III. Day Trippin’

Riding home one afternoon, I pictured myself wearing the yellow jersey as I coasted down the tree-lined Boulevard des Champs Elysees, raising my arms in a victory salute at the Arc de Triomph. I would be gracious, singing praises to Lance, Eddy, Michel, Greg, and Marco. About this time I heard a loud, “On your left”, and moved over just in time for an inline skater to surge past. You’d be surprised how fast some of those guys can go.

In the early mornings lots of critters were out and about. Squirrels bounced around, rustling leaves and pine straw, and occasionally a rabbit would dart out and zig-zag into the bush. I could hear birds chirping and sometimes frogs and cicadas. Once I came upon a doe and her fawn loping across the path in the soft morning light.

Along the trail the trees are mostly pines and the ground is matted with pine straw. The state tree is the pine, from which tar, pitch, and turpentine were extracted in colonial times. It is said that the name “tarheel” came from bantering among Confederate troops about a battle in which North Carolina troops stood and fought as others retreated.

When pine pollen falls, it coats the ground like a dusting of snow. On the asphalt trail there were erratic tracks; one that puzzled me was as wide as a car tire but had no parallel track. I wondered what sort of vehicle it was until I realized it was an animal, probably a rabbit.

Each morning when I went out for the newspaper I made a mental note of the weather and contemplated what to wear. Usually I would start out bundled up and within a few minutes, break sweat. Here’s what typically happened:

I stop, straddling the bike. I release the handlebars to remove my backpack. While my arms are flailing around, the front wheel turns sideways, rolls backwards, and the bike flops to the ground. It may seem odd that a bike can fall to the ground as you straddle it, but it has happened to me several times. I curse, set the pack down, pull my jacket over my helmet, knocking the mirror off kilter. Cursing again, I remove the helmet, adjust the mirror, and put the helmet back on. I stuff the jacket in my pack, slip the pack back on, pick up the bike, step up on the pedal, and I’m off again. Easy as pie.

The mirror was designed to mount on eyeglasses or a helmet. I couldn’t mount it on my glasses since they were wire frames. So I got out a magnifying glass, studied the instructions, applied double-sided tape, and carefully pressed the mounting bracket on the side of my helmet. It held for about a week. By that time I had become dependent on the mirror, especially at the chute.

I stuck the darn thing back on repeatedly but it always came loose. One day as I was about to leave work I impulsively jammed a big paper clip over the bracket. Surprisingly, it held for a few days. What finally worked best was to clamp it onto plastic goggles, the type sold for home improvement projects.

In the afternoons there is a stretch of the trail where the sun is directly behind and the mirror flashes in my eyes. After months of this it dawned on me that I could reach up and rotate the mirror to avoid this. I’m glad this wasn’t some sort of IQ test.

My workplace is ideal for biking. It’s centrally located, accessible from walking trails, and has showers, a cafeteria, and a bank teller machine. Our attire is informal and we can usually dial in to remote meetings. If I’m required to attend, I can usually catch a ride with a coworker. Most mornings I walk to my cubicle in biking clothes without passing anyone; it’s located in an inconspicuous spot across from a large open room dubbed the “launch pad” – where several groups of consultants endured the waning days of their contracts.

I kept a gym bag in the shower room adjoining a bathroom near my cubicle. I learned to arrange my sweaty clothes on hangars and pegs for maximum drying during the day. There were at least two others sharing the facilities.

It wasn’t easy to get up the mojo to rise early and hit the trail. Some mornings I had to give myself a pep talk. I though of Lance; if he could come back from advanced testicular cancer and win the Tour 5 times, I should be able to get up in the morning and ride a few miles to work.

The wooded sections of the trail just outside my neighborhood were by far the best part of the trip. At that point I was warmed up and ready to cruise on the smooth, flat asphalt. There were people I would see regularly; a young couple, probably married; a middle aged couple, not married; a young woman with an older woman, perhaps her mom, and assorted dog walkers and joggers. The merriest group was two or three older men, one with a cane, who walked almost every day. Further along, at the Industrial Park, there was a man who carried a baseball bat. I once heard someone mention him as a threat, but he seemed friendly to me. I’m not suggesting he was headed for a little batting practice at the park, but I suspect he carries the bat for dogs. Years ago a dog nipped my ankle as I rode by, a little yappy dog. I slammed on my brakes so hard my front wheel contorted like a potato chip. I was incensed. I shouted and threw the bike down and chased the little mutt through his yard and into his house.

I occasionally rode with a retired airline pilot from Boston named Bob. Few other bikers wanted to chat, even briefly. They probably had phone messages to review, emails to read and write, managers to schmooze - important stuff.

Which brings up one of my pet peeves; everybody on the trail seems to be faster than me and wants to prove it. I’ve been passed by an 8-year-old girl, a man on a kid’s bike with a banana seat, and the skater I mentioned already. I’m surprised a runner or walker hasn’t passed me. After the pass I usually pick up the pace and try to keep up. I tried that with the skater, thinking perhaps I could regain the lead, but I couldn’t. He was a man on a mission.

In the mornings I stop at the light at Fayetteville Road where the trail emerges from the woods into the full morning sun. After pressing the pedestrian button I zone out for a moment and listen for the electronic chirps. In the warm months I sometimes hear unscripted chirps –rascally birds trying to get me in trouble.

Sometimes my goggles fog up. As I pedal off I push them down my nose a bit and dip my head to let air flow through. I cut through the Industrial Park to MLK, where I ride the sidewalks, carefully avoiding patches of wet clay that seeps from the hillside. If it gets in my knobby tires, I’ll be wearing it later.

I pass apartment buildings and driveways and navigate around cars waiting to pull out. At the chute, I pause for a lull in traffic. When I get to the intersection I’m panting, and if I’m lucky the exhaust fumes aren’t too bad. I wait for the light, and as the car ahead pulls out I pedal for all I’m worth. Sometimes, to my surprise, the front wheel comes up off the ground for a few microseconds. Technically this may not be considered a wheelie, but at my age, it’s close enough. I’m counting it.

I ride the shoulder of highway 55 for another hundred yards and duck into the parking lot of “On the Run”. Music blares from loudspeakers as truck drivers, utility workers, and landscape crews pump gas and caffeinate in preparation for the day ahead. I picked up my theme song here, “Stayin’ Alive”.

Next comes Cornwallis and Old Cornwallis, where I suck in a few lungfulls of clean air before reentering the rat race. It can get a little dicey at the end of Old Cornwallis where FedEx trucks pass on their way to a distribution center.

When I arrive, I chain my bike to railing on the ground floor of the parking deck. The chain is the type of chain used in children’s swing sets. Don’t tell anyone, but in lieu of a lock I use a loop of coat hanger wire. I was confident that no one would manage to figure this out, but during the summer a crew of painters came along. On the day they painted the railing I found it “locked” it in a different location.

Had I been more serious about security, I may have chosen a heavy-duty U-lock. Up until recently many of these were based on a “tubular cylinder” design. In 1992 a British journalist published an article claiming that this type of lock can be picked using a Bic pen. In 2004 - that’s twelve years later - an American biker wrote about this in an Internet bike forum. Several websites promptly appeared with videos demonstrating how easy it was. The manufacturer announced a recall, but what’s interesting is that they had continued to make the flawed locks for twelve years after the vulnerability was publicly announced. There’s a company who looks out for its customers

I was now getting an hour and a half of exercise each day, at least twice as much as before. My calf muscles tingled continuously and my butt was so sore I felt like I had just returned from a same-sex honeymoon.

A journalist from our local paper recently wrote about hiking the Appalachian Trail. One of the hardships was not being able to bathe regularly or wash clothes. Apparently a thru-hiker can get pretty rank and there’s not much to be done about it. Much as I would like to avoid this subject, it became an issue.

Personal hygiene has never been my highest priority. Why this is I cannot say, but certain family members have suggested it may be lassitude, limited intellectual capacity, or both of the above. Riding twice a day meant showering twice a day and at least two changes of clothes. Sometimes it was hard to decide whether an article of clothing could be worn again or should go in the hamper. On a few occasions I would shower, change, sit back to relax, and detect a certain scent. Typically the source was a polyester T-shirt or nylon mesh briefs sewn into hiking shorts. It wasn’t me, of course.

