This Road I Ride

by Juliana Buhring

  Tom messaged Antonio to ask what I would need on the road, so his car is full of chocolate-covered dried fruit, energy bars, Gatorade, and bananas. Bananas! I hope I didn’t offend him when I screwed up my nose and left him standing by the roadside when he held one out to me. There is only one fruit in the world I truly hate, and that happens to be the wonder food that most athletes swear by. The smell alone makes me gag. I could starve in a jungle full of banana plants. I don’t think Tom minds too much when, at the next food stop, I tell him the bananas are all his.

  AUGUST 10, 2012

  Near Buffalo, New York, I say goodbye to Tom, who has to head back home, to his job in Boston. I’m sorry to see him go. He has become a great friend and champion of my cause. My impressions of America are formed from people like him, whose generosity smooths my path across their continent.

  The scenery hardly changes throughout the northeastern states: cornfields on the right, wheat on the left, and a road cutting through the middle. Two little boys playing on a giant tractor, with dirty overalls and hay-colored hair, wave and shout, “Hey there, bicycle lady!” Farther down the road, I pass a horse-drawn wagon filled with Amish women in dark dresses and bonnets, heading into town to sell their organic produce. People riding lawn mowers raise a hand as I pedal by. A couple of Harley-Davidsons roar past. A man up a ladder is painting his wood-slate house white, the radio blasting “Let it Be.” A red, white, and blue flag hangs from every porch. The wind is fresh, the sun is high. This is America.

  Antonio’s best friend, Jesse, and his girlfriend, Jill, live in Cleveland, Ohio. I crashed on their floor last night, and they are joining me on the road today to shoot some photos for people following the ride online.

  The terrain has flattened out, but the headwinds are still brutal, and the sky is crowded with metal-gray clouds. It’s like pedaling on a treadmill, having to fight for every mile.

  “This isn’t working. I’ll never get anywhere like this.” My voice is shaky with frustration when I find Jesse and Jill waiting by the side of the road. “I have to change direction somehow. Even the wind at an angle would be better.”

  Jesse pulls out a map, and we plan a series of roads that zigzag south and northwest to avoid direct headwinds.

  At least the terrain is flat, and I manage to pick up some speed over the next few hours. I spot my friends’ car parked up a side road just as Jill gets out and waves me down. Swerving sharply to make the turn in time, Pegasus’s wheels slip on the gravel surface, and we skid a few yards. I lie still, slightly dazed, arms spread like a crucified Christ. I let my head drop back and stare up at the sky. “Huh. Gravel works exactly like black ice. Who knew?”

  “Oh my God!” shouts Jesse as he races over, mouth open, hands flailing wildly around his head.

  I realize he can’t see my eyes behind the dark glasses and must think I’m out cold. This appeals to my dark sense of humor, so I continue to lie unmoving to watch his reaction.

  Jill runs over as Jesse really starts to panic. “Oh my God. She’s not moving! What do we do?”

  I let them squirm a little longer, till phrases like “911” and “call an ambulance” tell me it’s probably time to end the mischief.

  “I’m fine, Jesse.” I jump up, laughing.

  “Juliana! I—I can’t believe you!” he sputters. “That is a terrible joke! How could you do that?”

  “Sorry, but your reaction was priceless. I couldn’t not do it. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” I mimic his head-in-hands panic.

  “You did look pretty funny,” Jill agrees.

  Finally he laughs, probably more from relief than because he finds it remotely amusing.

  The skin down my thigh has been flayed, and it’s burning, blood seeping through my cycling shorts and torn shirtsleeve, but the sun breaks through the clouds as I enter Defiance County. The name seems appropriate. Today I’m determined not to be beaten. My target is to reach the small town of Hicksville, a few miles from the border of Ohio and Indiana. Jesse and Jill drive on ahead to find a motel for the night.

  Motels in these tiny towns are basic and utilitarian, but finding a place to stay is never a problem. The trouble is finding somewhere to eat after eight p.m. I usually pedal till sundown, rarely stopping earlier than eight-thirty, but nobody seems to eat late in middle America. Restaurants and diners are often closed by the time I have found a place to stay and gone in search of food.

