Twenty Miles per Cookie: 9000 Miles of Kid-Powered Adventures

by Nancy Sathre-Vogel

  I sat there listening, laughing at his frustration. My mom watched me, wondering what the conversation was about.

  “I sent the kids back along the road to see if they could find the tarp,” he continued. “I told them to walk back a ways, and if it wasn’t there to come back. I filled the tire and started riding back to find them.”

  “A short while later, the tire went flat again. It was starting to get dark and I was getting worried about the kids. I never thought they would go that far! I parked the bike in someone’s yard and took off running after the kids.”

  My laughter stopped and I listened to the rest of his tale. I knew something had to happen. I just wasn’t sure what that something was.

  “So anyway, Mom,” I relayed the tale to my mother. “John was panicking by this time. The kids were nowhere to be seen. They were in a strange California city and wandering the streets alone. John was getting frantic.”

  “He approached a man walking along the street. ‘Have you seen two kids in orange shirts?’ The man had no idea what he was talking about.”

  “John kept running in the direction he had sent the kids,” I explained. “Eventually a couple walking along the road said they had seen them a little while before. John took off at high speed. By that time, it was pitch black and he had no idea how much farther ahead they were. A mile or so later, he finally caught up to them.” Mom breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Once they got back to the bike, John tried pumping up the tire again, but it wouldn’t hold air at all. He took the whole thing apart under a streetlight and fixed the tube. Mom, you have no idea how much of a hassle it is to fix that thing. You have to take the trailer off and disconnect the disc brake. Then you can take the tire off and repair it before putting the whole thing together again. It usually takes both of us to get it fixed, but now it’s only him – the boys just aren’t coordinated enough or strong enough to do a whole lot.”

  “The upshot of all this is that they didn’t get to the campground until 10:06 p.m. last night. All three of them were exhausted and famished. John set up the tent while the kids munched on granola bars. I guess it really isn’t all that bad – they made it, after all. They are all fine. Exhausted, but alive and well.”

  Mom and I knew we had to do something.

  “Nancy,” Mom told me later that day. “You need to be there with the boys. I worry about them so much anyway, and after hearing what happened yesterday I’m even more worried. If you had been there, the boys would not have had to walk back alone. You need to be there.”

  “I will Mom,” I replied. “Glenda is coming in a week. Once she’s here, I’ll head back.”

  “No. You need to go now. It’s too dangerous. John shouldn’t be there alone with those kids. They’ve been on their own for a month already and have tempted fate too long. Too much can happen. I’m okay now. I’m still a bit weak, but I can get around. If you make sure I have enough food for a week, I’ll be fine until your sister gets here. I’ve got good neighbors in case I need anything. Seriously, I think you should go. Now.

  A couple days later I arrived in Monterey, returned the rental car, jumped on my trusty steed, and set out along the beautiful California coast to Big Sur, where my family was camped awaiting me. Turquoise waters... stunning cliffs... and a strong tailwind. What more could I ask for? As much as I would have loved to take my time, I didn’t take any breaks at all because I was giddy with excitement about getting back to my boys and I needed to make sure I was at the campground by dark.

  I pulled into the town of Big Sur about an hour before dark and patted myself on my back in congratulations. I smugly called Mom and announced that I had done it! I had pulled it off! Yes! (Insert image of me pumping my fist in victory at this point.) I figured I only had three miles to go and I still had an hour or so of daylight. Yes, I had made it. I had gone from Boise to Big Sur in one mighty leap!

  I climbed back on my bike and started pedaling through the forest toward the campground. I pedaled and pedaled and was sure that the campground was just around the next corner... maybe the next... And then suddenly I broke out of the valley and saw a lake on my left. A big lake. I thought, Hmm... it seems strange that there would be a lake that big right next to the ocean.

  Then I noticed the sun setting over the lake, and it dawned on me that there was no lake over on my left. That was a pond. The pond. The Pacific pond. I had learned a thing or two in my forty-six years on this planet and one of them was that if you are pedaling south along the California coast, the ocean will be on your right. But that ocean was very definitely on my left.