In mid-June we went to the mountains, Cathy, my son John, and a few his friends. The main attraction was whitewater rafting and tubing. I wore a new polyester T-shirt quite a bit. It was remarkable; it could get wet and then dry on my back. Each night I washed it by hand in the sink, but somehow I wasn’t getting the job done. Maybe I should have tried using soap. Anyway, no one noticed until the third day when it rained and we were cooped up in the car for the ride out to Bryson City. My travel companions made several observations that were most unflattering. Frankly, I think some of them would benefit from sensitivity training.

After a few weeks of biking my body became addicted to it. When I had to drive, on a rainy day or for a special meeting, I felt like I had missed something. Whenever I got into a car, going to a meeting or out to lunch, I imagined myself on a bike covering the same ground. Lunch out was particularly decadent. Not only was I whisked there effortlessly; I was indulging a sharpened appetite with mounds of savory pasta and chef’s salads. Sometimes life is very good.

I knew there would come a day when I would have to get to a distant meeting on my own. I would face a choice: the company bus which would require waiting, or bike it in my work clothes.

When the day came I chose to bike it. This entailed taking a shortcut, a walking trail through the woods. I had taken this shortcut once before many years ago. When I approached the trailhead there was new construction so I took a detour around the perimeter. At the far end, where I expected to meet the trail, there was only a power line trail. Since it was leading in the right direction, I took it. I weaved through patches of honeysuckle and briars; then occasional wet spots. On the mountain bike I was able to plow through most of it, but it was slow going and I eventually got bogged down. By this time I had gone too far to turn around. I pushed on and came to the intersection of another power line trail, turned left, and got bogged down again. My inner voice kept repeating, “You idiot!” At this point there wasn’t much to do except keep going, which I did and eureka - the trail! Finally! After a few wrong turns in unfamiliar parking lots, I was on target, about a quarter mile from my destination.

When I arrived I stopped at the men’s room to freshen up. I sprinkled cold water on my red face and removed stickers from my pants legs. When I showed up at the meeting, the first person I encountered looked me over and said, “You look like you just ran over here.” I was taken aback. “Well, did ya?” No, not exactly…

In the days ahead I thought a lot about the local trails. Biking 45 minutes each way with no radio, no CD, and no cell phone - there was plenty of time to think. I came up with a plan to extend the MLK bike lanes through a patch of woods to Old Cornwallis and into RTP. My friend Chris suggested the city might do it just to get bikes off the main roads. I wrote it up and mailed it to the City Planning Office and to the group that manages RTP. I got no response but a few months later the city announced that Cornwallis would soon get bike lanes. Shortly after that, yellow caution signs started sprouting up – share the road with bicycles. Things were looking up.

Going home one day I was cruising along in my usual mental haze when I suddenly encountered a new street crossing. What? It took a moment to realize I had passed my turnoff. “Yes!” I heard my inner voice say. “You can do this!”

I resolved to try it for one year or until I got run over by a truck, whichever came first.

XI. From Blackwell Street to Black Wall Street

After Hillside a spur splits off to NC Central University. The school was founded in the early 1900s by James Shepard, a young black man from Raleigh who selected Durham as the site for a school to train ministers. At that time there was a flourishing black business section in what is now the downtown loop. There were groceries, barbershops, butchers, fishmongers, drugstores, a shoe store, a haberdashery, and an undertaker. It was the home of Merchants and Farmers bank and the largest black-owned insurance company in the U.S., North Carolina Mutual Life. Booker T. Washington called Durham “The City of Negro Enterprise” and black newspapers called it the “capital of the black middle class”. Parrish Street was known as Black Wall Street.

Starting a college entailed raising money and incurring debt. There’s a tale of Shepard returning to Durham by train and disembarking one stop early to avoid creditors waiting downtown at Union Station. In 1915 the state of North Carolina stepped in and made Shepard’s school the first publicly supported, black liberal arts college in the U.S.

Where the Tobacco Trail branches to NC Central, there’s a historical marker. Not for Shepard – his marker is several miles away - but for Blind Boy Fuller, a 1930s jazz blues vocalist who grew up in Durham. Further along is Fayetteville Street, a busy place with locals milling about and lots of phone and power cables overhead. On the left is a one-story concrete block complex housing a beauty shop, a convenience store, and a peluqueria, which, judging by the sign - scissors and candy cane striped pole - is a barbershop. Across the street is a grim 3-story brick apartment building with a flat roof that looks as if the builders forgot to top it off. On the other side of the trail are grassy lots, trees, homes, and a pre-school. This is as far as I got on my first trip.

On my second trip I made it one street farther, to Otis Street. Most of the small homes in this neighborhood are well kept, but one house backing up to the trail has junk cars in the backyard. I turned around here.

On my third trip I made it all the way downtown. Past Otis Street there’s a row of 2-story homes on the left with screen porches and neat backyards. Then there’s a short stretch carved through a hill, covered with lush mats of kudzu on both sides - quite pretty, actually.

Next the trail passes over South Roxboro and continues on to Forest Hills.

XII. Trail Magic

On the next trip my neighbor, Frank, came along. He grew up in Durham and has been a middle school guidance counselor for almost 30 years. Unbeknownst to me, he had been riding the trail regularly. On this trip, he took me for a tour of Forest Hills.

Since the1920s when it was developed, Forest Hills has been one of the ritziest neighborhoods in Durham. The focal point of the neighborhood is the former country club, now a city park, where tall oaks line the streets and shade spacious, grassy, lawns. A stream runs through the center of what was once a 9-hole golf course with a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a clubhouse. Along University Drive are homes designed by architects in Colonial, Tudor, and English Cottage styles.

In recent years the neighborhood has lost some of its luster as Durham’s elite have gravitated further south and west. At the time of our ride a Forest Hills resident was in the news, accused of murdering his wife. There were no witnesses, no murder weapon, and no confession, but there was too much blood and gore for police to dismiss as an accident. The accused, Mike Peterson, was a minor celebrity who had written novels about the Vietnam War and, more recently, newspaper articles critical of city hall. Peterson had twice run for mayor, unsuccessfully. The case was televised and covered widely by the press. Prosecutors presented evidence of a similar death in Peterson’s past. In the end the jury decided to convict.

After Forest Hills the trail passes a mixed area with offices, apartments, and a strip mall. A bridge over Morehead Street leads to the trailhead at the Durham Freeway, where Blackwell Street, named for tobacco entrepreneur W.T. Blackwell, meets Jackie Robinson Street at the new Ballpark.

I once told a former Duke student about getting lost in downtown Durham. Her response was, “You haven’t been to downtown Durham if you haven’t been lost.” At the heart of Durham’s downtown is a one-way loop drive, which effectively isolates the area from the rest of the city. Within the loop are stores, restaurants, the courthouse, the civic center, a conference center, a high-rise bank, a new art center, and the renovated Carolina Theatre; but there is little activity on the streets. A homeless shelter is nearby and its residents mill about.

The most dominant features of the landscape are cavernous brick buildings once used as warehouses and factories, many with ornate brick archways, cornices, and chimneys. Some have been converted into offices, shops, and restaurants. The Brodie Duke Warehouse, built in 1878, has walls 3 feet thick at the base. The walls were recently cleaned by sandblasting with a mix of baking powder and crushed walnut shells. The end result can be quite handsome. Cathy and I recently drove by Brightleaf Square and admired the brickwork in the morning sun, the color of fresh-cut watermelon.

XIII. The Jewel of the New South

It never ceases to amaze me the extent to which tobacco shaped American history. In the 17^th century, it was the crop that made the Virginia colony a successful economic venture. Two hundred years later it was the industry that transformed Durham from a sleepy railroad stop into a prosperous factory town.

Cigarettes came into vogue in northern cities in the mid 1800s; before that tobacco was used for snuff, chewing, and pipe tobacco. The health effects of tobacco use were not widely known until the 1950s. It was 1964 when the Surgeon General reported a link between smoking and lung cancer.

The process of making high quality cigarette tobacco was discovered by accident. A slave who was tending tobacco drying in a barn fell asleep and awoke to find the fire burned down to coals. He ran next door to the blacksmith shop, gathered scraps of charred wood, and added them to the fire. The result was heat without smoke, and the leaves dried to a golden hue – the first Brightleaf tobacco.