  It is already dark when Jesse and Jill find me on the road, still a few miles outside Hicksville. Despite the tumble, I pedaled 133 miles today, and I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself.

  The motel we check into is run by a grumpy old woman who huffs and puffs her way around her unresponsive husband, filling out the registration forms and then ordering him to escort me to my room.

  “Now, there’s a life-size painting of a man on your wall. Supposed to be a theme from some famous novel. Don’t let it startle you. It was there when we took the place over,” she hollers at me as I follow her silent spouse to a smaller building behind the main one.

  The guest in the room next door to mine is tall, with gray hair and stubble across his face, wearing a blue-collared shirt tucked into jeans. He watches me wheel Pegasus up to the door, clearly looking for an opening to make conversation.

  “Hi! I’m yer neighbor,” he says.

  I smile, nod, and carry my bike inside the room. The “man on the wall” is resplendent in an old captain’s hat and dark blue jacket, smoking a pipe, with the sea and a lighthouse behind him. He could be Moby-Dick’s Captain Ahab or Santiago from The Old Man and the Sea, I can’t decide which. The entire room is decorated in an ocean theme.

  I wash my cycling clothes and hang them over any available furniture, hoping they’ll dry by tomorrow. My friendly neighbor is still loitering as I leave the room to go for dinner with Jesse and Jill.

  “How tall are ya?” is his next stab at conversation.

  “I don’t know,” I answer, feeling uncomfortable when he falls into step directly behind me.

  “Cuz, yer real tall, y’know?”

  “I know.”

  “I seen ya with a bike.”

  “Yup.” I stop in front of Jesse and Jill’s room and knock.

  “Where ya headed?” He is standing too close for comfort now, his face right in mine.

  “Across America, to Seattle.”

  “Ah, didn’t nobody tell ya? Yer goin’ the wrong way!” He guffaws.

  “Yes. You are certainly not the first to mention it.”

  “See ya later!” he hollers as Jesse and Jill open the door, and I’m pretty sure he means it.

  The only place open, and possibly serving food, is a little dive bar a couple of miles down the road.

  “Do you think Hicksville was named after its people, or do the people live up to the name?” Jill asks as we watch the colorful local nightlife around us.

  A couple of wannabe hiphop hicks are sitting at the bar across from our table. The more vociferous of the two is a gangly youth dressed in an oversize T-shirt, with a gaudy silver chain around his neck, backward cap over his cropped ginger hair, and minuscule headphones around his neck. One hand clapped on the shoulder of his chubby companion, he shouts across the bar, “Hey, Carly! Earlie here’s won himself a six-pack! Carly! Earlie’s sharin’ his six-pack! Get yo’ ass over here!”

  Carly shows signs of having downed a great many six-packs already today. He has one arm thrown around a three-foot tall blond woman eating French fries and the other around a leathery-skinned woman who looks sixty but is probably forty. “My favorite ladies! Give us a kiss!” he roars, swooping down to plant one on the blonde’s cheek, while she ducks nimbly away. The older woman rolls her eyes and chuckles, “Sure we are. You only say that after you’ve had too many.”

  “Carly!” Bucktooth shouts again. “Leave them ladies and get yo’ ass over here if you want a beer!”

  More giggles from Earlie. Carly stomps expectantly over, crushing each teenager affectionat
ely under a sweaty armpit.

  “Beer!” he shouts at the bar girl, a wiry tomboy in a T-shirt and ripped jeans. “Let’s have it then! Where’s that six-pack?”

  “Hold yer horses.” She scowls at him, evidently used to handling boisterous regulars. She opens the fridge and plonks a pack of Bud Light onto the bar.

  Our orders arrive as the excitement starts to escalate. We eat quickly, but not as quickly as the six-pack is downed. The locals are getting rowdy. “It’s probably a good idea to go,” Jesse says. “In a few more minutes bottles will start breaking.”

  He and Jill escort me to my bedroom door, where, as promised, my neighbor is waiting.

  “What’s your sun sign?” he greets me.

  “I don’t know.” I opt for evasion, quickly inserting the key and opening the door.

