Cycling Trips
-
U.S. East Coast
- Maine
to PA
- The Edge of N.J.
-
Fahrradtour
Canada
s
- Canoeing
Wilderness
Lakes
Europe +
-
Exploring Heidelberg
- Bad
Luck In Germany
- Trolley Adventure
in
Milan
- A
Week In Israel
New Zealand
-
Volcanic Vistas
U.S. North
-
Remote Alaskan
Roads
-
Navigating the 1,000
Islands
U.S. West
-
Miserable Hawaii
- California
Redwoods
- High in Albuquerque
-
Omaha Surprises
- Summer
at Tahoe
Even More
-
Recent
Travels
- My Quest For All
50
States
- About Bob
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.