The fully loaded touring bike leaned against the windows of an Arby’s appended to the Pilot truck stop in Mountain Home, Idaho. Forty miles east of Boise, it offered the perfect dinner stop as I ended the penultimate day of my trip to Utah. The utilitarian machine, a practical two-wheeler, featured panniers front and back, with various appendages along the handlebars, including a folding map case and a small bike computer. Someone is on a long-distance trip, I thought.
Inside, a skeleton crew of three vainly tried to keep up with taking and dispensing orders in the drive-thru, tending the front counter, and preparing the sandwiches, fries and shakes. An LED screen, visible behind the register, revealed half a dozen orders in process, customer names in bold across the top of each. I looked behind me and spotted the cyclist. His table was filled with oranges, bananas and a tray of fast-food. He wore a thin jacket, probably for the air-conditioned interior, and not the 90F cloudless air he’d been riding through. He wore a faded pale blue cycling jersey, with “CAF” inside a circle printed below the shoulder. Lean to the point of cachectic, he’d obviously been on the road a while. His helmet rested on the table among the oranges. He ran his gloved hand through a wild thatch of grey hair, then stroked a beard showing no signs of attention for months.
I had to speak with him, find out about his travels. As I waited for attention from the over-matched Arby’s crew, I pondered how to approach him. I have been on many multi-day bike tours, down the Pacific coast, across the country, through the mountains and islands of the Pacific Northwest, on both sides of the border. My curiosity grew as the Arby’s team worked its way through the backlog.
Finally, my chance to order. “I’d like a Turkey, Ranch and Bacon. And a two-piece potato cake.”
“Any drinks or fries with that?”
“No, that’s it.” I paid and walked around the condiment stand to the dining area.
I gingerly approached the cyclist, and tried, “Excuse me for interrupting…That’s your bike out there, right?”
A monosyllabic affirmation, more a nod than a word.
“So what’s your journey?”
He gave the question some consideration. I worried he might be thinking I’m asking for an explanation of his life story, rather than trying to find out where he was riding to and from. I said, “I’ve done a cross country bike trip with my family. I found that one of my favorite parts was getting to tell people about our trip. So I’m wondering where you’re going?”
His reluctance to converse was palpable. I thought, This man has gotten tired of telling people where he’s going, why he’s riding. Where he sleeps at night. What he does when…all the questions those who have not done any bike touring would ask ad nauseum.
Finally, “I’m headed back to San Diego,” he offered.
“Where did you start?”
“I’m riding around the country,” he continued.
“No particular itinerary?”
“No, I started in San Diego. Rode to Florida. Then up to Maine, over to Walla Walla, Washington. And back to San Diego.” My eyebrows raised, and I was about to say, “Wow!” when he said, “And then did it again. I’m on my third loop.”
“Three times around the country,” I marveled. “And then?”
“I’ll do it again. A total of twelve times.”
“That’s…ambitious,” I said. “Why? What’s your motivation.”
He pointed at the CAF emblazoned on his jersey. “Challenged Athletes Foundation. CAF. I’m raising money for them.” He added without a hint of pride or self-congratulation, “$150,000 so far.”
“I know Challenged Athletes Foundation! I’m a triathlete, done a number of races with people sponsored by them. They’re in San Diego, right? My sister lives in Cardiff, so I’ve known about them for years, ten or fifteen years. Good for you.”
“Order for Al!” the harried Arby’s worker shouted. I left to grab my bag, got my supply of sauces for the sandwich I intended to eat once I got to Boise. As I folded the bag, I realised I needed to learn more about the quiet cyclist.
I returned to his table, and asked, “I’d like to contribute. You have a website or something where I can donate in your name?”
He fished into a small wallet he pulled from his jersey pocket, and produced a calling card, which I stuffed into my pocket without looking at it. “Thanks. I’m curious, how did you get started on this?”
“I used to work for the PSIA – the Professional Ski Instructors of America.”
“Sure, I’ve heard of them. They’d have a demonstration team, the best of the best. I’ve been skiing over 50 years…so you’re a skier, too?”
“I was a ski racer. I did well in the Rocky Mountain Region. But I could never earn enough points to make it to the national development team. Were you a ski racer?
“Well, I never did it myself, but sure, the FIS, the US ski team…”
“Eventually, I started teaching other people to be ski instructors. One of my students, Jason, he had only one arm. He was a mountain climber, going up the highest peaks on seven continents. An amazing guy, an inspiration. He inspired me to do an ‘Everest’.”
In cycling circles, ‘Everesting’ has become a thing. Find a hill, ride up and down it continuously until you’ve climbed the equivalent of Mt. Everest. Do that in less than 24 hours and put your name on a list on the Web.
The cyclist went on, “He challenged my to ride a bike, or hike, the height of the mountain, Everest, in a month. So I did it, and started to fall into biking.”
“You mean you haven’t always been a biker?”
“No, when I was young, I was a swimmer.”
“A swimmer…that was my sport, too.” Swimming, skiing, biking, CAF…I’m starting to resonate with this guy.
“When my high school had its 50th reunion, in New Jersey, I though it would be fun to show up on a bicycle. So I went from San Diego back to New Jersey, 2899 miles. Through the middle of the country, Kansas…”
2899 miles? Not 2900, not 3000?
“After that, Jason challenged me again, to raise money for CAF, riding my bike. I sold everything, and took off.”
“And you’re on your third loop now?”
A smile underneath his wiry mustache. “Yeah, I’m going to do it a total of twelve times.”
I was astounded, just as I had been the day before as I watched Scott compete in the Starvation triathlon in Park City. “Wow. I have a lot of friends who do demanding things. Nothing as long as what you’re doing, but they do ultra-runs. They run 2, 300 miles, 4 or 5 days. Or this thing I’m coming back from, an extreme triathlon. I was supporting a guy, 60 years old, who’d done Ironman races, done the one in Hawaii, the World Championship. He thought that wasn’t hard enough, so he did this race yesterday. First, jump in a lake over an hour before sunrise, swim 2.4 miles in the dark. Ride to Park City 100 miles over two mountain passes, over 10,000 feet of climbing. Hot, maybe 90 degrees on Guardsman pass.”
“Guardsman pass? That’s not Park City.”
The guy knew his Wasatch geography. ”No, yeah, down into Solitude, in Big Cottonwood canyon. From there, they run down the road a bit, and head up onto the ridge between there and Park City. 3 miles up, 3000 feet of climbing. Come out again on the road after 17 miles. That took over 4 and a half hours. It started raining, thunder, and the temperature dropped to 50.” I paused and looked through his reading glasses into his pale blue, tired eyes. “I tell guys like that – like you – ‘I’m glad you’re doing this so I don’t have to’.”
The cyclist half-smiled and extended his right hand. “Paul,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“Al. My name is Al. I’m going to put you in my blog, tell people what you’re doing. You deserve all the support you’re getting, and more.”