Born in 1820, the 8^th of 10 children, Washington Duke started out as a tenant farmer raising corn, sweet potatoes, wheat, and oats in the hardscrabble soil of the NC piedmont. Later he inherited land and extended his holdings by buying up adjacent farmland. When the Civil War started, he was conscripted in the Confederate Army despite his anti-war views. His 6 children were sent to live with grandparents and the farm was left in the hands of tenants who were to make payments in tobacco. Duke went off to war and was captured and imprisoned in Richmond. After the surrender at Appomattox, he was put on a train south. He disembarked at New Bern and walked 135 miles back to Durham. With a small cache of tobacco hidden from the Yankees, Duke hit the road in a broken down cart drawn by 2 blind mules, peddling his wares along the way. He returned with cash and supplies for his growing family.

The Duke family was not the first in the tobacco business in Durham; several families had started selling tobacco products before the war. Duke obtained the “Bull Durham” trademark and used it to market small cotton bags of blended tobacco with rolling papers; a roll-your-own kit. The acquisition of this brand name is the subject of an entertaining documentary movie by Ross McElwee, who claims that his grandfather, a rival of the Dukes, came up with the “Durham Bull” trademark only to have it taken over by the Dukes. McElwee sued and won in lower courts but the ruling was later overturned, allegedly because of the Dukes’ political influence. Mysteriously, two of McElwee’s warehouses burned, driving McElwee into bankrupcy.

During its heyday at the turn of the century, the Bull Durham trademark was painted on barns and country stores, and appeared on tin signs. At Yankee Stadium It was near the fenced off warm-up area for pitchers, which became known as the bullpen. Milling about between innings, the pitchers chewed tobacco and occasionally “shot” the bull.

One of Duke’s sons, James B. “Buck” Duke, made cigarettes, first by hand, and later with rolling machines, an innovation that allowed him to undercut competitors. He moved to NY and started a business there, and eventually merged 4 companies from New York and Virginia with his own company to form the American Tobacco Company. By the early 1900s, Duke controlled 80% of the world tobacco market. A few years later, with the passage of the Sherman Antitrust Act, the company was broken up into 4 companies, Lorillard, R. J. Reynolds, Ligget and Meyers, and a restructured American Tobacco Company.

Meanwhile, back in Durham, the Duke family invested in Erwin Mills, a cotton mill that produced everything from small bags for cigarette tobacco, to denim, sheets, and pillowcases. Located next to the railroad, the mill buildings and surrounding company-owned houses formed a self-sufficient village. The mills operated night and day, 6 days a week, and provided steady employment during the post-Reconstruction years.

For men accustomed to the rigors of tenant farming, a job in the mill was a step up. By today’s standards it was noisy, dusty, and tedious. In the spinning area, lint was in the air like fine snow, and workers were susceptible to brown lung disease. The din of the heavy machinery could be heard from the nearby company-owned housing, especially on hot summer evenings when people left their windows open. In the 1960’s federal inspectors from OSHA intervened to require mill workers to wear earplugs, but unfortunately, many were already deaf.

Women worked in the mills also. In her memoir of growing up in the 1950s, Holly Marlow Hall describes her grandmother coming home from work, tired and covered with lint, sitting down and taking off her shoes. In their spare time women gardened, cooked, and did needlework. One woman, bless her heart, said she just liked to sit and rest.

Shortly after the turn of the century, James B. Duke and 2 others started a hydroelectric energy company, which later became known as Duke Power. Duke continued to prosper and ultimately donated $40 M to Trinity College, at which time it was renamed Duke University in his honor. When he died, in 1925, his estate was split - half for the Duke Endowment, and half for his 12-year-old daughter, Doris, who was called “the richest girl in the world”.

Durham owes much to the business acumen and generosity of James B. Duke. Not only did he help usher in the industrial revolution, but with his endowment of Duke University he also sowed the seeds for a future information revolution.

XVI. Bike Tech

“Seriously, you’ll need a road bike. There aren’t many situations where you can buy performance, but this is one.”

He pointed to a lightweight racer with drop down handlebars and narrow, hard tires. I thanked him and left.

When we moved to Durham I still had my old 10-speed Eddy Merckx road bike. The brakes were questionable and after going down a few hills at high speeds, it wasn’t long before I was shopping for a new bike. If I was going to risk my life careening down the foothills of the NC Piedmont, I wanted something substantial between my legs. I’d been coveting mountain bikes since they came out - the massive, knobby tires, the compact, sturdy frames, and the straight handlebars. The upright riding posture was particularly appealing. So I bought a mountain bike and was quite happy.

The earliest bicycles had a huge front wheel and a tiny back wheel, more like a unicycle than a modern bike. In the late 1800s the first modern bicycles began rolling off assembly lines. They had 2 wheels of the same size, pneumatic tires, and a diamond-shaped frame with front forks and handlebars. They were popular and even fashionable for a few decades until the first automobiles came along and stole the limelight.

The classic design hasn’t changed much. Materials and workmanship have. My mountain bike weighs 30 pounds and my hybrid weighs 24 pounds. Lance races on two bikes; a normal-looking road bike with dropdown handlebars and an odd looking bike with solid rear wheel and handlebars that jut forward, for time trials. The frame of Lance’s road bike, without anything attached, weighs less than 3 pounds.

There is one serious flaw with the classic design – ergonomics. If the rider sits up, as on a mountain bike, there’s wind resistance. If the rider leans forward, he has to crane his neck to see ahead. And regardless of how he sits, his butt takes a beating.

There are alternative designs. For the laid back individual there’s the recumbent bicycle. The rider sits back on a comfortable, wide seat facing forward. The bike has a low center of gravity, good stability, and decent aerodynamics. According to the fellows at The Clean Machine in Carrboro, recumbents are ideal for road rallies like Bike Virginia, where you pedal with a group for 50 to 100 miles a day. At the end of the ride your butt doesn’t ache. However, the rider sits lower and it is harder to see and be seen; and you can’t stand and pedal when you need a burst of speed. So they are not recommended for commuting. Their biggest drawback is expense, about $1500 at the low end, and there are lots of designs to pick from, so there’s the classic “too many choices” buyers dilemma.

I took a test ride on a recumbent. It felt odd to sit low and pedal with my feet up in the air, but it was not uncomfortable. The bike didn’t seem to turn as well, but this may have been because of my inexperience.

“Track” bikes are designed for racetracks, or velodromes, as they are sometimes called. These bikes are popular among couriers and stunt riders. They are very basic - no cables, no levers, and get this - no brakes. This is because they have direct drive; the rear wheels turn as the pedals turn. The rider stops by resisting pedal motion. There is no coasting.

Electric bikes can go 15 mph on flat terrain for about 20 miles. They require no license and are cheap to operate; the batteries recharge overnight from standard wall outlets. Like mopeds, they have pedals in case the batteries run down or the rider wants extra “oomph”. Lee Iacocca, the former chairman of Chrysler, owns a company that manufactures electric bikes and had this to say:

“I brought you pure fun with the original Mustang, practicality with the first Minivan and the home away from home with the SUV. Now, after fifty years in the automobile business, I'm bringing you the future of transportation – and it's electric!”

“The E-Bike isn't just a vehicle, it's a movement, a new way of thinking and a new found freedom. I'm asking you to join me on this magnificent new journey from the past and into the future. I can promise you the ride will be exciting, inventive, revolutionary and a lot of fun.”

Then there are electric scooters. There are simple ones, for children, and for adults there is the Segway Personal Transporter, a hi-tech device that is ridden in a standing position. It was brought to market in a flurry of publicity. John Doerr, a venture capitalist who helped launch Netscape, Amazon, and Google, claimed it was bigger than the Internet. Steve Jobs, the cofounder of Apple computer, announced that the new vehicle was as important as the personal computer and that, in the future, cities would be built around it. Apparently Jobs had a change of heart, because at an early meeting with the design team he was quoted as saying, "Its shape is not innovative, it's not elegant, it doesn't feel anthropomorphic”.

The Segway is controlled internally by gyroscopes, tilt sensors, and an embedded computer. Somehow it manages to keep the rider upright and balanced; that alone is remarkable. A Segway can be used indoors and out but requires a smooth surface – no curbs or potholes. It gets the equivalent of 450 miles per gallon. The promotional video shows riders on sidewalks, on the grass, and inside a building; as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for grown men and women to be scooting around on a contraption that looks like a push mower.

I have visions of the rider hitting something on the ground and pitching forward. The company is addressing that concern and now has a more traditional 4-wheeler in development. If the rider is nostalgic for his old Segway, or just wants to show off, he can stand on the rear axle and scoot around with the front wheels in the air. When the extraterrestrials come, this will no doubt be their vehicle of choice.

