Afterward:
The Final Miles
 With a glance
over my left shoulder at the two lanes of traffic rapidly
approaching, I made a quick U-turn, jumped the curb and
stopped my bike in the grass on the side of the road.
This was the place. I had almost sailed right past it.
The road was wider, there were more buildings now, but
this was definitely the intersection where my bike trip to
Florida had almost ended.
I took a long look around. The spot was completely
unrecognizable. The road had six lanes now instead of three.
And the Hampstead Station Shopping Plaza, with a CVS and a
Food Lion store, had definitely not been here. In my fading
memories of this awful place, I saw only fields and pine
trees.
I strolled back to the spot where I had once dropped to
the ground in disgust, pondering my death of sunstroke after
spending several hours begging pickup drivers for a ride.
That ground now belonged to RBC Centura Bank, which had
erected a building and parking lot in my long absence.
Time had moved on.
No one knew that better than me.
In the years since I had last stood here my life had
changed almost as much as this intersection. I’d gone
from an unemployed adventure seeker to the editor of a
national trade magazine. That solo rider without a home was
now a married man with a house.
I was back in North Carolina by pure chance. A business
trip had returned me to Wilmington, giving me the
opportunity to redo a small but crucial section of my East
Coast ride--the missing link, so to speak.
After I’d ridden back from Maine, completing my
coastal journey, I had been understandably jubilant. The
trip had been a milestone in my life.
And yet, in the years that followed, something had always
bothered me. Every time I proudly told someone I had ridden
from Maine to Florida, I always felt a little bit--just a
tiny bit--like I was lying. After all, there were 30 miles
or so that I had not actually biked: The portion of my route
where my bike had refused to roll any more, when I had been
forced to hitch rides into Wilmington. That knowledge had
always nagged me.
I had told myself over the passing years that someday I
would ride those 30 miles; I would finally
“finish” my trip. But I knew there was little
chance I would ever find myself in the middle of North
Carolina, with a bike.
And so the years went on. I talked less and less about my
trip. At times I was even a little embarrassed to bring it
up, dreading the same old questions: "How long did that take
you? Where did you sleep? Did you take 95?" I also felt
that, underlying all those questions, was the larger,
unspoken question: “What have you done since
then?” I hated feeling like I was still living off past
glories. And while the intervening years have taken me all
across the country, to 49 states, and all around the world,
the truth is, my East Coast bike trip has remained the most
ambitious of my undertakings. Still, despite the magnitude
of the accomplishment, those last 30 miles never stopped
haunting me.
So I was surprised not long ago when I was invited to a
conference in Wrightsville Beach, N.C., about seven miles
from Wilmington. I realized that this was my one and only
chance. A “put up or shut up” opportunity straight
from God.I didn’t hesitate to start planning.
With ease I found the Web site for Two Wheeler Dealer,
the Wilmington bike shop that had sold me a new wheel and
gotten me back on the road. I e-mailed Shawn Spencer, one of
the managers, and told him of my mission, asking if the shop
rented bikes. After a few exchanges, Shawn and fellow
manager Jim Mincher were evidently impressed enough with my
quest to offer me free use of a bike from the shop. All I
had to do was show up.
Up into my attic I went, digging through boxes of
memorabilia until I found my original route maps for that
section. Off the wall in my home office came Rodney’s
little blue rabbit where it had hung for years next to a big
USA map on which I had highlighted my route.
Then, one Saturday in May, I walked through the doors of
Two Wheeler Dealer once again. Shawn and Jim fixed me up
with one of the nicest bikes I’ve ever  ridden, a
Cannondale R500, with brake lever shifting. It was light as
a feather. They took no down payment, no credit card
impression. They just knew I would bring it back.
As the Sunday morning sunshine burned its way through
hazy clouds the next day, I found myself on the side of
Route 210 in Surf City, just shy of the metal bridge over
the Intracoastal Waterway. Pete Hoekema, friend, cyclist and
fellow conference attendee, had agreed to drop me off at the
beginning of the end--the exact spot where my bike had let
out its death rattle before expiring a few miles up the
road.
While his wife looked on from the car, Pete and I pulled
the bike from the trunk and put the wheels back on. Then he
snapped a photo of me and waved good-bye, leaving me alone,
once again, on the road.
It was eerie at first. I was on my East Coast bike
trip--again. And I wasn’t just retracing it; I was
actually finishing that same trip. Of course, some things
were different. I had no heavy panniers. I had a different
bike. And because Pete had driven off with my helmet still
in his trunk, I had no head protection either.
He had headed toward the ocean, so I took off in that
direction in a futile attempt to catch him. After realizing
I didn’t even remember what kind of car he had, I
stopped for a look at the beach. Gentle waves lapped the
sand while blue skies let the warm sunlight through. A
pleasant spring breeze rustled my hair, and I knew, helmet
or not, that I was going to have a great day.
