LIFE IN THE SLOW LANE
Date: Sunday, July 15, 2001 
By DAVE HOGAN THE OREGONIAN

Portlanders left Washington, D.C., last year on May 15. After two months of
pedaling 3,339 miles, they made it home. The journey had its high points (the
Continental Divide) and its low moments (an inflamed knee). A year later,
they're ready to do it again.

Until the deer came crashing out of trees like a four-legged freight train, my
wife Cherie and I were peacefully coasting downhill on our bikes.

It was our sixth day of what would become two months of traveling by bicycle
last year from Washington, D.C., to Portland, and we were enjoying a break from
struggling up West Virginia's hilly back roads.

But this deer startled us almost right out of our saddles. Charging onto the
pavement from our left, less than 30 feet ahead of us, he was so close I could
hear his hooves clattering across the deserted road. Any closer and I could
have spanked his tail -- or collided with him. Instead, he shot into the woods
to our right and vanished just as quickly as he had appeared.

You don't see wildlife up close like that when you're on United or Amtrak, and
you can't hear them from behind a steering wheel. Pedaling a bike across the
country is a feast for the senses, free from the interference of windows and
engines.

Our faces felt everything from the hot sun and wind of the Great Plains to the
cool rain and the stinging hail of the Rockies. We smelled sage and mint fields
and pine forests. Our soundtrack was the splash of streams and waterfalls, the
rustle of wheat and the chirping of birds. And because we averaged less than 10
miles an hour, we had plenty of time to drink it all in.

But the best part about our bicycle odyssey was the steady parade of people who
encouraged us, helped us and made us laugh along the way. Some approached us
out of curiosity, others out of concern for our safety -- or sanity. Whether
checking our tent during a midnight storm or offering us shelter, water or
homemade muffins, people consistently went out of their way to talk to us and
offer aid.

Not to mention the interesting characters: An Illinois man who gave us his own
hybrid strain of beans to spread westward. A Hell's Angel in Kansas who
schooled us on how to aim metal objects at windshields if we needed oncoming
truck drivers to give us more elbow room (we didn't). A family of three moving,
by bicycle, from Colorado to Oregon. And a nutty dog that ran alongside us for
miles in West Virginia.

Experiencing the country in this kind of personal way was exactly what we had
in mind when we began seriously planning our two-wheeled journey. Such a trip
had been a longtime dream of mine, and when I turned 40 in 1999, the time
seemed right. Cherie agreed. My job had taken us to Washington, D.C., for three
years. Wouldn't a cross-country bicycle trip be a great way of returning home
to Oregon in the summer of 2000?

Sure . . . but just one thing: We had zero experience doing overnight bike
trips. (One overnighter with my dad and brother when I was a kid didn't count
for much.)

Barbara Siegert put our fears to rest. In her book, "Bicycle Across America,"
Siegert describes how she and her husband did the first of their five
long-range bicycle journeys after they retired, including two cross-country
trips. "If we can do it, you can do it," she assures her readers.

We took her at her word. After months of planning and training, we loaded our
bikes (we didn't weigh them until we got home; we didn't want to know) with
everything from maps, spare tires and travelers' checks to a tent, stove and
three days' worth of clothing. We had only a few goals: To make it all the way
to Portland on our bikes, to stay healthy doing it and to have a grand
adventure.

