Ride Across America

United States of America
By Dan McKechnie

Did you ever think it would be a lot of fun to ride a bicycle across the United States? I thought so too. Just riding along the back roads of America, using your legs to propel you and your two-wheeled vehicle, while meeting new people and enjoying some fantastic scenery.

Sounds great. In fact, this idea sounded so great to me that I began planning for this trip in 1981 when I was in the eighth grade in Orlando, Florida. The only problem was that I had to wait four LONG years until I got out of high school before I could go. (Here’s some advice: Don’t plan a much-desired trip that far in advance if you can help it. The wait will almost kill you.)

And speaking of death, let’s fast-forward to a July day in 1985. I felt that dying on this day might be a 50-50 possibility. I’m on my 18 speed Fuji Royale II trying to make some progress across the badlands of North Dakota. As far as I’m concerned, no other name would be acceptable. This land was not being good to me. Heat, headwinds, and hills. Bad land. But more on this later. As I rode, I thought about the people on this trip and what we had experienced to this point.

Eleven of us, ten individuals from all over the United States and one from Holland, ranging in age from my 17 years to senior cyclist Ray Hilton’s 62 years had met in Anacortes, Washington, a beautiful small town north of Seattle on June 8, 1985. We were to begin a route that would take us on a three month 4,200 mile trek to Maine and the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. None of us had ever spoke to one another before. We were complete strangers who, for whatever reason, wanted an adventure. When you talk about people from all walks of life, this was pretty much it. College students, a physical therapist, a receptionist, business owners, and retirees among others. Some perhaps were looking for answers, while some were just looking to have a good time. And none of us, perhaps with the exception of Brian from Holland, would ever be mistaken for a world-class cyclist. We were all just ready to give it a shot.

Each of us had signed up for this trip through an organization that was then called Bikecentennial. Its name was derived from the celebration in 1976 of America’s 200th birthday. Starting that year Bikecentennial began running cross-country bicycle trips with a route from Oregon to Virginia. Now in 1985 a new route was mapped along the northern tier of the US and we were the first ones to try it out.

And so it began. After a “shakedown” ride around town on June 9th, we headed east out of Anacortes on the morning of June 10th, destination Maine. Everything we had was carried on our bikes: clothes, tents, sleeping bags, cooking equipment, spare tubes, patch kits, pumps, and water bottles. We had no outside support; there was no van that followed us in case we couldn’t ride on or if a breakdown was too much for us to repair.

Our riding days would be between 50 and 80 miles a day, with a rest day every seven to ten days. We’d take turns with cooking and cleaning duties each night and have a group meeting to discuss where to travel to the next day. Charlie McIntosh was our group leader, hired by Bikecentennial to lead us to Maine. This was his second time leading a cross-country trip. He was 37 and spoke with a slow southern drawl that you might expect from someone from North Carolina. “Well…we’ve got two options,” he would say. “We can go 55 miles tomorrow…and camp at Malta…or we can go 80, stay near Saco… and have a shorter ride the day before our rest day. What do y’all think?”

I must have thought that it didn’t matter anymore. I was in great shape now. “Would you like to go 180 miles Charlie? I’m ready.” We had been on the road for over a month. We had climbed numerous mountain passes in the Cascade Mountains and in Glacier National Park. And most recently we had battled summer roads in Montana that were literally covered with grasshoppers waiting to jump on you as you disturbed their resting place. Pam Mullins, our shortest participant, found out just exactly how high they could jump when one pounced off the pavement and landed directly between her eyeglass lens and her eye.

We had also had some fantastic experiences with people while camping in small city parks and really got a feel for what life was like in small town America. On one occasion we arrived to set up camp in one of the smallest towns we had been in yet. To our dismay the only place to buy food was closed for the day. One of the citizens stopped by to chat with us and we told her our plight. “Let me see if I can find Mike,” she said. “He runs the store. I’ll ask him if he can come down and open it for you.” And within fifteen minutes here comes Mike with the keys to open up, just for us. Pretty nice hospitality when you’ve just finished riding and have nothing to eat for dinner.