I turned and started back toward the bridge where Pete
had dropped me, passing a long line of traffic that had
piled up because of a bridge opening. Up at the gate I
watched the tall mast of a sailboat slide past, and then saw
the bridge swing sideways and lock back into place. The
instant the gate went up I took off like a shot across the
bridge. When I reached the center, memory tugged at me. This
was where I had felt the first sickening crunch as my axel
began to snap. I had kicked it back into place and ridden a
few more miles, but this bridge was where my real trouble
had started. Riding this super-light Cannondale, I could
hardly imagine what it had been like to drag all that weight
along this road with a wheel that barely spun.
I got about a mile down the road when I heard the welcome
double toot of Pete’s horn. My frantic waving caught
his attention and in no time I had my helmet once again.
As before, Route 210 was a two-lane road with no shoulder
and a fair amount of traffic. Most cars gave me a wide
berth, however, perhaps heeding the new, bright yellow
“Share The Road” signs, with a picture of a bike
on them. Though I was  happy to see
such progress in car/bike relations, my mind was somber with
the thought that a cyclist or two may have had to get hit
for people to get the message.
I had almost no memory of this road. My mind had been
filled with worry and pessimism, and after Rev.
Steele’s misguided sermon and a hot, sleepless night on
his lawn, I’d had a fair bit of anger raging through
me, as well. I had not been looking around at the sights
when last I rode here. I hadn’t noticed the small
yellow flowers blooming in the grass at the road’s
edge. Nor had I seen the clusters of mailboxes at the end of
sandy roads. I was oblivious to the yard sale signs stapled
to phone poles, and the small shops that periodically popped
up.
Wanting to give myself a taste of what I had missed back
then, I doubled back after passing a homemade sign
announcing “BJ’s Gallery of Treasure” and
went inside to peruse the paintings and sculptures. I
commented to the elderly proprietor that the area seemed a
bit more developed in the years since I’d last visited.
“Used to be nothing but trailers and fishing
villages,” she remarked. “Nothing stays the
same.”
True enough. Her words stuck in my head as I continued
down the road. Certainly I was not the same man as the one
who had passed this way years before.  I
was more serious now; more settled. Less adventurous?
Perhaps. Yet I hadn’t hesitated to hop on a bike to
finish this big adventure. On this trip, at least, the old
Bob and the new were riding together.
I reached Route 17 and made a left, heading south. What
had been  a busy two-lane highway was now a busy four-lane
highway. I was eager to cover the next nine or so miles as
quickly as possible and turn off onto less-traveled byways.
But then I saw the fire tower. Would the old Bob have really
passed by an opportunity to climb a fire tower? Never mind
that I hadn’t even noticed it back then in my miserable
state of mind. Now that I had given myself a second chance,
I was going to do it.
The 10 flights of narrow steps took longer than I thought
they would, but at the top I was rewarded with views in
every direction. I gazed across endless stretches of pine
forest and then off toward Topsail Sound and the ocean
beyond it. I shook my head at the irony that above the ocean
was a clear blue sky, while over my head hung only clouds.
Still, the breeze  felt
wonderful, a refreshing contrast to the horrible heat of
that June day, years ago.
I continued riding, Rodney’s blue rabbit swinging
from my handlebars as it had for all but the first two days
of my original trip. Furniture and antiques stores began to
pop up in between long stretches of pine forest. Scattered
collections of trailers stood across the highway from
upscale, gated communities with names like Pelican Reef.
When I spotted the BP station, I realized that I had
reached the spot where my bike had emitted a final,
sickening crunch all those years ago and died. From here on
 everything
would be new to me.
I walked past the pumps, where I had once begged
customers for a ride to Wilmington, and entered the small
grocery store. Grabbing a few snacks for the road, I asked
the elderly lady at the cash register if she had worked here
years ago. Though she didn’t remember me coming in and
pestering her customers, she said she had owned the place
for two decades, and guessed it was probably her son who had
dropped me off a few miles up the road. She was very
pleasant, and I felt guilty for not being more friendly when
I had stormed in years ago looking for a ride.
“You come back again,” she said, cheerfully, as
I left.
The area became gradually more developed as I approached
Hampstead, with new homes being built seemingly every
quarter mile. I passed a woman tying balloons on an
“Open House” sign, while elsewhere homes up on
platforms beckoned buyers to move them to the lot of their
choice. Strip malls and traffic lights began to appear.
Restaurant chains like Subway vied for business with local
establishments like Seafood World.
When I reached the intersection of Routes 17 and 210, it
looked so different I almost rode right past it. This was
where I had spent several of the most miserable hours of my
life, running up to pickup trucks and begging for rides. Grasping for nostalgic
feelings, I sat in the grass near the RBC Centura Bank and
tried to conjure up images from the past. Why I wanted to
rekindle such horrible memories, I don’t know.