May: A bad knee on the first leg

May 15: Nervous and excited, we push off from our Washington, D.C., apartment
with Cherie's uncle accompanying us our first day. We ride through Georgetown,
catch a last glimpse of the Lincoln Memorial, then pedal across the Potomac
River into Virginia. When we stop for our first break along the Washington and
Old Dominion bike path, another west-bound cyclist with a fully-loaded bike
pulls up next to us. It's Brad Gilson of Redondo Beach, Calif. He, too, is
starting a ride to Oregon today, although he'll be taking a completely
different route. We laugh at the coincidence of meeting at the start of our
trips and wish each other good luck. Then Brad is on his way, soon disappearing
ahead of us. Early that evening, after 75 miles, we reach Harpers Ferry, W.Va.
We're weary and sore, and the idea of sleep never sounded so good. But we're
smiling. We're on our way. May 17: By our third afternoon on the road, we've
given up hope of finding many flat spots in beautifully green West Virginia.
Toward the end of a hot, hilly day of pedaling, we pull up to a McDonald's in
the town of Romney; a cold soda sounds great. As we stand outside with our
bikes, a woman drives up and invites us to join her family for grilled
hamburgers. She explains that her husband is an avid backpacker who has been
treated kindly by many people, and she wants a chance to pass on the kindness.
We follow her home, then have fun chatting for the next several hours with them
about everything from photography to turtles to the West Virginia economy. It
makes for a delightful evening. May 24: The hills of West Virginia never end.
One four-mile climb takes us an hour and a half to the summit, with me walking
my bike much of the way. So, when we cross the Ohio River into Ohio today, I
feel as if we've won the lottery. After 365 miles, we've escaped West Virginia!
May 26: The elation of crossing the Ohio River doesn't last long. Cherie's
right knee had started hurting in West Virginia. By the time we reach Athens,
Ohio, she is in tears because the pain is so severe. We park the bikes in a
motel room and find a doctor. Cherie's knee is inflamed. The doctor says that
he usually recommends that cyclists with this common condition take three to
six weeks off. But realizing that won't work for us, he prescribes some
anti-inflammatory medicine, urges her to ice her knee regularly and recommends
wearing a knee brace. He seems as dejected as we are and apologizes for not
being able to help more. Back at our motel, we discuss the possibility of
Cherie renting a car to rest her knee while I continue bicycling. My journal
entry that night is not upbeat: "I'm starting to think the idea of going all
the way across the country may have to fall by the wayside." May 29 (Memorial
Day): After a rainy weekend resting Cherie's knee in Athens, we decide to give
it another try. We start out slowly. But by day's end, we've gone 62 miles, and
her knee doesn't hurt. That evening, we roll into a campground called Camp
Coonpath outside Carroll, Ohio. With a big smile on his face, owner Al Moore is
lying on a hammock when we roll up, looking as if he's expecting us. It turns
out Al is an enthusiastic cyclist, and he insists that we be guests in his
house for the night. After dinner, we chat for hours about music, his
collection of more than 12 Volkswagens and his upcoming bike trip along
Virginia's Blue Ridge Parkway. The next morning, he cooks us breakfast, then
rides the first 12 miles with us to make sure we're on course. His enthusiasm
turns out to be infectious. We'd been feeling so low after Cherie's knee
problems, but now we perk up and speed up. Three days after leaving Al in Ohio,
we are in Indiana. Three days after that, we reach Illinois. Cherie's knee
seems to be fine!

