“Come in! Come in! Goodness – you must be half freezing to death!” The owner of a little hotel we had finally arrived at came out to shoo the kids in out of the rain and next to the fireplace. “You must be miserable.”
The boys ran in happily, trailing a river of water behind them. It wasn’t long before they were happily ensconced in overstuffed chairs before the fire with cups of hot chocolate in their hands.
John and I registered for a room, then headed over to turn the heat up to eighty degrees and run a tubful of hot water. We had camped out enough and were ready to pamper ourselves. I crawled into bed with a good book and John relaxed in the tub for hours while the kids watched TV. Outside the cold rain continued to fall. A hotel room never felt so good.
* * *
Dear Grandma,
Last night it rained. In the morning we couldn’t decide whether to leave or stay, but finally we left. Once we started Daddy said he regretted that decision. I cried because it was so cold. Later it poured so we stopped at a lady’s house. The rain was cold. The ladies were making a quilt. We stayed at their house for a long time. It was warm, but we couldn’t stay there all night, so we had to go back out in the rain. When we finally got to the hotel the people gave us some hot chocolate to warm us up. I’m glad we came here even though it was miserable getting here.
Love, Daryl
* * *
John had become a slave driver. Every morning he dragged us all out of bed early, and cracked the whip all day. We were passing through the Ozarks, which are tough in the best of times. Long, steep uphill climbs followed by death-defying downhill plunges. Day after day we pushed on, wearing ourselves down. Each evening we dragged into a campsite, set up camp, forced down dinner and collapsed into bed. We no longer had the luxury of time to stop and smell the roses or play in the playground. We had to crank out the miles if we were to reach Boise before school started.
We were terribly behind schedule – we had hoped to be much closer to Connecticut by that point in time. Waiting out one storm after another had taken its toll, and fighting headwinds had slowed us down considerably. I began to realize I couldn’t maintain that pace. I was exhausted. The boys were exhausted. John was exhausted – even though he wouldn’t admit it.
“We need to go!” he urged. “We’ve got to make it 1300 miles each month! If we don’t, there’s no way we’ll make it home on time.”
I was quickly getting to the point where I didn’t care. The joy had gone out of the trip and the magic was gone. We had reached the Katy Trail and I wanted so badly to enjoy it, but I wasn’t enjoying it at all. We had arisen early and pushed all day. I could tell the Katy was a great ride – no cars, very gentle inclines, and nice scenery. The surface of crushed, hard-packed limestone was generally quite nice, but all the rain recently had softened it up a bit, making it quite sandy in a few spots. For the most part we were able to make decent time, but sometimes we went so slowly I felt like I could have crawled faster.
And then there were the flat tires. A few miles after starting in the morning, the trailer tire went flat. John took it off, repaired the tube, and put it back to together. A half mile later, his rear tire was hissing like a mad cat. A rock had worked its way through the tire, puncturing the tube. Changing the rear tire on the triple was a royal pain due to the drum brake, but we had no choice. We sat down in the middle of the trail and repaired it.
The flat tires and sandy surface had set us back, so we pushed hard to try to make it to where we had decided we would camp for the night. As the minutes ticked by and the sun made its way down, adrenaline kicked in and we screamed along the path at top speed, knowing the sun would bid us farewell all too soon. With nine miles to go, my rear tire went flat. I pumped it up and kept pedaling. I pumped it again at seven miles and at five miles.
In complete darkness we pulled into the city park in Pilot Grove to beg permission to set up our tent. Somehow, the gods were with us and we managed to find the right person – the man with the keys! He readily agreed to us camping there and even opened the bathroom for us.
We were all exhausted. For the first time ever the boys were too tired to play on the playground, and asked me not to read a bedtime story. Davy curled up and fell asleep on the park bench while John set up the tent. After carrying Davy to the tent and tucking him into his sleeping bag, I crawled into bed and let the tears flow. I was exhausted and knew I couldn’t do it any more.
We were exhausted. After pushing hard too many days, we knew something had to change. Davy didn't even make it to the tent before falling asleep.
A New Beginning and an End
John and I both knew something had to change. We were too tired to continue. The joy was gone. The magic had disappeared.
The main reason for our trip in the first place was time. We were tired of the rat race of daily life at home and wanted time. Time to relax. Time with our boys. Time to smell the roses. And yet we had lost that. The daily rat race was back – different, but still there. We found ourselves pushing hard to make miles; to cover ground. We didn’t have time to relax or enjoy our boys; we had to keep moving. We finally decided to escape from that rat race as well. We made the decision to slow down and enjoy the ride. We agreed to take time to play; time to learn; and time to smell the roses.
Our new plan called for an early end to the journey. Rather than the fourteen months we had originally budgeted, we would take only twelve. Rather than make a complete loop around the USA, we would stop in Connecticut at John’s mom’s house.
Our change of plans would give us time to enjoy our kids, but would also give us time with other important people in our lives. In our frantic mad dash to Boise, we had planned to spend a grand total of three or four days with John’s mom in Connecticut before heading out for the 2500-mile trek home. A change of plans would give us more time with her. And the news from Boise about my mom wasn’t good. We decided to be back home in July to spend time with her before we started a new rat race of another school year.
