted. Of course, I wrote that just so I could illustrate how wrong I was after being taken in by John and Ann and treated so well. But perhaps they felt insulted. In any case, I never heard from her again.

What do you think?

"Can I please make a phone call to a bike shop up ahead?"
I tried to reimburse him but he shook his head instead.
"Have a drink, relax," is what he said.

This was one of many minor encounters that I cut during the editing stage. This incident happened just before I entered the horrible Camp Lejeune Marine Base. Having failed to find the proper freewheel in New Bern, I thought I'd try to phone a bike shop in Jacksonville, N.C., to see if they had the part. Jacksonville was out of my way, so I didn't want to go there unless they had the part. Near the town of Belgrade, I knocked at the door of a house to ask if I could use the phone to call the bike shop. An older gentleman answered and agreed to let me use his phone.

At first he either asked me to pay for the call because it was a toll call, or I offered to pay, but after I made the call (and learned that they didn't have the part), he wouldn't take my money. Instead, he poured me a drink of coke and bade me sit in the kitchen while he and his wife asked me friendly questions about my trip. I took down their address and sent them a post card when I reached Florida.

I call him the Parrot Man because he had parrots in a cage on his front porch in Bath, N.C. (And because I never learned his name.) He didn't actually help me much, because all he told me was that there was a bike shop in the dreaded Washington, N.C., which I had already known. But he did relate to me that cool anecdote about the preacher putting a curse on the town, way back when.

While I was with him in his house, his daughter phoned. I kind of stood there poking around at things while he talked to her. From eavesdropping on the conversation I learned that the daughter's roommate had secretly moved out and stolen all her money. But then the man started asking her if she was going to get rabies shots. I couldn't figure out the connection. Rabies shots? Had her roommate bitten her too? Robbed her blind and then chomped on her ankle? I wanted the answer but thought it would be too rude to ask. And since I didn't know, I left it out of the book.

I'm not sure why I left this out of the book--perhaps because I wasn't completely sure of what was going on--but I blundered into a potentially dangerous situation while riding through Plymouth, N.C. Plymouth, you will recall, was the nice town that I fell in love with after watching kids getting rides in a hot air balloon and talking with some of the residents. I later met Bessie Brown and Rev. Everton and was allowed to spend the night in the church. Well, before I met Bessie, I took a ride through some neighborhoods to a food store, where I bought supplies.

On my way back to find the church, glowing with the good mood the town had engendered in me, I came speeding down a residential street right into the midst of a large crowd of black teenagers. They were hanging around on the street corner, with another large group on the other side of the street. I was going fast so I didn't have much time to see what they were doing. But as I reached them, I heard a few angry outbursts, clearly directed at me, with some profanity thrown in. Though I'm not sure exactly what was said, the general feeling I got was that some members of this group resented my passing through their neighborhood and wanted to beat the shit out of me. I kept going without looking back, and the incident slightly soured my mood, but I managed to push it aside and enjoy my stay in the town nonetheless.

What do you think?

No.

I was, however, propositioned by a gay man in St. Augustine. It happened as I wandered through the old quarter at night, browsing through some old shops with no intention of buying anything. In one antiques shop, the proprietor began asking me questions, and I eventually revealed that I was biking from Pennsylvania. He seemed impressed. At least that's how I interpreted his statement: "Wow. You must have strong legs." I ignored his subsequent leering stare at my legs.

He then asked where I slept while on the road. I told him about camping and churches, and mentioned that I was staying that night in a local hostel. Ignoring this last bit of info, he then said, with a knowing wink: "I have a couch you could sleep on." I turned quite red and mumbled something to the tune of "thanks anyway." Then I fled, feeling somehow violated. O.K., so I made up the "knowing wink" part, but it was still clear from his tone and particular way of speaking that he was gay. And hey, I can't blame him for trying, and I bear him no grudge. I mean, even if he was gay, he was probably a really nice guy and I might have had an enjoyable visit to his place with no sexual allusions whatsoever. But I slept fine in the hostel, thank you.

What do you think?

I don't hate them. OK, perhaps I came off sounding a bit harsh toward them in the book, but if anything that was just a backlash brought on by the times that "experienced" cyclists poked fun at my choice of attire and told me, essentially, that I wouldn't be able to cycle to Florida in my cutoffs. I think people should cycle in whatever they're comfortable wearing, and leave others to do the same.

As for my choice of wearing cutoffs, I have never felt uncomfortable biking in these. They suit me just fine. I like them for their pockets, for their loose fit, for the way they look and for the fact that I have numerous pairs to choose from. The important thing is that I enjoy cycling.

Actually, I did. In Jacksonville, Florida, I was riding down a road, minding my own business, when a pickup truck came racing towards me. Suddenly it changed lanes and got into my lane, heading right toward me. The driver apparently intended to have some fun by forcing me off the road. Instead of giving him that pleasure, I turned my head away from him, as if I hadn't noticed his approach, and pretended to look off to my right, while I kept my eyes on him to see what he would do. He kept speeding toward me, but when he realized that he might actually lose this game of chicken and hit me, since I didn't appear to have seen him, he veered away and passed me.

Got a question? Go ahead and ask.

 Don't forget to read the new final chapter of Two Wheels and a Map.