XVII. Back in the Saddle

At the beginning of February, two weeks after surgery, I was given the OK to begin riding again. Straight away I encountered two new hazards.

The first was ice. I first noticed it on the clay patches of MLK sidewalks. The wet clay had frozen and was glassy looking. I steered around it, but later hit an invisible patch of black ice on a shady spot along the walking trail and felt my rear end fishtail.

The other hazard was clumps of straw along the narrow bike lane in the chute. I had to either steer around them, entering the car lane, or plow through, risking a fall. The first times through I skirted the edge, probably the worst option of all. On the way home one day I took advantage of a lull in traffic to pull over, gather clumps of straw into my arms, and drop them over the barrier. I had to work fast but I got most of it. I thanked myself for this in the coming days.

Feb 8 was unseasonably mild, and from my perspective, quite scenic. My right eye had finally cleared, I had new contact lenses, and I could see with both eyes. My vision was far from perfect but at this point there was no doubt that the surgery was successful. Thank you, medical team.

I left work around 4, and was huffing and puffing up the gentle slope of MLK toying around with the phrase “Breath in the Afternoon”, after Hemingway’s bullfighting book, “Death in the Afternoon”. I noticed blinking lights in the distance. As I approached, I could see there was some sort of accident at the intersection of Fayetteville and the Tobacco Trail. Closer still, I could see a city recycling truck amid a cluster of rescue workers. I dismounted and approached the scene. There was a guy laid out on a stretcher, but I couldn’t see for all the workers. For a while I just stared, wondering what had happened. Nearby were a few other bystanders, so I walked over and caught the eye of a middle aged black man. I asked if it was a pedestrian or a bicyclist.

“Bicyclist… Yeah, he ran right into the truck. See right there between the front wheel and the …”, he pointed to the gas tank below the front door. “He was lucky he didn’t get run over, you know, by the back wheels. The driver stopped in time.”

“Did he have a helmet on?”

“Yeah, but there was lots of bleeding from his head.”

I looked over – the workers were taking him to the ambulance. I didn’t see any blood. I shook my head and mumbled, “It happens so fast.”

“Fast? Yes it did. Don’t take life for granted. No sir.”

As I slowly pedaled back home, passing a long line of cars backed up on Fayetteville, I thought about the victim. I wondered whether to tell Cath; I didn’t want to upset her.

The next morning there was a short article in the News and Observer. Cath saw it first and announced it in a grave voice. The man was almost exactly my age. The article said he was run over by the truck’s wheels and had a “serious head injury”. There was no citation issued to the truck driver.

Later, at work, I told my buddies. Doug just shook his head. Geoff rides himself, and what worries him is cars that pass to close. In England they have some sort of yellow plastic bar that attaches to the rear fork and juts out into the lane to signal drivers away. Geoff’s thinking about having one sent over. Kumar told of how, back in India, it’s a sport for groups of kids to approach farm trucks and try to grab a stalk of sugar cane. If they can pull it off there’s a tasty treat but occasionally someone gets run over. He cautioned, “You may be following all the rules, George, but you can’t assume the other guy will – he may not be paying attention.”

The next time I passed the intersection, I stopped to piece together the details. I checked to see if there was a zebra crosswalk and a pedestrian light. There was. Hmmm. No ticket was issued. I’m guessing that both the cyclist and the truck driver had a green light. Maybe the biker went with the light, thinking the truck was going straight.

I searched online for more news of the incident but there was none. That’s good in a way – no obituary. I’m not taking life for granted any more. No sir.

I didn’t bike the day after the accident on account of rain, but I biked the following day, half heartedly, just to keep my pledge. It was blustery and at times I had to shift down into my lowest gears. Luckily it was not cold. The next day I woke up late. It was cold, but not freezing. I had no excuse. No doctor visit, no rain, no ice. I was a little late, but that was not a showstopper. I chose to drive. I violated my pledge.

A whiff of foul weather and I was back in my car. Maybe if I hadn’t had eye surgery, maybe if it wasn’t so cold, maybe this, maybe that. I had to face facts; I had reached my limit.

XVIII. Saving Grace

I was in dire need of inspiration. The weather was cold and damp, a raw cold that penetrates to your bones. The accident had me spooked. I shopped over the weekend for a new red taillight; I had somehow managed to lose mine and had been without it during the darkest weeks of the year.

On Feb 15th there was a break in the weather. That morning I brought out a new biking jersey, day-glow yellow and made of a lightweight, spongy fabric. It was long in the back, and for this I credit the garment’s designer for rendering a valuable public service. As I pedal the bike seat tugs down on my sweatpants with each stroke. Worse still, whenever I stop at an intersection and hop back up, the pointy end of the seat snags the waistband, exposing my boxer shorts.

If the Virginia House of Representatives had their way, exposed underwear would be a misdemeanor punishable by a fine of $50. The sponsor of the bill claimed it would be “uplifting” not only for the community but for the whole country. After passage by the House, the national and international press got in on the story. That in turn prompted a group of senators to kill the bill so as not to tarnish the state’s reputation in advance of the upcoming 400^th anniversary commemoration of the first settlement at Jamestown.

The break in the weather put me back in good spirits. My new jersey was light and bright and covered any wardrobe malfunctions. I felt sleek and lithe. No more swishy, flappy nylon; at least not until it got cold again. I was beginning to see better now with my new contact lenses. I could wear off-the-rack sunglasses. I thought about my how sharp Lance looks in his sunglasses and yellow jersey. I’ll bet he doesn’t worry about droopy drawers.

After all my griping this may sound surprising, but if there’s one thing that keeps me biking, it’s the sheer joy of it. Sitting up high, zipping along, coasting, riding with no hands, riding backwards – it’s the closest thing to acrobatics that most of us ever attempt. As a kid it’s a big step on the road to independence, like learning to swim or skate or drive. As an adult it’s unencumbered with licenses, insurance, or seat belts. As we say in Durham, no bull.

In the interest of full disclosure I have to say that there is very little joy saddling up at 7 AM on a misty, chilly morning, wondering if I’m wearing the right clothing. Yet, and this is where the magic comes in, it’s an entirely different story after work. After sitting in a cubicle all day staring at a computer, it’s nice to get outdoors in the fresh air. There’s no pressure to get anywhere on time, and when I arrive it’s time to relax, shower, and eat.

Worldwide, bicycling is the most common means of transportation. A nonprofit organization, the International Bicycle Fund, has compiled statistics from China, Europe, and the U.S - a third of the world’s population. Since 1990 there have been 2 to 3 times as many bikes manufactured as cars in these countries. Europeans travel by car about half the time, otherwise on foot, by bike, bus, or train. The Netherlands had the highest bike usage, about 30% of trips traveled. Americans travel by car 84% of the time, by bike 1%. In the US, bikes have outsold cars since the 1980s; apparently we’re using them for recreation, not transportation.

The country that bikes most is China, where over half of the vehicles on the road are bicycles or bicycle drawn carts. In recent years there has been an increasing demand for cars. In Cuba many people bike, but those who can afford a motor vehicle prefer to drive. Clearly it’s human nature to seek the path of least resistance. There’s something irresistible about a private vehicle at our beck and call. It may be simply a matter of time before developing countries get congested roads, gas stations, parking lots, junkyards, and air pollution.

A recent article in the Washington Post described how the greater DC area has some of the worst traffic problems in the US. Traffic jams are commonplace, and public officials are at loss to come up with a solution. They already have a state-of-the art mass transit system, the Metro, but housing in the suburban areas is so spread out, getting to and from the Metro stations is difficult. When the system was first conceived, it was thought that wives would drop off their husbands and there would be no need for large parking areas. The upshot of all this is that most workers commute by car, alone, and according to the Post survey, they are not that upset about the situation. They sit in traffic, inching along in climate-controlled comfort, chatting away on cell phones and listening to music. What’s the big deal?

The big deal is that our roads can handle only so much traffic. Accidents, breakdowns, or foul weather can slow traffic down to a trickle. On January 21 we had very cold weather and an inch of snow. Since only flurries were predicted, salt trucks had not been dispatched. It was a cold and windy, the snow was dry, the roads were frozen, and there was very little melting. Schools let out early, busses hit the road, parents left work early to pick up kids, and by mid-afternoon there were more accidents than police could handle. Gridlock set in. Many simply abandoned their vehicles and walked, spending the night in office buildings and grocery stores. An estimated 3,000 elementary and high school students were stranded at their schools overnight. All of my office mates got home, but it took several hours; my coworker sat on I-40 for 6 hours, wishing she had hit the bathroom before leaving work.