In many ways our decision was tough – the death of a dream is never pleasant. But in many other ways it was a relief. In some ways it was not the death of a dream at all, but merely changing what was quickly becoming a nightmare back into a dream come true. We had come back to the beginning: spending time with our children exploring this grand country of ours – this place where we belong.
We changed our plans to give us more time to play - and play we did!
I felt like it was a new beginning. We stopped in Boonville for a couple of hours and didn’t feel pressure to move on. We planned to stop early and camp in a conservation area, but somehow managed to miss it. In Rocheport we asked about it, found out we had passed it four miles ago, and actually pedaled back! We stopped hours before dark and enjoyed God’s creation. We had made the right decision.
“Betcha can’t catch that frog!” John challenged the boys. Davy dashed down to the banks of the mighty Missouri River... and returned a few minutes later covered with mud. Now, I’m not talking about that wimpy stuff we call mud in the west. This stuff was gloopy and gloppy, and thick as bread dough. This stuff wasn’t just mud – it was plain ol’ unadulterated Muck! Davy came up with Muck all over. The kid wasn’t even a kid at that point – he was more of an ucky brown abominable snowman. John took one look at him and burst out laughing. “What ‘cha gonna do now, Davy?”
Davy turned to me with pathetic, puppy-dog eyes and asked, “Mommy, will you help me?”
How could I refuse? How could I just leave the future of my genetic makeup standing there looking for all the world like a miniature Yeti. Bigfoot’s child. I mean, one just doesn’t do that to a child. You can’t subject your offspring to the injustice of Muck, can you?
John’s idea (which, in retrospect, was probably the better of the two) was to just let the muck dry and fall off in clumps. But I had other ideas – yessiree ma’am, I did! I would use the waters of the mighty Missouri herself to clean up that Muck. And my plan would ha
ve worked just peachy if my boys had had a lick of sense. But nine-year-old boys aren’t exactly known for copious amounts of that commodity, and my boys were no exception.
I herded Davy down to the riverbank and Daryl, of course, followed. “I ain’t gonna get in that river, Mom. No way!”
“You most certainly are, young man. Git yer clothes off and scurry your hiney into that water!” Davy stripped down and headed to the water – right back into the Muck.
Now Daryl thought that looked more fun than a barrel of monkeys, so he slipped off his shoes and ran to the river. “Don’t get in the Muck with your clothes on!” I shouted a tad too late. Daryl sank to his knees.
I stood there on the banks of the mighty Missouri watching my two little boys slopping around, wallowing in the Muck. Those little guys were covered head to toe with ooey, gooey, mucky Muck - and loving every minute of it. “How on Earth,” I wondered, “am I going to get these two out of here?”
One of my powers as SuperMom, I had discovered, was that of telepathic communication with my boys. Except that it didn’t always connect the way it should. Maybe it was those nine-year-old brains that screwed it up... But somehow I managed to get them into the river to wash off and coached them on how to carefully exit the Muck on rocks, and we headed back to our bikes to continue on our way.
Cycling the Katy Trail was wonderful. No cars for over 200 miles!
I had forgotten how magic biking across America could be. In our haste – our mad dash – we had lost those moments; those moments of pure impulsiveness, of simple joys, of good times and laughter. But they came back once we made our decision. It truly was a new beginning.
* * *
Dear Grandma,
We finally had a fire this morning. We haven’t had time for a fire for a long time! We made this thing we call “jets.” It’s when you get plastic on a stick and burn it. The plastic burns and drips down while burning and makes a really cool sound. Gallon jugs work the best. It was fun.
At lunchtime we climbed up a trail to the top of the bluff by the Katy Trail. I got a stick and crashed down bushes with it. When we got to the top Daddy tried to throw my stick down onto the trail we were riding on. It got caught in a tree.
When we were riding we rode over a snake. Daddy couldn’t stop or we would’ve stopped on it and it would bite us. We couldn’t turn or we might fall and it would bite us. So we rode over it. It was mad. When we looked back it was coiled up ready to attack. Then it slithered away.
Love, Daryl
* * *
We were pedaling along the highway a week or two later when I saw a sign: “Vincennes: 33 miles”
Hmmm... I thought to myself, I thought Vincennes was in Indiana.
We pulled out the map and sure enough – Vincennes was in Indiana. Which meant that we had nearly crossed Illinois. That’s when the transformation happened. We were no longer just your normal, ordinary, run-of-the-mill bikers. Uh uh. No way. We were SUPERBIKERS! We were able to pedal as fast as the tailwind pushed us; able to cross the state of Illinois in a mere three days. Yes, indeed, we were SUPERBIKERS! Okay, so I could have told myself that Illinois was an exceptionally narrow state, but I chose not to pop my own bubble. I chose to believe, for the moment anyway, that we had somehow taken on superhuman capabilities and could cross a whole state in less time than most people work in a week.
We had somehow made another seventy mile day. Although we had vowed to slow down and smell the roses, it was hard to ignore the tailwind. After so many days of fighting headwinds, we felt a need – an inner drive – to take advantage of every moment of a tailwind. So the wind was blowing, and we were pedaling – all day.