  That’s when my hand came up and smacked myself upside the head and I realized that I had done something really stupid. That moment when I got turned around at the store and headed back north was most definitely one of those moments of absolute, complete, total, unutterable dumbness.

  I turned around and pedaled for all I was worth back toward the valley and the forest. At that point I did not have only three miles to go and an hour of daylight. Now I had over five miles to go, and the sun was setting over the ocean. I pedaled as hard as I could along the twisty, winding road through the forest and realized that I had absolutely no lights on my bike whatsoever; no way to alert oncoming drivers that I was there. Those visions of a grand reunion that I had been having all day turned into something not quite so grand; something involving images of my beloved kids scraping my guts off the highway.

  One way or another, I arrived at the campground without incident, relieved that my kids wouldn’t have to deal with the grisly scene of my imagination. I fell asleep with my boys tucked up on either side of me and marveled at how wonderful it was to be back “home” in our tent once more.

  Culinary Pursuits

  After fifteen hundred miles along the coast, we turned left and headed inland. The lure of the Grand Canyon was too strong to resist, even if it meant a thousand mile detour to get there. We had climbed plenty of hills along the coast, but they ended up being nothing more than ant hills compared to what California threw at us as we headed east.

  Range after massive range blocked our path, and we climbed up thousands of feet only to plunge down the other side. But that wasn’t the hardest part. We had left the coast – the bicycling mecca of North America. Gone were the daily campgrounds and showers. Gone were the stores every few miles. Gone were the detailed bicycling maps telling us exactly what we would face on any given day. All we had was an AAA map which more or less showed us the way. We learned quickly to stock up on food and water each and every chance we got. We sought out national forests and other unoccupied lands for our tent at night. Life was an adventure once again.

  Distances between towns became enormous after we left the coast. Those distances threw us a few logistical challenges as we tried to figure out how much food and water we would need.

  All went well for the first week or so away from the coast. The scenery was spectacular and the people were wonderful. We were in biker’s no man's land where few cyclists ever passed. We aroused a lot of curiosity and attracted more attention than we wanted.

  Eventually we arrived into Bakersfield where we stayed with newfound friends. We asked them about a route out of the city.

  “There really isn’t a good way out,” Michael said. “You’ll have to go over the mountains if you want to go east – there’s only one road going in that direction. You could go south, but that won’t get you to the Grand Canyon.”

  We decided to attack the mountains head-on and continued pedaling eastward. Until we arrived at a gas station, that is.

  “Oh my lord! You can’t!” cried a woman filling her gas tank when we stopped to ask directions. “You just can’t! You’ll be killed if you try to ride The Canyon!”

  All the other motorists standing around joined in. “The Canyon is a death trap!” “It’s narrow and twisty and windy. Not a place for cyclists.” “Go another way – please!”

  They had just managed to screw up our day even more.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that we had taken a wrong turn and climbed the wrong very steep hill, now we had to revamp our entire plan. If we didn’t go through The Canyon, well… we would have to change plans entirely.

  We turned around and screamed back down the hill, climbed up the right one, and arrived into the campsite just as the last vestiges of daylight were disappearing. We knew decision time had come. We either had to face certain death in The Canyon on the morrow, or turn around and go back to the coast.

  “Holy dooley! Look at all this! Where are you folks headed on that contraption?”

  John and I looked up to see a young man walking into our campsite. “It looks like we’ve come to the end of our road,” John sighed. “We’ve pedaled all the way from Boise, but now we’ve been told we can’t cycle The Canyon. Unfortunately, there really isn’t any option if we want to go to Death Valley and the Grand Canyon.”

