What had we been thinking? We had packed raingear to keep us dry while cycling in rain, but now our bikes were out in the deluge, with panniers and trailers standing wide open as if funneling water in was their primary job.
John and I scuttled about in the pouring rain trying to protect our gear the best we could, which was miserably poor given our circumstances. “Here – take this tarp!” called a young couple camped next to us. We spread the tarp over the bikes, hoping to protect the panniers a bit. Our sole flashlight, which was running dangerously low on batteries, barely illuminated all the gear strewn about. We picked up the best we could, stashed everything in the panniers and trailers, put the fly on the tent, and climbed back in to wonder how we would fare.
It didn’t take long to find out, and the news wasn’t good. In fact, it was downright dismal. By morning, the tarp had blown away and our panniers were soaked, along with everything inside them. The good news was that the tent held up well so we were dry inside. It was just that everything else was dripping.
All morning it rained. And rained. And our stuff became even more water logged. The four of us hung out in the tent reading books and playing cards. By noon the sun broke through, and we spread everything out on the tarp, which we rescued from the opposite side of the fairgrounds. We were lucky that nothing got ruined and we learned a very important lesson about preparedness. Our shopping cart held a big tarp the next time we visited WalMart.
The following day was one of those days when the mercury topped the century mark and a hill stretched in front of us unabated. John realized there was no way he could lug three hundred pounds of gear and little boys to the top.
“Okay guys, here’s the deal,” he announced to Davy and Daryl. “There’s no way I can do this one by myself. You’re gonna have to help. And by help I don’t mean just letting your legs go around in circles. You’re going to have to pedal like there’s no tomorrow. You’re gonna have to somehow find those body builder’s muscles that I know are in your legs. You need to pedal hard, break a sweat, and be gasping for air. If you don’t want to do that, get off and walk.” Davy opted for the sweat and panting. Daryl opted to walk.
John and Davy quickly disappeared up the hill, while Daryl was left to fend for himself. I pedaled alongside him as he slowly made his way up the interminable hill, and his pace slowed until he was creeping slower than an arthritic turtle. I feared we would never crest the top of that bloody hill.
They say desperation is the mother of all invention, and she certainly drove me that day. I finally realized there was no way my son would make it up on his own volition. No way he would reach the summit upon his own two legs. I faced a very important decision: carry him up myself, or leave him behind for the coyotes. I put on my SuperMom persona.
“Put your helmet on, Daryl,” I instructed. He looked around, thinking Daddy must have come back to rescue him, but Daddy was nowhere to be seen. He looked at me with one of those looks on his face – one of those what in the heck are you saying? looks. “Here.” I handed him his helmet. “Put it on.”
“Now, this is what we’re gonna do. I need you to climb up here on top of my trailer. That’s right, right there smack-dab on top of my sleeping bag and the jar of peanut butter. But see these wheels? Don’t touch ‘em. Pretend these spokes are boy-eating serpents whizzing past your face. Understand? Don’t touch the spokes.” Daryl nodded his head as he tucked his hands under his bottom.
“Ready?” I asked. Daryl looked at me with a newfound sense of wonder, realizing that I was the female version of his childhood hero.
A while later Daryl and I arrived at the top of the hill.
“Look at me!!” my son shouted as he approached his father and brother while perched upon his sleeping bag throne. “I’m King of the Hill!” He threw his arms up in victory, while I headed to a phone booth to change out of my SuperMom outfit.
We had been on the road for two weeks and Davy was done. He had decided enough was enough. Pedaling through the desert in 100 degree heat just wasn’t doing it for him and he wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep in his own bed at night. He wanted to play with toys and watch TV and have his friends over. The bottom line was he was bored.
“Bored? Out here in God’s country?” John asked when Davy complained of wanting to turn around. “How could you possibly be bored? I mean – there’s tons to do. How could you want to go back home? Look at all there is to do out here.”
“Yeah sure, Dad,” Davy replied sarcastically. “What’s here? Sure, there’s a whole bunch of sage brush, but that’s pretty boring. Back home I have toys and a trampoline. And I could be playing with my friends right now. That’s a whole lot more exciting than riding a bicycle through this boring desert.”
“Wait a minute, son,” John told him. “Look at this! Look at all this sage brush – bush after bush of one of the most remarkable plants in Earth! These things can live with barely any water at all – how cool is that?”
“Yeah Dad, it’s cool. It’s real cool. Now can we go back home?”
“And look! You can pee on an ant hill! Where else are you gonna be able to pee on ant hills?”
“Yeah, that is kinda fun, but I still want to go home.”
John and I were devastated. We were living the dream. We were biking around America and spending time with our boys. We were exactly where we wanted to be. But this, well, this threw a monkey wrench into our entire plan.
We had discussed our route for hours before setting out. We knew getting through eastern Oregon, with its miles and miles of barren desert, would be hard. We were fairly certain once we got to the coast where there would be new sights to see every day and exciting things to do and learn, things would be fine. But getting to the coast would be the hard part. It would be a few weeks of a tough grind with few distractions. This was exactly what we had feared.