The automobile industry is well aware of these issues. They are apparently counting on motorists like those in the DC area to continue to demand cars. They also have a technological solution for dwindling supplies of petroleum; namely, hydrogen fuel cells. These generate electricity by combining hydrogen gas, the fuel, with oxygen in the air. The byproduct is water, so the vehicle produces very little air pollution. Viable prototypes have been developed and are waiting in the wings for someone to figure out how to make and distribute hydrogen cheaply.

Car sharing is popular in Europe and in some US cities. Similar to rental cars, shared cars involve less paperwork and more accessible – they are parked throughout cities and suburbs. One company charges $35/year to join, then $9/hour for use of a car, all expenses included in that rate. The American Automobile Association estimates that it costs $650 a month to own and operate a new car. This cost does not account for time spent in dealerships, gas stations, tire, and repair shops. Government surveys indicate that the average car is used only about an hour a day. Given this level of usage, a shared car would cost about half what most people are paying now. For city dwellers, there’s an added savings in parking fees. Rental companies have found that when people pay by the car trip, they are more likely to consider alternatives, like public transportation.

XIX. Bussing the Bull City

For our family, the biggest cost savings from my biking is sharing two cars among the three of us. This worked fine during the school year because John lives on campus and can have a car only on weekends. However, he’s planning to move off campus next year and wants a car of his own. This means that Cath and I will share a car to get to work. On fair weather days, I can bike in. On rainy days I can ride with Cath, since our workplaces are close by. The catch is that she works part time, and is not around at quitting time.

A few years ago I commuted by bus to RTP. There’s a bus stop in my neighborhood and another close to my workplace. The ride is a straight shot down highway 54 and does not involve a transfer. The buses were new and clean and, most importantly, the other riders seemed quite normal. I sat in the same seat and got to know a few of the regulars. It was relaxing to settle in and listen to my Walkman. The tricky part was timing – the buses ran on the half hour and if I missed one I was in for a wait; sometimes in foul weather.

Here’s how it worked. In the morning I would set the alarm and be at the bus stop at exactly 7:45. At the end of the workday I would begin to watch the clock. At exactly 4:13 I would grab my briefcase and head for the door. Outside my building I would hustle down to the walking trail, cross the Alexander Drive Bridge over I-40, and stride down the grassy slope to the parking lot. The slope was slippery and sometimes I fell on my side, on my briefcase. Heart pounding, I would blitz through the parking lot of the EPA building, scanning the horizon for the bus, and cursing profusely if it appeared too soon.

On a good day the commute took about 40 minutes each way; 20 minutes for the bus ride, 15 minutes for the half mile walk, and 5 minutes of waiting. If I missed the bus it could take an hour. There’s something quite disheartening about watching your bus pass when you are within shouting distance.

Last summer I took a bus to Virginia. It was the Saturday before the 4^th of July and I wanted to go to my mother’s a few days in advance of our planned family visit. Once I was there, I could use my mother’s car to get around, and at the end of the week I could return with Cathy and John. Frank advised against taking the bus, but it would save 600 car-miles and I was determined to try it. After all, how bad could it be?

I was about to find out. I found the bus schedule on the Internet and decided to catch the bus in Durham, my first mistake. The station is downtown in a run-down building that was once a gas station. Entering the building was like entering the third world. The agent was courteous, but the office was in disarray and the equipment was ancient. There were a few men sitting around without luggage; I assume they were homeless; they were definitely not RTP commuters. For about 20 minutes I waited with Cathy outside the station; me wondering what I had gotten into, and she marveling at what an idiot she married.

When the bus arrived the driver came out on the tarmac, opened the cargo hold, and stowed the luggage. Then she took tickets as people boarded the bus. No security checks here, and once inside, no seatbelts. The bus was almost full; as I entered a Hispanic kid vacated a pair of seats to join his family; so that’s where I sat. The bus was old and smelled like disinfectant. We proceeded to downtown Raleigh, where the station was next to the police station; that was reassuring. The station was larger but almost as seedy as Durham. I stood in line for almost an hour, then boarded the bus to Norfolk, making several stops along the way.

I picked up a valuable travel tip. If you get agitated, let’s say you sleep through your stop and wake up somewhere else - it’s bus etiquette to curse the driver as you disembark. The driver then broods and seethes for a while, then snaps the head off the first person to approach. It’s like a cascading form of anger management.

I was expecting another wait in Norfolk but my connecting bus was about to pull out. This I discovered after waiting at a counter for ticket agents to settle an argument about who was scheduled to work.

The final leg of the trip was uneventful, but the driver would not drop me off along the highway at my hometown; it’s against regulations. So we proceeded to the next stop a few miles away. There I was met by my cousin, who had been in hot pursuit - not knowing exactly where I would get off. Sometimes there’s no substitute for family.

Memories of the trip lingered, as did the off-smell of the disinfectant. Why didn’t I listen to Frank? It turns out that as a kid he was put on the bus to visit relatives near Norfolk. It was the pits back then too.

XX. Drenched

On Thursday April 7 the forecast was for rain late in the day. Around 3:45 Doug and I headed outside for a walk. Sitting in a windowless cube all day, I hadn’t noticed that it was getting dark out. A woolly, gray-black cloud had formed, a breeze was starting to kick up, and there was distant thunder. It was time for me to get home.

When we got back to the office, Doug pulled up a satellite image of a line of thunderstorms moving into the area. He said I should either leave right away or wait it out. I had already started my departure routine, shutting the computer down, zipping up the backpack, and changing clothes. When I got back outside the wind was gusting and it was spitting rain.

I figured if I could pull it off if I could get past the chute before it started raining hard. As I pedaled the rain steadily picked up. When I crossed highway 55 and was about to enter the chute, the skies opened up. I paused to take off my backpack and switch on my red taillight; I had already turned on the front blinker. A couple of cars passed in the chute and as I emerged I crossed and headed for the sidewalk along MLK.

I heard rumbling all around, but saw no flashes. My goggles went from speckled to clear, and at one point rain came in over the top of my goggles. I leaned forward to avoid rain in my face but had to raise up occasionally to see ahead. As I rolled over the clay spots on the sidewalk, I noticed rainwater slinging up from the tires. I could feel water seeping into my shoes. There wasn’t much point in hurrying, but I did anyway.

It’s a good thing it was a warm day. I was wearing was bike shorts and a T-shirt and with all the pedaling I wasn’t cold. I recalled a friend in Mississippi who ran 5 miles every day; he welcomed rainy days as a respite from the heat.

By the time I got to the Tobacco Trail it was raining so hard I could barely see. Without opening my mouth I could taste the cool fresh rainwater. At one point I saw motion that turned out to a jogger. By then water was squishing around inside my shoes. I time-traveled back 40 years to me and my dad huddled in an open fishing boat beneath a canvas cover, staring through the windshield into grayness, steering by compass, listening to the engine labor as we plowed through choppy seas, praying for it not to conk out. The jagged, incandescent lightening and the blasts of thunder gave me goose pimples. The experience bonded us together in a powerful way that we never spoke of.

This ride was easy in comparison. As I turned into our neighborhood, I passed swollen ditches, one of which spilled pulsating sheets of brown water over the asphalt trail. The gurgling sounds reminded me of the mountains. Near our house water raced down the gutters, and a whooshing noise came from the storm drain. When my son was young, we became very familiar with those drains and their massive wrought iron covers.

I stopped at the back door to take off my shoes and wet socks – they were clinging so tight I could see the outline of my toes. I poured water out of my shoes. I entered the house and headed for the brick apron in front of the hearth. As I stripped off my clothes, Cath approached. “You’re soaking wet, and you’re getting water all over everything.”

“You’re imagining things.”

I took off my backpack and started removing its contents. Everything was soaking wet. At the bottom was an inch of water and a diskette labeled “Tax”.

The next day I hopped on my bike to meet a friend at the mall. When I hopped on the bike, water squished out. There wasn’t time to change, so I cursed and went ahead. When I arrived I pulled my T-shirt down low and wondered if it covered the wetness. Nothing makes an impression quite like wet pants.

