Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
uck, Holland, Grand Haven, Douglas, South Haven, Kalamazoo, Centreville, and Stur-
gis, Michigan; Howe and Orland, Indiana; Montpelier, Wauseon, Whitehouse, Fost-
oria, Mansfield, Hayesville, Bowling Green, Tiffin, Wooster, Bolivar, Carrolton, Wells-
ville, and East Liverpool, Ohio; Newell and Chester, West Virginia; Monaca, Alipquippa,
Caraopolis, Pittsburgh, West Homestead, Duquesne, McKeesport, Ohiopyle, Meyersdale,
Shade Gap, Orbisonia, Mifflin, Mifflintown, Mifflinville, Sunbury, Danville, Bloomsburg,
Hazleton, Jonas, Kunkletown, and Portland, Pennsylvania; Cumberland and Hancock,
Maryland; Columbia, Blairstown, Netcong, Rockaway, Denville, Wayne, Paterson,
Rochelle Park, and Hackensack, New Jersey. (Two Hackensacks!) I've left some out,
I know, and I'm pretty sure they're not exactly in order. But they're musical to me.
Someone should memorialize them in song.
I used my tire pump regularly and an Allen wrench a few times to adjust my seat and
handlebars and check to see that all the crucial screws were secure, but otherwise my
tools, such as they are, stayed in their cases.
The trip was hard on my chain, and I had it replaced three times, but I let bike store
mechanics do that. The biggest equipment problem was my cell phone. I dropped it on
the road in Montana and cracked the crystal, and ended up replacing it in Minnesota. I
left it in gas station restrooms twice and had to hustle back to get it. Happily, I still have
my wallet.
I did lose some stuff, and inexplicably almost all the things I lost, I lost twice. Two
toothbrushes. Two razors. (I didn't just lose the toilet kits; the toothbrushes and razors
were all separate incidents.) Two of those cheapie bike locks. (I really don't understand
how I lost even one bike lock.) Two little change purses, probably with a few dollars of
change in each. Two socks. Okay, one pair. Maybe that doesn't count. Still, this seems
like a pattern worth interpreting, doesn't it?
Amazingly, I had no flat tires. Well, shit, one. Yesterday, can you believe it? And it
was my own fault. I overinflated the rear tire at a gas station pump and thirty miles
later—
bang!
I'm delighted that I didn't have to spend an hour or so every couple of
days unloading the bike at the side of the road, turning it upside down and replacing
or patching a tube. The last time I crossed the country by bike I had twenty-four flats.
But I'm troubled by the symbolism, a flat that screwed up a perfect slate, brought on
by carelessness at the very end of the journey. It's not like it spoils everything, but that
little taint on my triumphant reentry just bugs me, like a bunt single in the ninth that
undoes a no-hitter. I'll always remember it.