  “Who said that?” questioned Steve, the local bike activist who had barged into our campsite. “Listen guys – you can do it. I’ve done it plenty of times. You’ve got to understand Bakersfield – the people here don’t ride bikes. Sure – they have a great bike path through the city, but you could probably count the serious cyclists on one hand. Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t have anything against the local people. After all, I am one. But here’s the reality – Bakersfield just doesn’t have a real “bike culture” going on. We’re trying – our little handful of serious cyclists – we’re trying to change things, but it’s a long, slow process.”

  “If you’ve managed to pedal that thing 3000 miles, you can pedal The Canyon,” Steve continued. “It won’t be the most pleasant experience of your trip, but it’s doable. I’ve done it many times. Just do it. It’s not that bad.”

  John and I fell asleep that night wondering just how bad the ride through The Canyon would be.

  I never thought road construction could be such a godsend, but some people figure it saved our lives that day. As we approached the mouth of The Canyon, we rode past an enormous line of waiting cars. For what seemed like miles, cars sat idle as drivers and passengers chatted or read. People milled about on the side of the road, in and out of cars, waiting, as we pedaled by.

  Anxiety grew as we drew nearer the mouth of the canyon. Was it really as dangerous as people had warned? Would we be obliterated on the first curve? Or not until near the top? Or could it possibly be a piece of cake? We tenuously pedaled past car after car, wondering which one would do the deed. In time we passed a construction site at the mouth of the canyon and headed in.

  The canyon was narrow, the road twisty, and a shoulder nonexistent. Flaggers had just released a long stream of vehicles, and they whizzed past us one after the other. We pulled over and waited for them all to pass. Once the massive backlog of cars had passed we had the road to ourselves. Rather than being the horrible experience some had told us it would be, riding The Canyon was quite nice. A beautiful deep canyon with a rushing river on one side of the road and a massive cliff face on the other. Knowing that all the cars were stopped at the construction site below, we relaxed and enjoyed the ride.

  Thirty minutes later we saw another stream of vehicles in our rear view mirrors and pulled over to let the caravan pass.

  The Canyon, far from being the death-defying, bicyclist-smashing canyon from hell, ended up being a great ride. Every twenty or thirty minutes another stream of cars came by and we pulled over to take a break. Once the road was clear, we headed merrily on our way, knowing we had the road to ourselves for at least another twenty minutes.

  Eventually we reached the end of the canyon and continued on through flatlands. Night was nigh and we needed a spot to pitch our tent – after we filled our water bottles at the next store. But the store didn’t exist. No, I guess I shouldn’t say that – it existed, but it had been closed for the past thirteen years according to the good folk on the porch of a neighboring house.

  “Heck yeah, you can have some water!” they shouted in response to our question. “And if you wait a few minutes you can have some steak too!” We collapsed onto Jerry and Barb’s porch to wait for steak. “You guys came up from Bakersfield today? You rode The Canyon? Are you nuts?”

  “I suppose you could say that. But we’re having a blast anyway!”

  “We bagged a buck today! We’d been tracking him for a week – and today we got the sucker. We’re celebrating tonight, baby! Steak and sausages for us!” Jerry lit a rousing fire in the grill. “Just wait. You’ve got a treat coming! I cook the best steak in the county!”

  Jerry was right. He cooked up the best steak I had eaten in a long time and we enjoyed our evening with our newfound friends. We also enjoyed camping on their living room floor as well.

  Meeting and getting to know people like Jerry and Barb was a highlight of our journey.

  Dear Grandma,

  I probably shouldn’t tell you what I did, but it was so much fun and the kids learned so much that I’m going to anyway. For the first time on the trip we passed a rattlesnake sleeping along the road, and I figured I couldn’t miss the opportunity to ‘educate’ the kids about what a real rattler sounds like. I got the flagpole off the trailer and had the kids stand way back as I poked the snake. It didn’t do anything until I actually touched it, then it rattled like you wouldn’t believe as it slithered away. Now the kids know what to listen for anyway. I’m hoping that will keep them safe if we ever find another one.

  Love, John

  * * *

  We headed out early from Jerry and Barb’s house with full intentions of making it over a nearby pass in the cool of the morning. Fate, however, had other plans.