XXI. Washington or Bust

It was late April, Frank and I had midlife wanderlust, and we aimed to quench it on the flatlands of coastal Carolina at the “Spring Retreat” event of Cycle NC.

Anticipating 30-50 mile rides, we both sought out road bikes. Paul at work had recently acquired a road bike from the Triangle For Sale newsgroup. He showed it to me in his office one day. It had thin tires, drop down handlebars, and as Paul proudly pointed out, it was as if it had been custom made for him; not a gram too heavy or too light. With this bike he could really move, as if he wasn’t fast enough already. He said he hit 36 mph on Martin Luther King, and that 40 was close at hand.

I started checking the newsgroup. I responded to one ad and heard nothing, and then a second. I was about to give up when I received a garbled phone call saying the bike was available. It was a “hybrid” with narrow tires of a road bike but straight handlebars of a mountain bike. The ad had a link to a photo; it was royal metallic-blue, sharp looking. On Wednesday I met the owner at his workplace in North Raleigh and was reassured to see that it looked very much like the photo. Since it was raining he had me take it for a spin down the isles of his company warehouse. In the cramped space I couldn’t put it through its paces, but it felt smooth, shifted OK, and was obviously well cared for. He cut me a good deal.

It was perfect timing. My trusty mountain bike was beginning to fall apart. The previous week, on the way to work, the seat fell off. That was easy to fix – I replaced the bolt. Then the rear axle began to squeak. That looked serious. I figured it was shot and started to replace it with a wheel from an older bike, only to discover that the replacement wheel was out of true. I read up on trueing a wheel and decided to give it a try. I promptly rounded off the corners of a nipple, the thing that attaches each spoke to the rim, so I visited the “spokesperson” at REI (sorry) and bought a replacement. As I tightened spokes it became progressively harder and started making this awful crinking noise. Just when I thought I had it there was a metallic twang and my spoke vanished. I figured it was still attached at the other end to the hub, and it was, but it took a while to find it. Since it was on the side with the gears, I would have to remove the gear cluster to replace it. I knew I was in over my head but I decided to try it anyway. I removed the axle, unscrewed the outer bolts of the wheel assembly and as I removed the axle shaft pea-sized steel balls started falling out.

Later that day it occurred to me that I might be able to fix the original wheel by simply tightening the wheel assembly bolt, as there was a visible gap. Surprisingly, it worked. My mountain bike was back in service.

Then, as fate would have it, my arthritis flared up. I had hoped that demon was put to rest, but the incident lasted several days and required drugs to ease the pain. The honeymoon was over.

Meanwhile, Frank borrowed a road bike from a friend and we took it for a test ride. It was an expensive bike that had been relegated to the attic by the owner. The bike passed muster so we took it to REI and Frank had new tires mounted. Then the owner decided she wanted it back. So Frank was back to square one. That’s when our neighbor Klaus showed up to borrow Frank’s power washer. Frank just happened to recall that Klaus had acquired a very nice road bike a few years ago. Klaus was happy to oblige and loan it to Frank, but asked us to keep in mind that the bike cost two thousand dollars, and to make sure to keep it locked. We were all set.

I’ve been to Washington, D.C., Washington State, and even Mt. Vernon, but I had never set foot in Washington, North Carolina. So, laden with trail mix, corn nuts, and assorted coffee paraphernalia, we hit the road. Two hours later we pulled up in front of an old high school gym; now the community center. Staffers manned a row of tables out front where we registered and picked up maps. We then weaved through a field of parked cars and tents until we found a shady spot under a big walnut tree near the main road. Shortly afterwards we were joined by a young couple and a middle-aged woman, and there were 3 tents under the tree.

Maps in hand, we headed out to explore the town. The weather was sunny, breezy, and cool, but rain was in the forecast. We rode through a residential area with large trees with fresh, new leaves. We passed well-kept Victorian houses, boxy commercial brick buildings, and made our way to the waterfront. It was an open space, with grassy areas, parking lots, and a walkway along the breakwater where a few sailboats were moored. Washington is located at the juncture of the narrow Tar River and the wide, brackish Pamlico River. There’s a nice, unobstructed view downstream, an overgrown, uninhabited island in the middle, and a scattering of homes along the wooded banks of the far shore.

We circled downtown several times, searching for the trailhead of a 25-mile loop shown on one of our Cycle NC maps. It was odd because there were no route markers and no other bikers around. Since it was getting late and the forecast called for rain, we decided to forge ahead, navigating by our map. It was awkward, trying to read the map and ride along unfamiliar roads at the same time. Awkward for Frank, that is; I wasn’t much help. I was wearing my “distance” contact lenses and didn’t have reading glasses handy. When we found the right road it had a “bike route” sign. It was a two-lane road fringed with a narrow strip of pavement for bicycles. We had to ride single file and stay in the bike lanes because of traffic. At several locations, the bike lane had tractor tire imprints, which made my new bike shudder.

We rode several miles before Frank realized our error. The route we were on was scheduled to be open on Sunday, two days later. So it was through Friday afternoon commuter traffic that we pedaled back to town.

Frank set a brisk pace, at least by my standards, and I soon needed a break. There weren’t many places to stop, mostly fields and homes and pastures, but we finally came upon a convenience store. I was concerned Frank would ride past it; he was way ahead and couldn’t hear my ringing bell, but then he turned to check on me at the last moment. We bought sodas and sat outside at a picnic table, where we had a nice view of the trailer park across the street. A man pulled up in a pickup and as he entered he addressed the cashier with a “Hey, sweetie.”

A large ornate brass object caught my eye. After a moment it occurred to me that it was a hookah, a water pipe like that used by the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland. I pointed it out to Frank.

“I’ve been looking all over for one of those.”

Frank inquired and found that the owner was an Asian Indian.

“How about this, Frank. If you can provide something to smoke, I’ll buy it and we can set it up in the tent. Maybe charge admission.”

Years ago, Frank attended nearby East Carolina University. He grinned. “George, I might just know some people who could fix us up.”

It was only a mile or so back to town. As we passed a pawnshop Frank suggested that if we weren’t pleased with our accommodations we could hock Klaus’ bike and stay at one of the bed and breakfasts. We looked around for the local watering hole, and ended up in a restaurant with a deck and view of the waterfront. After a pint of draft beer we headed out for the street festival, which was just starting up.

We had dinner at a fish fry hosted by a Boy Scout troop. There was a crowd gathered and long line of cars waiting to be served curbside. We took the food down to the waterfront, and settled down on benches facing the river. The food was worth the wait; trout, coleslaw, hushpuppies, and sweet tea. It was windy so we ate fast and made our way back to the street festival, where things had started to pick up. The crowd was mostly older folks, like us, and quite sedate. We passed a young woman selling “IBX” stickers and T-shirts.

“What’s IBX stand for?”

“Cape Hatteras is the Outer Banks, OBX, and we’re one of the communities that people pass through on the way to the beach, so we’re the inner banks.”

“OK, right. We pass nearby when we go to Nags Head.”

“Where are you from?” The implied subtext was that we had to be outsiders. No sane local person would be caught dead wearing those clingy, Lycra shorts and fruity looking shirts.

“Durham, both of us.”

“I was wondering,” she said, hesitating, “I don’t know anything about biking and all, but ... what do you do if it rains?”

That was a sobering thought. After the beer I had pushed that to the back of my mind. “Well … this is our first ride, so we’re new to it ourselves. I suppose if it rains a little, we’ll give it a try. If it rains a lot, I don’t know...”

With that, we headed back to tent city to settle in for the night. We headed for the shower truck and stopped by to say hey to Carl at the REI tent. They were tuning an odd-looking tandem bike, a standard diamond frame in back and a recumbent in front with a large, bubble-shaped windshield.

Back at the campsite, Frank sat in the truck cab and I stretched out in the tent and attempted to read by my miner’s light. It was noisy; the tent was rustling in the wind and passing cars would occasionally honk their horns.

When Frank joined me in the tent, I put the book down and rolled over to sleep. I laid awake for what seemed like a long time; then I got up and walked over to the gym to use the bathroom. It was nice and quiet there, so I went back for my sleeping bag and mat and found a quiet corner of the gym and settled in for the rest of the night.

I woke to the sound of rustling sleeping bags and the sight of a female figure changing her shirt in the dimly lit room. Others were stretching; some were digging through their packs. No one was talking. I was stiff but after a few minutes I worked my way out of my sleeping bag, found my sea legs, and headed outdoors. The grass was damp and raindrops were clinging to tents, but it was breezy and things were drying out.