All things considered, good things were happening. That is, until that one day in North Dakota. Charlie had told us in the days prior that we would have about a 70 mile stretch between Williston and New Town where there would be no services of any kind along the way. OK. Not a big deal. Just make sure all your water bottles are filled and pack an extra apple or two. We also knew that there would be frequent changes in elevation up to 500 feet. Big deal, I thought. I’ve climbed MOUNTAINS. Those hills aren’t going to bother me.

Well, unfortunately Charlie just did not have a second option for us on that day, such as “Some of the good citizens of Williston have agreed to attach ropes from their cars to your handlebars. They’ll proceed at the relatively safe speed of 35 miles per hour. If you leave at 7, you’ll be in New Town by 9.”
I say unfortunately, because when we hit the road that morning, as fate would have it with 70 miles to ride and with nothing in between, we would have the greatest headwinds of the entire trip. What timing.

So there I was. Riding along State Road 1804. By this time of the trip we had all pretty much found ourselves riding by ourselves on a daily basis. At least for most of the day. People would leave camp at different times in the morning, and riding ability, along with preferences for taking breaks, varied.

I don’t remember seeing a soul from the group the whole day. And shortly into the day I was searching my own soul, wondering what I had done to deserve being out in this mess. Headwinds while riding a bike are one thing. However, this was ridiculous. I won’t even manage a guess as to how strong they were in terms of miles per hour. But with the effort I was giving in pedaling, I was not being equally repaid with progress. Whatever confidence I had built to this point in riding ability was surely being tested now.
That day was dry and hot. Each hill was a struggle, seemingly a crawl to the top. And once there, you could quickly spot that more hills were ahead off in the distance, just like the one you had climbed.

To make matters worse, the water supply was running low much too soon. My rationing plan wasn’t successful and, by my guess, I had about 25 miles to ride still. At the pace I was going that meant about four more hours of tortuous riding without the luxury of a sip of water.

But then it happened. At the top of hill number 53 (a number I figured might be right for that day) I thought I could see signs of life on the side of the road. Yes, right there at the top of hill number 54! It looked like vehicles. Were there people there?

Usually there’s a thrill involved after an uphill climb. A reward of sorts for a job well done. You get to speed downhill. Well, on this day it was very effectively diminished by the headwinds. I puttered downhill and readied myself for the next one, trying to figure out what was going on up ahead.

As I got closer and began the ascent I realized that it was a road crew on work detail. If I could form the words with my dry mouth I was going to open the conversation with “Hello, water?” But alas, I didn’t even have to say a word. As I got within thirty feet of them, one of the workers held out a can for me to grab. It was a Coca-Cola. I took it, said thank you in a dusty voice and kept on riding. Talk about an oasis in the desert. What fantastic luck. The can was a beautiful sight with those wonderful beads of perspiration all over it. I cracked the top and downed it in seconds.

Well, it didn’t take me long to realize my mistake. Just like eating a bunch of pancakes sounds good until you eat them, quenching your dehydration with a sugary, syrupy soda only cuts it for a very short period of time. “You idiot!” I thought to myself. Why would you not ask them for water! They must have water with them!” My rationalization was that maybe the man gave me what they had available. But I had to go back and check. Or did I? Sure, going back a few miles to them would literally be a breeze, riding back in the opposite direction with a phenomenal tailwind. But then I would have to turn around and face the headwinds again on a portion of road I had already ridden. I was in no mood for that. I just put my head down, looked at the pavement, and rode on.

Yes, I did make it to camp that night. And it was at night. Some people were already there and some came in after me. I just sat in one place and stared. Camp is usually a cheerful place. Good conversation and laughter. But I wasn’t hearing too much of that on this particular evening. I tried to inject some humor into the day, pretending that my senses had suffered a temporary loss from the day’s excruciating events. “Pam? Pam, is that you?” I said with a blank expression as she sat and spoke across from me at the table. “Please, say something. Let me know what’s going on.”

In sitting around, we all knew what would be going on in a few short hours. Getting back on the bikes and riding again. We were heading to Maine. And looking back, having the opportunity to do that really was great, no matter what the weather was like.