“Pssttt… Davy, come here!” I whispered. I leaned down next to Davy and whispered into his ear. “I tell you what. If you hang in there and go with us, I’ll take you to Disneyland when we get to southern California, okay?”
A big grin spread across his face. “Really?” he whispered back.
“Really,” I promised.
“Okay, I’ll go,” Davy announced. And he jumped back on the bike with a smile. Apparently, there were times when I didn’t even have to don my lycra outfit to save the day.
I doubted even my SuperMom powers could have helped Daryl though. He was tired. Very tired. He was so tired he could fall asleep on a bed of nails… or a rolling bicycle, whichever happened to be more convenient. Nothing could keep him awake. Every time we stopped he collapsed off the bike and curled up on the pavement, dead to the world. We would let him sleep a few minutes before dragging him up and propping him on his seat.
Some days were like that – climbing hills, fighting headwinds, trying to motivate one little boy, and propping up another’s eyelids. Eventually we figured out how to make it all work and we settled into a comfortable routine, but those first few weeks were rough. The learning curve looked like it would never end.
“Here – take my house key. I’ll be there in a few hours,” Mary said as she handed us a key.
John and I were dumbstruck. We stood there looking at the house key in our hand, unable to respond. I looked at John as if to say, “Did she just hand us, total strangers, the key to her house?” He looked at me and nodded.
Mary in Portland, Oregon was our first encounter with a real Road Angel. Later in our journey we weren’t quite so surprised when people reached out to help us in many ways, but at the time Mary handed us the key to her house, we had no idea what was to come.
We had arrived into Portland, our first big city, with all its masses of humanity and cars after a long day of fighting headwinds in the Columbia River Gorge. John white-knuckled his way through the city streets as we searched for a campground, only to discover there was some sort of ordinance against tents in Portland. The nearest place we could pitch the tent was sevente
en miles away in Vancouver. Our options were few – we could sleep in the streets or get a hotel.
“Nancy, we can’t do this, you know,” John complained. “We’ll be on the road for a year. A whole year. We’ve quit our jobs and have no paychecks coming in. We can’t be checking into motels on a whim.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call this a whim,” I retorted. “What are our choices? Yeah, I suppose we could sleep on the street with all the winos and druggies. That would put our boys exactly where we want them! I mean, there just aren’t a whole lot of options right about now.”
We began to fill out the paperwork for checking into a motel when a woman with long salt-and-pepper hair poked her head in the door. “Hi!” she smiled, “You probably don’t remember me, but I saw you out in the gorge a couple days ago. I got you back on the right track that time you were lost. Anyway, I just happened to see your bikes out there, so decided to come in and say hi.”
We explained our predicament. “You can camp at my house tonight if you want. I only have a small backyard, but it’s big enough for a tent.”
She gave us directions and was ready to head out to the meeting she was on her way to. And then she pulled out her house key and handed it to us. “I’ve never done this before,” she said, “but I have a feeling I won’t be burned.”
Mary was just the beginning of our dealings with Road Angels. As stunned as we were by her generosity and trust, we were about to learn that in our moments of greatest need, a Road Angel would appear, sometimes in the most unlikely places. At each corner – each twist and curve in our road – they were there and waiting for us, waiting to add magic to our journey.
“Hey guys!” John shouted. “Look up there! Do you see what I see?”
Davy and Daryl leaned out to look around their father in front of them on the triple bike. “The ocean!” Daryl cried. “The ocean! We made it! The Pacific Ocean!”
“I want to go swimming! Can we, Dad? Please?” Davy begged.
Twenty-one days after we pulled out of our driveway, we caught our first glance of the Pacific Ocean. Her waters sparkled and shimmered in the sunlight, and we rejoiced in the sight. We had made it. We had survived the first leg of our journey.
We all knew this was the shortest leg, but the most difficult in many ways. We had needed to learn the ropes and figure things out. We had broken our bodies and minds into the idea of being modern day nomads. We had crossed the desert in searing heat. But we had made it. We had learned more than we ever dreamed, and looked forward to more.
Reaching the Pacific Ocean was a huge accomplishment for us!
Broadsided by Beauty
Three weeks on the road had changed us. No longer were we a ragtag mob living in chaos, but were well on our way to becoming a well-oiled machine. Each item we carried had found a home in our bags, and we had all discovered each other’s strengths and weaknesses. We had learned to depend upon each other, knowing exactly which ways each could help.
Mornings were still a challenge as we passed through our routine of stuffing the sleeping bags, taking down the tent, and loading our bikes, but with all four of us pitching in our routine was streamlined into a forty-minute process. We fell into a rhythm, knowing exactly how far we could comfortably pedal in a day (not far), how often to take breaks (very often), and how much food to pack (a lot). In the evenings, each person had their chores and knew exactly what was expected. Squabbles were few as we relaxed and enjoyed each other’s presence, celebrating the incredible gift we had been given.
We camped next to a small creek one evening and all four of us quickly pulled on our bathing suits for a refreshing dip in the cool water. As I sat in the shallow water watching my boys play, I was stunned by the changes in their bodies. Gone were the baby soft bodies they had sported when we pulled out of our driveway. Instead I saw rock solid muscles that hours of pedaling had developed and I couldn’t help but wonder what other changes had been going on inside their bodies and brains.