When I got to our campsite Frank was sitting in a lawn chair, munching on a ham biscuit, chatting with the gal in the next tent. She turned out to be quite the adventurer, traveling around and living in an RV, all the while holding down a job as an engineer. Unfortunately, she had a recent injury and was unable to ride in this event, but she came anyway to visit friends. She had been to lots of biking events, and was a fountainhead of information. For example, she said the average age of bikers in these events is late 40’s, which seemed about right. Frank quizzed her about bikes, since he was looking to buy one. She gave us tips for coping on the long rides – take advantage of services provided. Treat yourself to a massage; that’ll limber you up and help you sleep. And by all means, if Bubba is there, sign up. He will schlep your gear, set up your tent, charge your cell phone, and if he likes you, he might just offer a cold beer.

Back home I checked out “Bubba's Pampered Pedalers” website. His motto is “No Bull, Just Bike: We Haul the Bacon.” In 2002 a local reporter covered Cycle NC at one of the stops on the journey from the mountains to the sea. It was rainy and the bikers looked haggard, but everyone was talking about Bubba, so the reporter sought him out for an interview. Upon seeing his press credentials, Bubba, who weighs some 300 pounds, immediately turned and dropped his trousers. It was, in the words of the reporter, “quite the icebreaker”.

After Frank had pumped out the last few drops of advice on purchasing a new bike, we walked over to the officials’ tables where other bikers were gathering. The word was that rain was expected around 3 PM. I pulled up alongside a couple on a tandem bike and mentioned that we were thinking of a 50 miler.

“You may want to check your map. I think the 50 miler is not supported today.” He didn’t have to explain what that meant. “There’s a 30 and a 65 mile ride today. We’re going for the 30 miler.”

This was not good. 30 was my speed, but Frank was ready for more. We looked at the maps and decided to start out on the longer route and head for Goose Creak, the first rest stop. We could turn around anytime.

This time, when we headed out, there were other bikers. Not a lot, but a few, and it made a big difference. A few cars passed; the roads were open to traffic. I had hoped they would close the roads for this event.

It was breezy, but I was not cold in my long sleeved T-shirt and bike jersey. We followed the group for 5 miles or so to the point where the two routes split up. We stopped, removed some clothing, and took the 65-mile branch. This was a back road and there was no traffic. Our road bikes didn’t have shock absorbers, and the tires had over 100 lbs of pressure, so we felt every little bump in the road. When there were no cars coming I veered to avoid rough spots. That’s when my mirror came in handy. Frank didn’t have one, and had to keep turning his head to see behind, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. We got into a rhythm, a regular cadence, cruising at 10 to 20 mph depending on the slope and the winds, which had picked up considerably. I stood up at intervals to let my butt decompress, as I was receiving unmistakable signals that there would be a price to pay for this little adventure.

When we arrived at Goose Creek State Park, there were volunteers serving refreshments. We mingled a bit, sipping water and Gatorade and snacking on Nabs, apple slices, and granola bars. A few riders lounged around on the grass, notably one fetching young woman with substantial cleavage.

Frank had been to Goose Creek before and wanted to show me the riverfront, so we headed down a narrow road for a mile or so until we came to a dead end. A pair of hikers emerged from a trailhead and informed us that the river was a short hike down the path. We decided to forgo the hike and head back to join our group. Frank stopped several times to adjust his seat. He assured me it had nothing to do with the antics of the young women at the rest stop.

We headed towards the next town, Bath, about 10 miles away. It was mush, mush, mush through the fields and woods and in an hour or so we crossed the bridge to Bath. There was a marina below the bridge and there were homes perched on the riverbank. We came to a rest stop at a small visitor’s center, but we decided to explore some before stopping. We passed a white frame church with a man out front selling tickets for a BBQ luncheon. Further along there was a group gathered at another churchyard. As we approached we could see they were in costumes; women in long dresses with aprons and ruffled caps, and men in knickers, ruffled shirts, and sleeveless coats.

We had read that the former Archbishop of Canterbury was visiting, and judging by the crowd and the Rolls Royce parked out front, this was him at St. Thomas Episcopal. We parked our bikes and I walked over to the church while Frank chatted with a lady across the street. I spoke briefly with an older man who told me it was the town’s 300^th anniversary, and they would be celebrating all year.

St. Thomas’ church is a compact story-and-a-half brick structure. A hostess was explaining how the structural brick was laid in the Flemish bond pattern, with every other brick turned sideways. The woodwork is simple but elegant, a bit less fancy than, say Bruton Parish in Williamsburg, but roughly the same vintage.

Outside, standing beside the Rolls, was the former Archbishop, chatting with his entourage. Since it appeared that he was about to depart, I walked past the group to view the waterfront from the nearby street corner. As I returned the Rolls approached. The driver honked, not a friendly honk as is the custom where I’m from, but an assertive “make way for the VIP” honk. Here was a world leader I hoped to hear, perhaps even meet, dismissing me with a honk of the horn.

Properly put in my place, I rejoined Frank for a loop around the neighborhood. Old homes lined the streets with gardens that appeared set to bloom any day now. We stopped at the church barbeque. We took our plates outside to picnic tables where the men of the church were preparing the food. The savory pork was served with boiled potatoes and onions, coleslaw, and sweet tea. After I provided change for a fiver, one of the men refilled our tea glasses, and the ticket guy dropped by for a brief chat. This was southern hospitality.

In Bath’s early days, the pirate Blackbeard found Bath to be a hospitable place also. He bought a plantation, married a local teenager, and was practically the toast of the town. Up the coast in Virgina, where shipping was an important industry, the buccaneer and his ilk were held in considerably lower esteem. Governor Spotswood dispatched the royal navy to hunt down Blackbeard, and they returned with his head dangling from the bowsprit. Brochures of the town’s history carefully point out that pirates were not universally condemned; in those days there was a fine line between pirates and privateers, who were sanctioned by the state to attack foreign ships.

Refreshed, we pressed on towards the ferry terminal, a few miles down the road. When we arrived there were a handful of cars and other bikers waiting for the next boat, due in about 20 minutes. Gazing out at the river, we chatted with other bikers. Standing beside the custom-built tandem bike we had seen the night before, was a big strapping ex-Marine and his wife. Milling around nearby was an attractive pair of women from Wilmington; one taught at the university and the other was a family counselor.

It was about that time I stopped worrying. We were in good company and come what may, we’d be all right. (Did I just quote Jimmy Buffet?)

When the ferry arrived we walked aboard and leaned the bikes against the railing. The boat looked like it could handle 20 cars or so, and it had a small upper deck. The wind was blowing hard so I headed topside, soon to be joined by Frank and the women from Wilmington. Comfortable on the padded benches, we gazed out on the broad, muddy river, covered with choppy waves and a few whitecaps. The river was much wider than I expected, and the crossing took almost a half-hour.

As we disembarked the skies darkened and rumbled and we felt an occasional raindrop. The terrain was flat, marshes and grain fields and piney woods. On the horizon was an industrial harbor. As we approached the town of Aurora the rain picked up steadily. One of the Wilmington gals put it in overdrive and passed me like I was standing still.

The rest stop was set up in a large gazebo-like structure, which was fortunate considering it was pouring rain. I chatted with hostesses making sandwiches and there were coolers with soft drinks and Gatorade. Others trickled in, including Carl from REI. He was there as a “wrench” – a bike mechanic. I asked him why he wasn’t working and he said that nobody was having problems.

Since it was still raining, we had time on our hands. I headed across the street to the old storefront that housed the Aurora Fossil Museum. I’ve wanted to go there for years – it’s the premier fossil site in North Carolina. The industrial harbor we passed was part of a large phosphate mining operation. The ore is buried about 50 yards down, and to reach it they have to dig through strata that were deposited millions of years ago when the area was submerged by the Atlantic Ocean. The museum features seashells, fish bones, and scads of shark teeth. Without my reading glasses I couldn’t make them out.

The attendant was an older man, friendly with just the right level of chattiness. He explained that miners are forbidden to collect fossils; in fact they can be fired for it. The company allows selected groups to enter the mine, but only researchers from the Smithsonian are permitted to approach the walls of the excavation.

He pointed across the street to a crane bucket large enough for a man to stand in. According to the attendant, it’s small compared to what they use now. Nearby was a large pile of rubble from the mine, and several tourists were sifting through it, picking out fossils. One lady passed me two small shark teeth as we spoke.

