Biking Across America (5 page)

The Emerald Triangle held one more bizarre encounter for me. Somewhere between Leggett and Laytonville, I pulled off the highway for another break. I was in a wooded area with many lanes leading up into the surrounding hills. Ominous chains and padlocks blocked access to the lanes and warned me to stay on the highway; I got the message, squashing any whims of curiosity. I did, though, position myself at the end of one gravel driveway, lying on my back with both legs propped on my bike.

The crunch of tires on gravel jerked me out of my repose. A gruff voice demanded full attention. The young man standing over me had a large knife strapped to his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I'm just resting, taking a break from my bike ride,” I replied. Realizing I was no threat, he calmed down and told me I was in the heart of marijuana territory. Those lanes led to patches in the hills, and the young man made it clear that folks would not hesitate to kill to protect their crop. I assured him I was neither the law nor an intruder, but just a biker passing through. He warned me to be careful. His parting remark was, “We look out for each other out here.”

In Laytonville, I stopped at a small grocery store for a snack. A fellow was lounging outside the store and I asked him about industry in the area.

“We farm marijuana.”

“Isn't that illegal?”

“It used to be illegal, and that was when we really made money here. Then they passed a law allowing a certain amount of plants
for medicinal purposes, and most of us growers now have permits allowing us to grow twenty-five plants. Of course, we plant many more than that.” He grinned.

“How much can you make on twenty-five plants?”

“About $75,000.”

I told him about my encounter with the man several miles out of town.

“Someone saw you stopped there and called the owner. Those hills are filled with patches of weed, and whenever someone strange shows up, we get nervous. The federal government still outlaws marijuana, even though the state allows it.

“We'd actually prefer it to be illegal; we'd make more money. Now, with medical permits so easy to get, we have lots of competition. And now they're even trying to legalize marijuana completely here in California. That would absolutely kill our business.”

My education about this hemp product had gone further than I had ever thought necessary, but it gave me much to think about. As with so many things in life, you need to follow the money trail to get to the heart of any issue. Marijuana was outlawed at one time to “protect” our society. It's ironic that now the people who will profit the most from keeping this wild weed illegal are the growers, the mob, the smugglers, and the dealers.

I have no doubt that there are medical benefits to this plant. I do believe that in God's nature there are cures for every type of illness; we just have not yet discovered all of those natural secrets. When my wife was undergoing chemotherapy for cancer, one drug used was Taxol, which is derived from the bark of the Pacific yew.

And while I won't denigrate anyone who does benefit from marijuana's medicinal value, I also believe most users are simply attempting to alter their state of mind. Our society is under great stress. Folks look for an escape from reality. Sadly, many turn to drugs and alcohol for a temporary high.

I believe the only remedy for society's ills is a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. The only spirit necessary for my natural highs is the Holy Spirit dwelling within me. Some folks might question whether a Christian should indulge in the ornery sense of humor that often pops into my discourse, but my relationship with an almighty God makes it possible to look beyond pain and see humor in most situations.

I believe too that as a son of God I am heir to every part of the country that I traveled on this journey. God owns quite a piece of real estate, and I was inspecting my inheritance and talking to my Father about everything I found. This corner of the universe, I reported, needed some maintenance. There was a weed here and there that needed plucking.

On the outskirts of Willits, I was startled by two dogs that took offense to my passage. Spotting a dog along the path is always cause for some anxiety; you never know how territorial the animal may be. The best plan is to hammer the pedals as hard as possible and outrun any dog you meet.

This was my first encounter with canines on this ride. The big hound gave only a perfunctory chase and quickly returned to his yard. The smaller one had visions of grandeur. Perhaps it wanted to impress me with its determination. Its chase was clearly futile, so I felt safe in encouraging the little thing to run harder and even hurled a few insults at my dogged pursuer. I suspect the little critter actually thought it scared me away. At the very least, the chase did hasten my arrival into Willits.

G
od works in mysterious ways, an old hymn tells us. This day would remind me of that once again.

Each morning I'd squeeze my bike tires to make certain they were properly inflated for the day's journey. In Willits that morning, I found the back tire completely flat. My spirit was also deflated at the thought of removing that back tire and having to contend with the greasy chain and all those gears.

Hoping to reach a bike shop and let them repair the tire, I did a quick internet search and found a shop in town and two more in the next town, Ukiah. It was six o'clock, and the shop in Willits would not open for another two hours; I could be twenty or thirty miles down the road by then. Across the street from my motel was a service station with an air pump. I decided to inflate the tire and take a chance that it would get me the twenty miles to Ukiah.

After inflating my tire, I returned to my motel room to pack my panniers. Before starting out, though, I wanted to know the severity of the leak. I combined soap and water in the sink and
rubbed the foamy mixture over the rear tire. Sure enough, a little pile of bubbles appeared on the tire. But it appeared to be a very slow leak, and I felt safe in my decision to ride on to the next town.