June: Milestones of many types

June 5: As we pass through Effingham, Ill., we stop at Betty's Coffee Shop for
lunch. One of the other customers quickly pulls a chair over to our table and
begins asking us about our trip. He is Circuit Judge Rich Brummer, and much
like Al Moore, he is enthusiastic and generous. He invites us to stay at his
house that night, but since it's early afternoon, we explain that we need to
keep going. No problem, he says. He takes us across the street to his office at
the county courthouse and calls a friend who agrees to let us stay with him
farther west, in Vandalia, Ill. The judge walks us back outside, and as we're
thanking him for his help, he suddenly stops, asks us to stay put for a minute
and dashes back to his office. He reappears in a moment, explains that the
defendant in his trial scheduled for tomorrow has decided to plead guilty, and
the judge is itching to go for a ride. "Would you mind if I joined you?" he
asks. Smiling, we follow him to his nearby home, where he changes into his
cycling clothes, then he guides us the 35 miles to our destination. Along the
way, we learn that today is his 58th birthday! When we reach Vandalia, the
judge's family takes him out for a birthday dinner while his friend graciously
takes us in for the night, feeding us our first home-cooked dinner since West
Virginia. June 7: A milestone -- The Mississippi River. More than any of the
state lines or other landmarks, crossing the wide river feels like a huge
accomplishment. We can't believe we've come so far! Soon after we cross into
Missouri, we hook up with the Katy Trail, a rail line converted to a bike path
that follows the Missouri River across much of Missouri. The flat, vehicle-free
scenery is gorgeous, and we're happy knowing this will be our route for the
next four days. In Augusta, Mo., some other cyclists strike up a conversation
with us. Before we know it, a couple offers to let us use their shower and
pitch our tent in their back yard between the barn and the two-seat outhouse.
In the morning, they deliver coffee to our tent. June 9: Today is Cherie's 40th
birthday, so we quit early and splurge on a suite in the beautiful Cliff Manor
Bed and Breakfast that overlooks the Missouri River in Jefferson City. Cherie
needs some pampering. Yesterday, her tires slipped on a sandy patch of the Katy
Trail. She fell hard on her right elbow and shoulder, leaving her bruised and
bloodied. The Jacuzzi in our room helps her feel better, and a surprise
birthday cake from our hosts caps the day perfectly. June 15: For three days,
we've had a rolling family reunion, staying with my relatives while working our
way slowly across eastern Kansas. Today, we leave Topeka with my aunt and uncle
leading the way in their car to make sure we find our way out of town. That
afternoon, we learn about the fabled winds of the Great Plains. One blast out
of the southwest blows Cherie off the road and down a grassy embankment. We
decide to turn north so that the wind is mostly at our backs. That night, we
have the campground at Pottawatomie Lake all to ourselves. A chorus of
bullfrogs serenades us to sleep. June 18: Near Lebanon, Kan., we stop to read a
roadside sign marking the geographic center of the continental United States.
At first, we're elated, but then we look more closely. The sign says we still
have more than 1,600 miles to go to Portland! Discouraged, we climb back on our
bikes and start pedaling. By the time we stop for the day, we're in southern
Nebraska. June 21: Back in West Virginia, we craved flat earth, but now that
we're in Nebraska, everything is so flat and boring that we resort to counting
telephone poles as we pedal. Then we count the trains that pass us on the Union
Pacific tracks next to U.S. 30. The westbound trains win, outnumbering the
eastbound ones 19 to 14. Late in the afternoon, we stop to chat with an
eastbound cyclist. Dennis Unitas started his ride in Astoria and is on his way
home to Connecticut. He gives us some tips on a route through Wyoming before we
say goodbye. June 24: In Kansas, we began seeing frequent Oregon Trail signs.
Today, we get dramatic views of some of its biggest landmarks as we follow the
North Platte River. Courthouse Rock, Jail House Rock, Chimney Rock and Scott's
Bluff all guide us along. Combined with a tail wind and the fact that we
crossed the state line into Wyoming, it makes for one of our most enjoyable
riding days. But an Oregon Trail sign at Chimney Rock tells us the Rockies are
drawing near. "I'm not sure I like the part about how this marks 'the end of
plains travel and the beginning of the rugged mountain portion,' " Cherie says.
June 26: The cornfields, wheat fields and prairies of the Midwest are behind us
now, replaced by sagebrush and rocky bluffs. We have plenty of time to watch
antelope running near the highway while we're riding. While we're stopped for
lunch in Douglas, Wyo., Tony Marley of Las Vegas and his 10-year-old daughter,
Leah, see our bikes outside and come in to join us. They left Seattle in late
May on a tandem bicycle and have their sights set on Rehoboth Beach, Del. We
share stories and tips with them for an hour before saying goodbye and
continuing in opposite directions. June 29: After surviving a desolate stretch
with few towns or services for 50 miles or more at a time, now it looks like a
cyclist convention on U.S. 26. Stopped for lunch at Diversion Dam Rest Stop,
we're joined by a group of pedalers headed for Oregon. One, Mario May, is from
Germany; two others are from Indiana and California. But the biggest travelers
of the bunch are Leon and Tina Skiles from Portland and their two children,
Jesse, 15, and Michaela, 11. Starting in Spain 15 months ago, the Skiles family
has been biking around the world on two tandem bikes. We all ride together and
swap stories for the rest of the day, sweating through a tough but gorgeous
ride up the Wind River. Along the way, we discover that Mario started his ride
just west of Washington, D.C., on the same day we did and rode across much of
the country with Brad Gilson -- the same Brad we had met in Virginia on the
first day of our trip. At day's end, we all camp at the same campground.

Continental Divide -- and home!