  He notices Jesse hovering nearby. “Where you folks from?”

  “Cleveland. Just accompanying Juliana here for some of the road.”

  “That’s awful nice of you.”

  “Yeah, it’s been fun.” Jesse keeps my neighbor distracted while I retreat into the room.

  “’Night, guys.” I close the door as Jesse gives me a thumbs-up. I can hear the guy trying to make small talk, Jesse saying something about having to go to bed, the crunch of gravel as he walks away.

  After brushing my teeth and turning out the lights, I hear the unmistakable sound of the door handle turning back and forth. Or maybe I’ve just watched too many hostel horror films. Either way, I get up and check that the door is double locked and bolted before going to sleep.

  AUGUST 12, 2012

  Jesse and Jill left me in Indiana yesterday and drove back to Cleveland, and now I have stopped in Rochester to try to fix the gears, which are still jumping. There are no bike mechanics around, except for an enthusiastic amateur named Dennis, who works out of the garage at the back of his house, helping friends and neighbors with minor repairs. Like the mechanics who’ve already looked at it, he’s unable to fix the shifter problem, but he does change my tires over a couple of cold beers. Then he and his wife take me out for an Italian dinner. The mushy pasta smothered in processed cheese is awful, but the company is wonderful.

  The generosity and open-natured kindness of the Americans I have met continue to impress me. Unlike the Europeans, with their ancient cultures, who can behave like cynical old-timers who have seen it all and are hard to impress, many of the people I encounter in America still seem to embody the curiosity and openness of a young, fledgling country. They are less prone to sarcasm and pretense. A stranger cycling through is a natural curiosity. Anytime I stop on the road, within minutes someone will pull up to assist, chat, or even invite me to their home for dinner.

  This afternoon, having pulled off the road to take a call from Antonio, hunched over the handlebars to speak into my phone, two women stop their cars to ask if I am okay. I have never experienced this level of camaraderie anywhere. “That’s just us Americans,” one of them tells me. “You’ll never stay in trouble long here.”

  Whenever I pass someone, I always receive a wave, an observation, or a piece of advice. Like the woman driving a lawn mower over the sprawling green turf behind her country home. I had been pedaling up and down a roller-coaster road on what felt like an endless series of hills. She stopped to watch as I crested another hill, waiting till I cruised by on the way down, to holler, “It doesn’t get any better! Them hills go on like that forever!”

  AUGUST 13, 2012

  I’m in Illinois, heading toward Peoria, and it has not stopped raining since I crossed the state line. My shoes are drenched, my feet are numb, and only the audiobook in my earphones distracts from the utter physical misery. I decided on American authors for the ride across the States, and Philip Roth’s novella The Dying Animal is the current choice on my playlist.

  Since I stopped early yesterday, having covered only ninety miles, I plan to make up the lost ground today, despite the rain. It could be worse. There could be headwinds.

  “Let’s get it done,” I tell Pegasus, which is exactly what we are doing when, speeding down an incline, I clock the railroad tracks too late. The earth around the rails has caved away, leaving deep ruts full of water. I have no choice but to brake and swerve at the last moment. That second before impact is one of the longest on earth. Everything slows down, but at the same time it all happens so quickly that you don’t have time to register any of it until it’s over.

  I hit the ground hard this time, with one foot still attached to the pedal. My helmet saves my head, bouncing against the tracks like a basketball. My left arm hurts when I flex it, my wrist feels sprained, and blood is seeping through my shorts. Now both thighs are badly bruised and flayed. On the bright side, at least I will have matching scars.

  Bits and pieces have flown off the bike, and there are fresh gashes in the white paint, but overall Pegasus suffered less damage than me. Shaken, I put the bike back together, realign the chain, and sit down on the tarmac to settle my nerves. Note to self: in future, watch out for train tracks.

  Equilibrium restored, I climb back onto the bike, determined not to let the fall break my stride. I pedal painfully on through the interminable drizzle, Philip Roth in my ears reminding me that “like all enjoyable things, you see, it has unenjoyable parts to it.”

