Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
on the side of the road as a signal of distress and stuck my thumb out for a pickup
truck or a van. I've done this on other trips and it works; the suspicion of people who
wouldn't ordinarily pick up a hitchhiker seems to be salved by the sight of a cyclist with
his wheels up in a supplicating pose of surrender. I've ridden maybe eight hundred miles
by now, and I've been in a car for about ive of them. If this offends purists, that's okay
with me.
I'm using the GPS on my iPhone. It's a little erratic. When I'm lost, it tends to be out
of signal range.
The route question is one that flummoxes me on a daily basis. Sometimes I think
ahead two or three days, but I tend to figure out where to go the night before, and often
enough—say, if the wind is blowing in an infelicitous direction or the waiter at break-
fast gives me a better idea—I change my mind in the morning. What I'm mostly trying
to do is avoid mistakes: that is, stay away from danger, ugly places, and more work than
is necessary.
After leaving Spokane, I had a tense, unhappy ride north along the Washington-
Idaho border on Idaho State Route 41. It was pretty enough; the hills were few and
easily conquerable, and though the day was warm it wasn't oppressive. But it was a busy
road, with a speed limit of up to sixty miles per hour, and the shoulder was narrow,
with an ominously jagged border that dropped off into a sandy ditch. For forty miles,
I rode the white line at the right-hand boundary of the highway and felt the wind of
passing vehicles behind my ears. Drivers occasionally honked or shouted at me, and for
a while I even crossed the highway and rode facing traffic. It was much slower going—I
simply pulled onto the shoulder and stopped at intervals to allow oncoming vehicles to
go by—but it felt much safer.
About halfway through the afternoon, I took a break at a gas station and was guzzling
a root beer when a young man jumped out of a pickup and came over to speak to me.
“Hey, why do you guys ride on the road?” he asked. He was affable, not belligerent at
all, and, it seemed, genuinely puzzled. He was concerned, he said; he didn't want vehicu-
lar homicide on his driving record. “I was the guy who yelled at you,” he added.
I told him about the shoulder problem, pointed out that I had no choice and that I'd
just as soon ride more safely. That I hadn't chosen to put myself in danger seemed to
amaze him.
“No kidding?” he said. When he turned to go I suggested that he be kind to bicyc-
lists.
“We're defenseless out there,” I said, and he cracked up laughing. Was that funny?