It felt great to have the luxury of making that choice. We had time if we wanted it. We could ride hard if we felt like it; we could stop when we chose to. It was a little slice of heaven and we reveled in the feeling of pedaling hard – knowing we didn’t have to.
The following day dawned bright and clear. A tail wind pushed us along and we made good time. By noon, however, the sky lit up with the brilliant flash of lightning. I counted seven seconds before the ear-piercing crack of thunder exploded from above. It was only noon and it was dark and ominous. Another flash of lightning, but that time it couldn’t have been more than four seconds before I could feel the thunder reverberate within the frame of my bicycle. We seemed to be heading directly into a violent storm and the blackened rain clouds above seemed continuously illuminated by flashes of lightning.
“Nancy!” John shouted to be heard over the din of the wind. “The storm is heading west. If we wait here I think we’ll avoid the worst of it!”
BOOM! That time the lightning was right in front of us and flashed almost simultaneously with the roar of thunder.
We stopped in the hope the storm would pass and we’d ride the last seven miles into town without getting drenched. After plastic bagging all our essentials the worst of the storm had passed and we continued on our way. Rivers of water gushed down the sides of the road where just minutes before the storm had passed. We hoped we had managed to luck out again.
Preparing for a storm. Everything needed to be in plastic.
Unfortunately, with only three miles left it started pouring rain and, when we sloshed into town, we took shelter under the awning of a Dollar General store. The kids and I went inside to figure out where we might find a cheap motel, while John stayed out in the cold to watch the bikes.
A few minutes later John beckoned us out. “Come here!” he called. “I’ve got a place to stay!”
A gray-haired woman with a gleam in her eyes and a smile on her face had driven up to John and asked, “Do you need a place to stay tonight? You’re welcome to stay with us; we live right around the corner.”
As the rain came ceaselessly down, we followed her home on our bikes. When we arrived, her husband was waiting on the porch to greet us, and he showed us to the basement where we would be warm and dry for the night. We couldn’t have been more grateful.
The following morning we headed to the library to check email. Emails from my sister had become more and more frequent, with increasingly bad news about Mom. Cancer was ravaging her body and she was slowly, but steadily, getting weaker.
I clicked on the email from my sister and started reading. “I’ve been stoic for the past seven months, but now I need your sympathy. I am FRIED!”
As I continued reading, my heart fell. Mom wasn’t doing well at all, and Glenda was at her wit’s end. She was ready to crack under the stress. I needed to get home, and I knew I could no longer wait until July.
John and I discussed the situation and decided to abort our journey. We had known all along that day might come, and had agreed to head home if we were needed. Neither of us doubted we were needed now. Our journey was over. It had been a great ride, but now it was time to head home. We started figuring out the logistics.
We were in a tiny town in southern Ohio and there was not much there. There was no way we could have shipped the bikes home and it would have been a nightmare to try to find packing materials. We made the decision to ride to my other sister’s house in Toledo two hundred fifty miles away. The way we figured it, we could get there in a week or less. It would take us a couple days to get the bikes packed and shipped. We would be home in Boise in ten days. The trip was over. We were going home.
Late in the evening, John left our hotel room to call Glenda on the pay phone. A while later he walked back into our room with a glum look on his face, and I knew the news wasn’t good.
“Nancy,” he said. “You need to go home – now.”
“We are!” I proclaimed. “I’ll be there in ten days!”
“No. I mean now. As in – you need to get home. You don’t have ten days.”
Mom had taken a turn for the worse. She had come home after a bunch of tests at the hospital the day before and had collapsed into bed. Glenda feared she would never leave her bed again. It was clear that Mom’s time left on Earth could be measured in h
ours.
I felt so helpless. I wanted to do something. I wanted to rent a car and start driving. I wanted to get to the airport. I wanted to move, but I was stranded. There was no airport shuttle from the tiny town we were in. There was no bus. The rental car agencies were closed.
I wanted to make plane reservations, but I had no internet access. All I had was a cell phone with nobody to call. Nobody to call and make it all better.
So I sat. I sat on the porch of our hotel, passing the night... biding my time until morning when I could do something. I was utterly helpless and confused.
Morning came slowly, but once it arrived I burst into a flurry of action. I greeted the librarian as he opened the door and ran to the computers.
“Please help!” I posted on our online journal. “I need a place to stash my bike in Columbus while I fly to Boise! Please leave a message with my sister.”
I called the airline and made reservations for later that day.
I reserved a rental car to get me to the airport.
While I was frantically making those preparations, John and the boys were at the hotel getting things ready for me. One bag to take with me to Boise; the rest of the stuff to leave somewhere in Columbus. Where I would leave it was anybody’s guess, but we trusted that someone would come through.
A few hours later I was set – I had a rental car and a plane ticket. My bike was stowed in the trunk ready to be dropped off... where? I quickly called Glenda – she had been inundated with calls. In fact, one caller was on the other line at that moment. Yes, I could leave my bike in her garage. I got directions to her house and was off – off to see my mother one last time on planet earth.
Twenty Miles per Cookie: 9000 Miles of Kid-Powered Adventures Page 15
