When you're riding alone, you never know what strange twists your path will take, or what insights you'll gain from strangers along the way. This is a chapter from my new book, Two Wheels and a Map. It covers one of the most eventful days on my journey.

Killer fly attack Homeless schoolteacher

Dinner in a stranger's home Stealthy backyard camping

It was pouring rain when I woke at 5:00. I took my time eating and packing, and when I finally started riding at 6:00 the rain had tapered off. Even so, the streets were dark and slick with puddles, and the sodden canopy of leaves over my head drained its water incessantly onto my back. As I raced downhill a short while later, breathing in the chilly, damp air, a movement caught my eye. I looked right and glimpsed a white-tailed deer darting through the woods not 30 feet away. My initial delight turned to panic a moment later when I realized the animal was heading toward the road, dashing along at an angle and speed that would bring the two of us together within seconds. We were going to collide! I squeezed my brakes as hard as I could, but the rain had rendered them useless. Wide-eyed with alarm, I watched, helplessly, as the deer ran out into the street not 10 feet in front of me. I swerved and yelled, and the beast jerked sideways, so close I could hear it breathing. Then it scrambled into the thicket and I heard it crashing off out of sight. It took a full hour to pull my heart down out of my throat. The morning stayed cool and damp as I passed through pine forests and climbed tall hills. Cars were scarce--just the occasional pickup truck--and I liked it that way. I vowed to stay off the main roads as long as possible so I could enjoy this backwoods beauty in solitude. This vow, like most of the ones I made, steered me into a bit of trouble. Attack of the Killer Flies My map showed a shortcut that would eliminate lots of mileage and lots of highway riding, and I eagerly headed toward it. Upon closer inspection of the map, however, I saw that about a mile of that road appeared to be unpaved and isolated from all other roads. Did I really want to light off into the unknown on a road of uncertain quality? I didn't even need to think it over. I could handle anything. I wasn't going to let a little dirt road scare me away. Confident and cocky, I plowed down the road in question until the pavement ended. But instead of finding a dirt road there, I found a set of stone-filled tire ruts disappearing into a clump of trees. I stared in disbelief. That was supposed to be a road? The state had put a pair of tire tracks on its road map? I fumed for a few minutes, tormented by the knowledge that my own overconfidence had gotten me into this mess: "I could handle anything." Well, now I was going to have to prove it in order to save face. To turn back would be humiliating; my ego would never let me live it down. Warily, I pulled aside the curtain of leaves before me and started riding into the woods. The stones proved difficult to balance on. They were rocks, really, each one bigger than my fist. I wobbled like a fat man on roller skates and was soon forced to dismount. Pushing my bike in front of me, I walked along one of the ruts, reminding myself that I only had to put up with this for a mile. The road turned steeply upward, so steep I had to push with all my might to keep my heavy bike moving. Around me, the forest closed in, shutting out the daylight and extending its tentacle-like vines and branches to snatch at my clothing and hinder my progress. An eerie, almost sinister atmosphere hung about the place, and I was suddenly convinced that I had entered a world I had no business entering. Things went on back here that no man was meant to know about. I could sense the eyes of the forest upon me, giving me an unshakable feeling of impending doom. A moment later my premonition came to life with a vengeance. A swarm of vicious biting flies descended on me, diving at my face and biting deeply into my exposed back and neck. The pain was so sharp I thought I had walked into a hive of bees. Yelping in pain, I began running up the hill to get away from them, shaking my body wildly and slapping at my head. They would not leave me alone. They were worse than any flies I had ever encountered--malicious, hell-bred demons, brazen in their zeal to sting the life out of me. They dove suicidally into my eyes and ears, even my mouth, and burrowed through my hair to get at my scalp. I crested the hill and took off like a fox from the hounds, my bike thumping heavily over the rocks as I ran deeper and deeper into the forest. Branches scraped my face and briars ripped into my arms and legs. A fly went up my nose. I snorted it out, screaming in helpless frustration. The road turned to mud, and I sprinted right into the middle of it, sinking down about a foot with each step and almost losing both shoes in the muck. The flies took the opportunity to crawl underneath my shirt and sting me there, just for kicks. I slapped myself silly, jumping up and down in the mud and wiggling like a maniacal belly dancer. Next came a series of small ponds--vast puddles that covered the entire road surface. Unwilling to slow down, I charged right in, sinking almost to my knees in water. Something long and dark slithered out from under my feet and shot across to the other side. I didn't stop to find out what it was. Sweat was stinging my eyes and fogging my glasses, but I dared not stop to wipe them. I waved my bandana around like a lasso, swatting alternately over each shoulder in the hope I might take down one of the enemy. Heedless, the flies crashed into my forehead and bit me behind the ears. All I could do was keep running, keep convulsing, keep praying for an end to the agony. Then it got worse. From somewhere directly ahead of me came a terrifying, thunderous crashing noise, as if some gargantuan creature was ripping up whole trees and tossing them about. Terror gripped me. I was running full speed toward Bigfoot! I slowed to a jog, but immediately the swarm was all over me, in my arm pits, behind my glasses, up the legs of my shorts. This was a nightmare! I could either stand here and get mauled by flies or keep running and get mauled by Bigfoot. I chose Bigfoot. It would be a much more prestigious death. Charging ahead, I tensed for a confrontation, expecting to be greeted by snarling teeth and sharp claws. Instead, the trail was empty. Off to the left, however, something crashed violently through the woods, its feet thudding heavily against the ground in its haste to escape. The beast had no doubt heard the swarm of killer flies buzzing around my head and fled for its life. I ran onward for another quarter mile, still sweating, still swatting. The road, by now, had narrowed to no more than a path. Side trails branched off at intervals and I became suddenly terrified that I had taken a wrong turn and was merely running deeper into this jungle of hell. My odometer registered a mile and a half since I had started and still the end was not in sight. For 10 more minutes I forced myself on, my panic rising steadily. Then the path widened and I began to see signs of humanity: burned-out car shells; bullet holes in trees. I picked up the pace. Soon the trees began to thin. Then the road turned to gravel. Leaping onto my bike at last, I started pedaling for my life, jumping ditches and plowing right into low-hanging branches in my zeal to escape the flies. They stayed right with me, though, converging on my face and trying to land on my head so they wouldn't lose me. They hadn't eaten this well in months. Then, like a mirage, the asphalt road appeared in front of me. With a victory whoop, I threw my bike into high gear and closed in on it. One or two flies made an effort to stay with me, but as soon as I hit the pavement, they were history. I took off like a rocket, letting the wind cool the bloody scratches and welts that covered my body, not even daring to stop and rest until I had put a full three miles between me and that hideous forest of doom. Not once did I look back. I hadn't planned to ride through the city of New Haven; I hadn't even planned to go near it. A careful inspection of my map, however, revealed that I could save a heck of a lot of pedaling by just blazing through the middle of the place rather than trying to go all the way around it. By the time I reached its outskirts the sun had come out and the day had turned muggy. I crossed the Quinnipiac River and rode along uneven, crumbling streets in heavy traffic, passing dingy little food stores and diners. Stopping at a red light, I spotted an entire complex of burned-out, boarded-up apartments. Desolation seemed to surround me, lurking in the abandoned cars and prowling in the crumbling playgrounds. I later found out that I was in a part of New Haven that visitors were generally warned to avoid. Already I had become the focus of attention of a group of young black men loitering in the apartment's overgrown courtyard. I had intended to snap some pictures of the devastation, but quickly changed my mind and pedaled onward the instant the light turned green. Next: Lunch with a Homeless Woman Order the Book