Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
If you've ever labored up a long hill on a bike, one where you can't see the top from
the bottom, and you've tried, on the way, to imagine yourself on top and figure out how
long it would be before you got there, then you've had the experience of envisioning de-
feat. In Oregon, on Day 2 of my trip, I dismounted on the side of the road halfway up
a stiff climb and, with my thighs quivering, stared uphill at the quarter mile or more of
the slope that I had to continue climbing. I'd been watching my speedometer as I inched
uphill, and as I strained to push the pedals, the whole notion of ever completing a cross-
country journey seemed ludicrous. I calculated that at four miles per hour and needing
intermittent breathers, I'd get to Manhattan the following June. It was a low point. I
thought about quitting, just getting somehow to the end of the day and then figuring
out a face-saving reason to fly home and take on a new pursuit not quite so taxing on my
lungs and quadriceps.
Then I got back in the saddle and pedaled, ever so slowly, to the top, where, of course,
my perspective was entirely different. And now here I am, not in Manhattan yet by any
stretch, but about eight hundred miles farther down the road.
When you move forward, even slowly, things change; when you stand still, they
don't. This is the lesson that bicycling teaches me over and over again, one that is so
sensible and obvious you'd think it would be easy to remember, especially when I'm not
on a bicycle. But off or on I tend to forget it—along with the corollary I've already men-
tioned: You can climb only one hill at a time. On a long-distance trip, that one is a worthy
mantra: One hill at a time. One hill at a time. Ommmmmm .
I did remember it, however, on the way up to Logan, and it informed a strategy: Divide
the big hill into a bunch of little ones, take small triumphs on the way to the ulti-
mate one. I rode in bursts of distance—two miles, a mile and a half, a mile, three-quar-
ters—before resting, then in bursts of time. Eight minutes. Six. Five. And the rewards
began to come. For one thing, on the way up, as difficult as every pedal stroke was, I be-
came aware with each one of an incremental rise, a change in my elevation. I focused on
the fact that my perspective on sea level was broadening, that my general purview was
becoming more lordly, so that each time I stopped to rest the natural spectacle before me
was wider, deeper, and more glorious.
I hasten to add that as the morning went on and I neared the top of the mountain,
I wasn't alone up there. I'd been passed on the way by several riders and passed a few
myself. And particularly as I got close to the top, the day had advanced enough that the
tourists had woken up, had their breakfasts, and started driving up and over the moun-
tain. It got a little crowded, actually, especially because there were stretches the last few
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