We were on a roll until we woke up to find our tent floating in a massive puddle of water one morning. A new pond had sprung up at some point in the night, and decided its home would be the exact spot of ground where our tent sat. The four of us climbed out into the muck and stood staring at the puddle, wondering just what we were doing out there in the middle of the pond in the first place. After all, we had chosen this. We could have been sitting at home safely protected from deluges and unexpected ponds.
I suppose we could have turned it all around and exclaimed, “The tent’s floating! Yeehaw!” After all, the only other option was even worse. If the tent didn’t float, it would have meant all the water passed inside, and that would have been even more depressing than a floating tent. So we didn’t complain too much – we were all warm and dry. But that didn’t change the fact that it was one of those terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad days. It was raining. A lot. And our tent was sitting in a massive puddle of water. The boys and I packed up and walked into town to hang out at the library and update our online journal.
A few hours later a man walked up to me. “Hi Nancy! I’m taking you home!”
I looked at him like he was off his rocker.
“I just talked with John. He sent me here to get you and the boys.”
I looked at him as though he had just declared himself to be a flying purple cow. "What did you say?" I asked.
“I just read on your journal that you guys were stuck up in the campground above Montesano, and I thought, ‘I know where they are!’ So I drove up there and waded through the muck until I managed to find John cozied up in your tent in the middle of a puddle. For some bizarre reason, he wants to stay with the tent, but he sent me here to find you and the boys. So – will you come stay with my wife and me tonight?”
I started to wonder if America’s Road Angels had banded together to make our journey special.
The next few days were a blur of beautiful scenery, wonderful people, and icy swims in the Puget Sound. One morning we pedaled away from a campground for a short trek to the ferry for San Juan Island to spend a relaxing day with friends.
After what seemed like twenty miles, I stopped my bike. “This seems like a whole lot farther than the seven miles you said it was going to be,” I mentioned to John.
“I know,” he replied. “I’m not sure how far we’ve gone, but it sure does seem longer than it should have been.”
We kept pedaling, wondering just when we would find the ferry dock. It had been a simple plan for a simple day – ride seven miles to the ferry, and be with our friends in a couple of hours. Should’ve been a piece of cake, but a month on the road had taught us a thing or two about who was in control – and it certainly wasn’t us.
Finally we saw the sign: Ferry Dock - 7 Miles. Cripes! John and I looked at each other in wonder. Somehow, somewhere, we had missed a turn. And instead of taking a nice, easy, seven-mile jaunt over to the ferry, we did a whopping twenty-six mile loop of the entire island.
By the time we got to the dock, the ferry to San Juan Island was long gone.
We had a choice. Pedal back to the campground and wait until tomorrow, or jump on the ferry leaving immediately to Orcas Island. We opted for the latter.
A friend once told me the group of islands known as the San Juans were steeper than anything he had ever seen, and I don’t doubt him. We set off to the campground and climbed up. And up. And up. Those islands popped out of the ocean and headed straight to heaven. I could have sworn Orcas Island was the stairway to heaven for the gods.
Round about dark we straggled into the campground and fumbled around getting organized for the night. By the time we finally collapsed into our sleeping bags we were exhausted. All four of us had been looking forward to an easy day and a relaxing evening hanging out with friends. Instead we ended up with yet another grueling day in paradise.
Hiking provided a welcome relief from the bicycles.
And paradise it was. Orcas Island enchanted and intrigued us with its diverse
landscape of mountains, wooded countryside and spectacular vistas. In fact, we were so spellbound we couldn’t drag ourselves away as planned, but spent a day hanging out, swimming in local lakes and sightseeing.
The next day we plunged back down the mountain to board the ferry to San Juan Island where we met our friends and enjoyed that relaxing evening after all. Our friend, Donna, dropped us off at the campground late at night and we were promptly lulled to sleep by the gentle ocean sounds.
Disappointment reigned as we reluctantly pulled out of the campsite the following morning. There we were – in the most spectacular camp spot on San Juan Island; the premier whale-watching site on the islands. And we hadn’t seen a one.
We had hung around for hours hoping to see that distinctive tell-tale splash of water, but the whales remained elusive and we were forced to head out – the ferry wouldn’t wait for whales.
As we pedaled along the coast toward the ferry dock, we kept our eyes peeled for the animals. Sure, we enjoyed the gorgeous rocky shoreline lined with blackberry bushes, but what we wanted to see were the massive magical creatures of the sea.
“Daddy! Look!” shouted Davy. “Out there – whales!” We all looked toward the water and, sure enough, spotted the little splashes from their blow holes. Silently, mesmerized by the magnificent sight before our eyes, we climbed off our bikes and stood there, transfixed. The whales, a pod of perhaps six or eight, frolicked in the waves directly ahead of us.
Daryl stood, awestruck, with the rest of us for about two minutes – until he discovered blackberries at his feet. “Heck with whales!” he said, “I’m gonna eat blackberries!” He dove into the bushes, leaving the rest of us to gaze at the incredible animals before us.
Twenty Miles per Cookie: 9000 Miles of Kid-Powered Adventures Page 3