About this time the sun came out and it was time to hit the road again. My feet were still wet but my Lycra shorts and shirt were almost dry. A couple from Cary was heading out; they had just completed the spur route that would make their ride a century, 100 miles. The woman looked peppy, the man worn out. He didn’t smile when I asked how the bike seat felt.

We had some serious distance to cover, about 32 miles – I’m glad I wasn’t fully aware it. There was a tailwind, and Frank was wasting no time with the laggards. I did my best to keep up, but he got way ahead, and was soon a dot on the horizon. I seriously considered letting some air out of his tires at the next stop.

10 or 15 miles later, we stopped at a convenience store, the first one we’d passed since Aurora. As I wheeled in, I heard the ex-marine say “Nice truck” as he walked past a man pumping gas. As I passed the pumps, I could tell by his eyes that his opinion of bicyclists just kicked up a notch.

Outside the store I was chatting with one of the women when an animated old-timer approached and offered his hand, up high, for a shake.

“Where you from?” He spoke in a scratchy, smoke-cured voice.

We exchanged pleasantries.

“I believe in sharing the road. That’s right. I see you all out there on your bicycles and I know I couldn’t do it, not at my age. I got to hand it to ya.” He stuck out his hand again. “I’ve had too much whisky and cigarettes. I’m 63 years old …“

I’m 63, too,” said the woman.

“No! You can’t be! You don’t look a day over 40.”

“That’s what biking will do for you.”

He leaned over to me and said, under his breath, “I’m telling you this, she wouldn’t understand. I got a 21 year old girlfriend.”

He looked back at the woman as he straightened up. “I have one drink each night, no more. One drink after dinner. Oh, and a little Budweiser on weekends.” He flashed a mischievous grin.

“One of those Buds would taste good at the end of the ride.”

“They’re good anytime!”

We had a good laugh at that one. He put out his hand again and we shook for the third and final time.

The others were getting underway so we saddled up and headed out. Frank was off like a flash and I needed to get moving so as not to lose him. I rode with the women for a while until one of them suggested I shift up to the large sprocket in front, to take advantage of the tailwind. I shifted and took off. I passed the couple on the tandem and pedaled for all I was worth, trying not to lose sight of Frank.

When I pulled into the next rest stop, Frank was sipping Gatorade and hot to take off for the final stretch down route 17 and across the bridge. The Sag wagon pulled up and the driver announced that there were severe thunderstorms in the area and suggested we ride with him the rest of the way. Frank and a few others took off immediately.

He didn’t have to ask me twice. The two gals from Wilmington and I rolled our bikes over and removed the front wheels so the driver could mount them on the roof of the van. One said she had “hit the wall” and “bonked” and felt like a wimp. I had never heard such foolishness. “58 miles? Sorry, that does not qualify as a wimp.”

When we arrived at tent city I headed over to our tent, and a few minutes later, Frank breezed in. He was clearly elated, as he should be, having just pedaled 65 miles and still full of energy.

“Let’s get out of here before it starts raining.”

“Don’t you want to stick around for dinner? Get together with our new friends?”

“I can’t face another night in that tent.” He was serious. “We can be home in a couple of hours and get a good night’s sleep.”

So we struck the tent and rolled and folded and gathered and crammed and hit the road. We paused for fast food in Greenville, and made a beeline for Durham. I nodded off a couple of times but Frank never missed a beat.

A week later, nursing blisters on my rear end, we searched the web for articles about the event. I was curious of how many bikers attended – I thought there were considerably less than 500, which is what they had the year before. When Frank brought up the article on the Cycle NC web page, I blurted out “515 biclysts!”. We looked at each other. I coined a new word.

We talked of other events. Coming up in June was Bike Virginia; in the fall there two; Between The Waters on the Eastern Shore and Cycle NC - the big one, mountains to coast. Could we do 60-70 miles a day for a week? Not me. Frank could.

He’s awesome.

XXII. Green and Blue

As Frank said recently, we’ve come a long way since last year when we were walking our bikes up hills at Umstead Park. Spring is here, honeysuckle is in full bloom, the air is fragrant, and I met my goal, alive and unhurt. Well, sort of…

Just this morning I was riding on the new bike lane along Cornwallis. I stopped at an intersection and waited for the light, which was about to change. There was one car behind and one approaching slowly from the side. I started off standing on the pedals, and I must’ve been doing about 10 mph in the bike lane when I hit a ridge where asphalt met concrete. My back tire detoured along the ridge, sliding out from under me. It happened so fast I’m not quite sure how I fell. I think I did a forward roll, and my backpack cushioned the fall. I scrambled to my feet and pulled the bike onto the grass. I was relieved that I could move about and had no obvious injury.

My handlebars were out of whack, so I got out a hex wrench and was loosening bolts when I noticed blood on my hand. A car pulled up and rolled down the window. I said I was fine and asked if she had a Kleenex. She got out of her car, opened the trunk, took out some bottled water, and poured it over my wound. Then she produced paper towels.

Another car and a bike stopped to help. I assured everyone I was ok and declined offers for rides to work. As the first lady left she said, “Next time pay attention and don’t be watching girls.” The biker, Greg, inspected the bike and took over adjusting my handlebars. Then he reset the wheel clamps. He did this slowly and deliberately as if he wanted to stay with me for a while to make sure I was OK. I asked if he’d ever fallen, he said yes, many times. The last time he was wearing a backpack, like me, and it protected him. He wasn’t injured, but he said he trembled for two or three hours. He offered to escort me to work, but I assured him I was OK and would stay on walking trails for the rest of the way.

At work, before showering, I took of my long-sleeved T-shirt and found more blood. I couldn’t see it very well, but the back of my forearm was all skinned up. I wished I had a long sleeved shirt to cover it. My coworker, Rick, noticed it right away. Lori suggested I go to the clinic in the next building. When I said I didn’t need to, she said she didn’t want to have to look at it all day. It was pretty disgusting; it looked like it was still bleeding, but I don’t think it was. Jenny found some band-aids but they were too small. I ended up going to the clinic where the nurse dressed the wound and wrapped my entire forearm. It looked like a cast and folks asked about it all day.

One thing’s for sure, if you work in RTP and have some sort of mishap, there are lots of Good Samaritans to take care of you. I am grateful to them every one.

As I mentioned, I finished my year of bike commuting. According to back-of-the-envelope calculations, I rode 120 workdays for a total of 1800 miles. I saved 100 gallons of gas worth $200. On paper it looks so … paltry. All that fuss and bother for 100 gallons of gas. It reminds me of a harebrained idea I once had to build an exercise bike that generated electricity. On the web I read that several people had built this sort of bike, but it was not very satisfactory. A strong rider can generate only enough electricity to power one appliance, like a TV, and it requires continuous pedaling.

I’ve learned that it’s not easy to be green. Green is sweating and panting, wet in the rain, cold in the winter, and hot in the summer. Green can be less tasty and less convenient. Green is simple and frugal and sometimes humbling. Green is the lifestyle of the developing world, the lifestyle that we in the West have been striving to put behind for the last hundred years.

Green has its good points. It saves money and it’s easier on Mother Nature. It’s healthy. When I bike to work I arrive alert, energized, and de-stressed; when I get home I’m done with work and workout for the day. In November when the perfect storm struck at work, it was biking that brought me in calm and kept me sane during the day. On summer days when I go around barefoot I feel as if I’m plugged into the earth, connected by the legs of a linebacker.

Without question, safety is the main concern. I try to minimize risk, but I’m still at the mercy of the cars and trucks, and as Kumar says, they may not always be paying attention. Heck, I might not be paying attention. I have two friends who have suffered serious bike accidents that basically derailed their lives. Were it not for vigilant motorists, I may have shared their fate. I’d like to issue a class-action thank you to all careful drivers. I know you’re out there.

Meanwhile, the next time you pass a cyclist on the way to work, don’t pity him. It may be a stereotypical middle-aged drone who has discovered how to add a little spark into his workday. Biking the Tobacco Trail may be the lucky strike that makes him feel young again.

Biking the Bull City and Beyond

I. Tasty words

II. 200 Bikers, 22 Days, 2200 Miles

III. Day Trippin’

IV. Crossroads

V. But Why Me?

VII. My hero, Edward O

VIII. Walk Softly and Leave a Small Footprint

IX. Summertime, and the Biking is Easy

X. Trail Trials