  AUGUST 14, 2012

  Larger towns and cities mean a potential Starbucks, which means finding a passable coffee. Since leaving Italy, my search for good espresso has become a daily preoccupation. It’s almost silly how the everyday little things in life take on such disproportionate importance when you find yourself without them.

  Google Maps has revealed that there is a Starbucks in Peoria, so I decide to stop there for lunch. I’m just parking Pegasus against the wall when I hear someone shouting my name. A blond woman in shorts and a T-shirt is stepping out of a black Jeep holding a fluorescent green sign that reads, GO JULIANA!

  “Are you Juliana?” she asks, coming over.

  “Er, yes?”

  “We’ve been expecting you to pass by. I’m Marsha. My son and I have been following your progress on the Spot tracker since we heard about your ride from a friend. We wanted to put you up for the night, but I guess the timing’s off. I thought I’d meet you on the road anyway and give you some snacks.” She hands me a plastic bag full of energy bars and chocolate. Happy days. “Are you stopping for lunch?”

  “Yes, just this minute actually.”

  “What a crazy coincidence! I was just about to drive out to find you along the road when you pulled up here right in front of me. I can’t believe my luck. Let me offer you lunch.”

  We eat Subway sandwiches, and I tell her all about my adventures across America so far, including the bike trouble I’ve been having.

  “You know my son, Bradley, worked part time for a bike shop here called Bushwackers. They can fix just about anything.”

  “That would be brilliant if they can repair my bike. The last two places told me I’d have to change the shifter, but if it can be fixed, that would save me a lot of money.” At least six hundred dollars.

  “Sure, I can take you there now if you want. Bradley wanted to meet you, too. I’ll let him know where we are.”

  “Thank you!”

  “It’s the least I can do. Sorry we can’t put you up for the night.” She dials a number and speaks to someone from the bike shop. Hanging up, she says, “Okay, the mechanic is in, and he seems optimistic he can fix the problem.”

  Bushwackers turns out to be a huge outdoors store, a large section of which is devoted to cycling. In the back is a workshop where the bike mechanic, Gary, is waiting. His wavy hair is gray, and he has the wiry physique of a longtime cyclist.

  “Let’s have a look at it.” He takes Pegasus off my hands, secures it on to the repair stand, turns the pedals, shifts the gears, checks the slack on the cable, and shakes his head. “Who tightened this? It’s waaay too tight.”

  “The last mechanic I took it to. Thought that
might be the problem. He didn’t know much about this kind of shifter.”

  “He just made it worse. Don’t have to change the part, though. Can fix this easily.”

  Finally a mechanic who knows what he is doing! While he works, I check out the store’s selection of reinforced tires. I am sick and tired of changing tubes, and a new pair of tires is long overdue. I’m out of the workshop only about five minutes, but Gary has already finished by the time I get back.

  “Problem solved,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Already?” I’m impressed. “Do you think I might get the tires changed while you’ve got Pegasus up there?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  Pegasus has a brand-new set of rubber in under five minutes.

  “Can I take you with me?” I ask.

  “I would love that. The wife might be less enthusiastic, though.”

  Thinking this day couldn’t get any better, the shop owner gives me a discount on the tires. Then he says, “We won’t charge you for the work, either.”

  It all comes to a fraction of what I would have had to pay for a new shifter. Thank God for road angels.

  AUGUST 15–16, 2012

  After crossing the MacArthur Bridge over the Mississippi river into Iowa, I pull off at a service station to use the toilet and stock up on water. Waiting in line at the counter with some protein bars and a couple of bottles, I can’t help overhearing the conversation between the cashier and a local customer.

  “Yup, they’re drivin’ around town with an AK-47 and a BB gun, shootin’ up people’s cars, people’s dawgs, people’s windows.” An acute reminder that America, “the land of the free,” is also the land of the “free to carry weapons.” I decide discretion is the better part of valor and hightail it out of town as fast as I can pedal.

  My route passes through the drift plains of southern Iowa. The gently rolling hills, carpeted in the standard agricultural staples of wheat and corn, make for easy, if monotonous, pedaling. Give me a tailwind—or no wind—and I should reach Missouri within a couple of days.