July 1: For weeks, we have been dreading today's task: Going over the
Continental Divide and the tallest point on our trip, Togwotee Pass, at 9,658
feet. Starting in the town of Dubois, we know we'll have to climb about 3,000
feet. But it turns out that all our worrying is for nothing. The road rises
gradually, and our nearly seven weeks of riding has strengthened us well for
the job. By lunchtime, we're at the top, posing for pictures in front of the
sign marking the Continental Divide. On the way down, we spend much of our time
marveling at the beauty of the snowy, shark-tooth peaks of the Tetons. July 2:
Our mountain climbing isn't over. Today's job is to go up and over Teton Pass,
an 8,429-foot-high beauty that makes yesterday's ride look like flatlands. As
we approach the hill, a road sign says it all: "Steep Mountain Pass Ahead, 10%
Grades." With our fully-loaded bikes, we wind up walking most of the way,
pausing often to catch our breath and look back at the beautiful views of the
mountains around us and of Jackson Hole far below. After hours of huffing and
puffing, we reach the top, where we find another sign warning about steep
grades on the way down! Now we're the speedy ones, and it's an exhilarating,
although sometimes terrifying, ride. We stop once to let our wheels cool from
all of our braking -- our fingertips sizzle when we touch the rims. We zip over
the Idaho state line, and by mid-afternoon we're set up at our campsite in the
town of Victor. July 4: Today feels like anything but a holiday. We pedal 67
hot miles through a windy, Godforsaken stretch of Idaho desert and hold onto
our sense of humor by composing a song titled "We Hate Idaho" as we ride. We're
exhausted when we reach a campground in Arco ("the world's first city lighted
by atomic power"), but we perk up after dinner with Cherie's sister Sarah and
her family, who we've met up with during their vacation in Nebraska, Wyoming
and now Idaho. After dinner, we watch a charming Fourth of July parade that
streams down Arco's main street. The whole parade lasts about 15 minutes. July
8: Oregon! We cross the state line at Ontario, then hook up again with U.S. 26,
which we'll follow the rest of the way across the state. We pitch our tent at a
campground in Vale, then buy dinner at a nearby Dairy Queen, where we sit at
the counter next to a Malheur County sheriff's deputy. After hearing how far
we've pedaled, he pauses, then asks only one question: "So when you guys
thought of this, were you drunk?" July 10: While we're stopped for lunch at a
spot in Eastern Oregon called Austin Junction, another cyclist rides up. It's
Brad Gilson, the same man we met on the first day of our trip eight weeks ago.
Despite taking entirely different routes, we meet as if we had scheduled an
appointment. Riding together for the rest of the day, we learn that his
cross-country trip is a warm-up for an around-the-world bike tour he's
planning. We also share an exhilarating ride down from Dixie Summit with
beautiful valley and mountain views. After ice cream in John Day, Cherie and I
stop at Clyde Holliday State Park near Mount Vernon while Brad continues west.
That evening, we camp next to four cyclists who have just started their trip to
the East Coast. July 14: In the past few days, we've pedaled over the Ochoco
Mountains and enjoyed beautiful views of Three Sisters and Mount Jefferson. But
today, Mount Hood is our beacon. Having once done a weeklong backpacking trip
around the mountain and spent one of our wedding anniversaries at Timberline
Lodge, the peak has special significance for us. Today, it tells us we're
getting close to home. We climb our way up the familiar highway to Government
Camp, then zip down the west side of the mountain and coast into the Resort at
the Mountain in Welches. This is the last night of our trip. July 15: The
moment we've been imagining for many weeks is even better than we thought it
would be. After entering Portland on the Springwater Corridor bike path, we
ride home to Northeast Portland under blue skies. Family and friends cheer us
into our driveway, greeting us with hugs and banners and food. Using bathroom
scales, we weigh our bikes for the first time. Cherie's weighs 60 pounds. Mine
weighs 85. We're glad we didn't know this when we crossed the Rockies and the
other hills and mountains along the way. We also tally up the totals for our
trip: 54 days of riding, eight rest days, 12 states and 3,339 miles. It doesn't
seem quite real yet that we're home.

In the weeks and months after our trip, the aches in our legs and fannies faded
away. We no longer sing our favorite song, "Advil in the Morning" (sung to the
tune of "Angel of the Morning"). But the satisfaction of our accomplishment has
grown with time.

And I've noticed an encouraging development: Early in the trip, people would
ask us if we would ever do such a thing again. Cherie would scoff. Then she
began to say "maybe." Now, a year later, she says "yes."

I'm looking forward to our next cycling adventure.  You can reach Dave Hogan at
503-221-8531 or by e-mail at [email protected].