Nostalgia is my curse sometimes.
For a while I watched cars roll up to the light, my eyes
unconsciously scanning for pickup trucks. Then I took a spin
down the road to try to find the industrial park where I had
hitched a ride with the truckers, but it must have been
farther away than I remembered. After that there wasn't much
more to do.
I turned off of Route 17, leaving the heavy traffic and
bad memories behind me, and set off along a much quieter
road. My mood almost soured when someone in a passing car
yelled an angry "Yo!" at me, but almost immediately
afterwards a man  at a nearby
house waved in my direction, cheering me once again.
After I had left the last of the houses behind me, route
210 became a pleasant road lined on both sides with tall
pines. The excessive amount of trash on the shoulder spoiled
my impression somewhat, though.
As I rode, I kept trying to put myself back in time, to
imagine what might have been going through my mind on this
section of road years ago as I dreamed about what lie ahead.
This started to make me sad, though, because I couldn't stop
thinking about what might have been.
What if my spoke had not broken? What if my bike had not
been sabotaged by the Washington Freewheel Cracker? I would
have ridden on this beautiful road years ago. I would have
stopped to gaze into the  dark waters
of the slow-moving stream I had just seen. I would have
pondered the leafy trees growing out of the deep bog ahead.
I would have laughed at the street sign that read "Coon
Hunters Trail." But all this was robbed from me. Instead I
was given long days of misery in a region that might have
otherwise yielded some of my fondest memories.
Still, I knew I would have had a completely different
trip had my spoke not snapped. I would have been a day ahead
in my schedule. Many of the people I had met would still be
strangers to me. And a whole group of different people would
have
made my acquaintance. I realized there was no point
lamenting the what-ifs. Had my bike not broken down, I
wouldn't have been here right now, finishing my journey,
years later.
So I rode onward, closing slowly in on Wilmington. My old
map started to lose its usefulness, and I began ignoring it,
choosing roads that felt right to me. I was helped a little
by occasional small, green signs marking the official state
bike route, but they always seemed to disappear at
intersections, leaving me to guess.
A low-flying plane told me I was nearing the airport,
which seemed about right. At a confusing intersection, I
rolled up to a place of business to ask for directions into
the city. I motioned to a blond woman I saw through a
window,  and she came
up to the locked glass door, but refused to open it.
Instead, she shouted directions to me through the glass,
most of which I couldn't hear due to traffic and planes.
After thanking her, I promptly decided to ignore what she
had told me and take a road that just looked nice. My
instincts served me well.
At a light farther ahead, a soft Southern voice from a
passing car informed me that my small backpack had come
open. (More accurately I had forgotten to zip it a few miles
back, and had been riding with it flapping open for the past
10 minutes.) Miraculously, my snacks, pump and patch kit had
not fallen out.
I passed a lumber yard, the scent of wet wood filling the
air, then explored a new road being built over a swampy
area. A bridge took me across Smith Creek, and a mile or so
later I entered the outskirts of Wilmington. Befitting my
style of adventure, I found myself in one of the city’s
more run-down, less-reputable neighborhoods.  A
few mean looks from young men loitering on street corners
encouraged me to put forth a sudden burst of speed. This
carried me quickly into the historic heart of Wilmington. I
slowed to read the plaques on a few of the old mansions and
churches until I realized that nearly every building seemed
to have one. An impressive memorial “to the soldiers of
the Confederacy” reminded me that I was in the South,
where the Civil War was still a sore topic.
I eventually found my way to the Cape Fear River, where a
picturesque riverside boardwalk led past numerous cafes and
coffee shops. I stopped for lunch at one of them, sitting
outside under a canvas roof  and
reflecting on my day’s journey. I had made it into
Wilmington, but my trip was not yet over. I had one place
left to go.
It being a Sunday, the parking lot at Two Wheeler Dealer
was empty when I pulled in a half hour later. I looked up at
the large blue letters on the side of the building and at
the empty bike racks on either side of the glass front door.
This was it, at last. The end of my trip. From here I had
set off with a new tire and renewed energy, Florida in my
sights. I had finally filled in the gap in my journey. No
longer would I have to feel even a touch of guilt when I
told someone I had bicycled the East Coast.
 I
allowed myself a few minutes to reflect on my
accomplishment. I wasn’t tired, nor was my heart
pounding with excitement. I was just pleased.
Like with so many of my past achievements, once again I
was celebrating this one entirely on my own. Not even a lost
motorist shared the parking lot with me. But what more
perfect way was there to celebrate the conclusion of my
journey? The ending, like the many miles that preceded it,
was a solitary one. It was only fitting.
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