  Ten miles from the house I was following closely behind John when I heard, “Pssss!” and was showered with some kind of liquid. A second later it came again – “Pssss” and a quick dowsing of liquid. I soon realized it was coming from John’s bike and each revolution of the tire brought a “Pssss” and another shower.

  “John! Stop!” I shouted. “Your tire is spitting goop!”

  John took one look at his tire and realized it was completely worn down – to the point where he had an actual hole worn in it. As the air escaped it had taken the bright green puncture-sealing goop with it.

  “How in the heck did that happen?” I asked. “I’ve been seeing you diligently check your tires every day.”

  “I know,” John replied. “I’m baffled. The last time my tires wore out, it was the front one that went. I just figured the triple has a totally different wear pattern than most bikes, so have been checking my front tire every day. I didn’t even think to look at the rear one. In any case, this thing is shot. It’s trashed. I need a new tire.”

  The problem was that we were in the middle of nowhere – quite literally. We were stuck seventy-five miles from Bakersfield, but that was the closest place a tire might be available. This was not good. We put on our thinking caps to figure out how we could snare a tire.

  “Nancy! I’ve got it!” John blurted. “Jerry mentioned he was leaving around ten to go to Bakersfield! It’s 9:40 now. Go! Hurry! Get back to Jerry’s house and you can ride into town with him!”

  I frantically flagged down the first passing car and begged them to take me back. They looked at me blankly, and mumbled something to each other in Spanish. I switched gears. “¡Tengo que ir a la casa de un amigo! ¡Alli!” They nodded their heads, although their eyes betrayed their confusion. Jerry was just climbing in the truck when I barged into the yard.

  In Bakersfield I bought a tire, went out to a Mexican restaurant for lunch with Jerry and Barb (I will admit I felt a bit guilty knowing the boys were sweltering in the hot sun while I was indulging, but certainly not too guilty!) before heading out for the ninety-minute journey to find them.

  Jerry and I found John and the boys seeking shade beneath a large joshua tree, and we were fixing the tire when a police car pulled up.

  “Do you know what the story about these bikes is?” the policeman asked. “I got a call
that there were some bicycles here, and that pretty much freaked out the old folk around here.”

  We explained our predicament, and let him know we would be back on the road in a few minutes.

  “Can’t say as how I blame those people,” he said. “Round here, only poor folk who can’t afford cars ride bikes. Those old folks – they saw those bikes parked in front of this house and couldn’t figure out what was going on. They knew this here house is empty – the owners are on vacation. It sure seemed mighty strange to have these bikes parked here in front of the house all day, and they figured that maybe you all were breaking in to the house.”

  I just shook my head and wondered just how those old folks expected us to carry away all those belongings they feared we were stealing.

  As we made our way eastward the mountains grew steadily bigger and the passes higher. We thought back to our days on the coast with thousand-foot climbs and wondered just how we thought they were so difficult. Our daily routine now regularly included climbing two- or three-thousand-foot passes, and then plummeting back down the other side. Days were hot, but about to get even hotter.

  As we neared Death Valley, we knew we were in for a challenge. The Panamint Range stood before us, hiding the wonders of the lowest point in North America. In order to get there, however, we would have to cross our highest pass yet – Emigrant Pass at 5318 feet above sea level. Given the fact that we were starting out below sea level, it was one hell of a climb.

  The boys walked up steep hills as it was easier for John to pedal solo.

  Stashing as much water as possible into our panniers, we set off for the sixty-mile trek to the next water source 4200 vertical feet higher than where we started. The first few miles weren’t bad, but eventually the climb started and the going got tough. Cars were few and far between as we slowly ground our way up through a narrow canyon. The kids had long since gotten off the bike to walk, leaving John alone on the triple. I walked my bike alongside the boys. All four of us were drenched in sweat and thirsty beyond belief, knowing we had to preserve our precious water.