While I had slept that night and the air was slowly seeping from my tire, another bike rider was having his own tire problems. On Route 20, Danny was riding through the night toward Willits. He, like me, would be headed down Route 101 to Ukiah, California. Because of our two flat tires, a most amazing encounter took place.

Over the past several days I'd been climbing higher in elevation; I was now looking forward to my reward, an extended downhill. First, though, was one final climb. A short distance ahead of me, another rider labored up the hill. He was on a small twenty-six-inch bike, burdened with a large backpack, and pedaling slowly. It was an odd sight; the bike was much too small for him, and his legs bowed out as if he were riding a pony.

As I neared the top of the hill, I saw that the rider had stopped at a small rest area. Concerned about his well-being, I asked if he needed help.

“No, I'm just taking a short rest,” he said.

That was fine with me. His appearance set him apart from most of the other riders I'd met along my journey. His clothes were dirty and his disheveled hair was tied back in a ponytail. Back home, this would be a person we would hope was only traveling through; we might graciously wish him well, but we would not want him to find our community so pleasant that he would decide to stay. Yes, this man would have been the topic of conversation at our little corner tables in our familiar restaurants. The talk would be about that dirty, long-haired bicycle rider wandering around the community. I was relieved he didn't need my help. I'd been courteous, but I intended to pass him by and never see him again.

Okay, I will admit that often I have been far too judgmental. That is one consequence of growing up in such an insulated community.
Anything or anyone different from what we know is regarded with a critical and skeptical eye. While I hiked the Appalachian Trail, I was outside the safe cocoon of Holmes County and God had many lessons for me, teaching me through my discomfort. Apparently I still had some learning to do; here was yet another training session God felt I needed.

I had topped the hill and was enjoying the exhilaration of the extended downhill coast when I suddenly squeezed the brakes and slid to a stop. Money!

The morning after my century ride, as I pedaled through the streets of Aberdeen, Washington, I had spotted a dime on the street. I stopped and picked it up, and decided to pocket any coin or paper money I might find on my trip. I've done this for a number of years while riding my bike around home. How much might I accumulate while riding across the entire country? Pennies are, of course, the most common denomination found. A dime gets me excited and quarters absolutely bring euphoria. Every discovery is stashed away, and on New Year's Day I count my yearly finds and then dump the pile into a container holding many years of roadside and sidewalk wealth. Someday, some unfortunate bank teller will be given the task of sorting through my scratched and weather-worn treasure.

Now, on a downhill scoot at 30 mph, I had caught a glint of silver on the shoulder. This was the mother lode of treasure: three quarters and one dime. While I gathered up my loot, the biker I had just met passed me and inquired if I needed help.

“No, just picking up some coins,” I said.

Once pedaling again, I quickly caught up to the little bike. Conversation was now unavoidable.

I discovered this rider was also heading to Ukiah, and I explained my tire problem and asked if he knew where the bike shops were located. He said he was riding into Ukiah for a court hearing and
would be happy to guide me in the right direction. I offered to buy him breakfast if he would lead me to one of the shops.

For the next fifteen miles we rode side by side. He seemed to tire easily, and we stopped several times so that he could rest. When I told him about my ride across America seeking God-ordained meetings, he inquired if I was a Christian. I said yes. He pointed to his shirt that pictured a dove being released by two outstretched hands and exclaimed, “I'm a Christian too!”

I admit that I was a little surprised. Then he told me his incredible story.

His name was Danny, and he had been a soldier in Desert Storm in 1991. His vehicle was hit by enemy fire, and life-threatening injuries kept him in the hospital for many months. Discharged from the military, he was sent home in a wheelchair. The doctors told him he would probably never walk again.

Returning home paralyzed, angry, and bitter, he drowned his troubles in alcohol and spent most evenings away from his family. His life continued on a downward spiral until his wife eventually divorced him and moved away, taking their daughter with her.

A friend took him to a Christian concert one night, and he heard the good news about God sending his son Jesus to die for him. Realizing and admitting his desperate need for redemption, he gave his life to Christ. He began to attend a local Bible-believing church. When he became convinced that God could heal him, he promised God that if he was ever able to walk again, he would ride a bicycle everywhere he went and would proclaim God's love to anyone he met.

Danny changed his diet, took herbal medications, did physical therapy daily, and prayed and praised God for the healing he was receiving. After eight months of his new regimen, and believing for a miracle, he began to walk again. He had been in a wheelchair for eight years. Keeping his promise to God, he purchased a new
bicycle and a small bike trailer in which to carry his belongings when he traveled. Having no need for the wheelchair, he painted it gold, turned it into a planter, and placed it on his front lawn for everyone to see.

Danny was now bothered greatly by the profanities used constantly by his buddies. He welded together an arch and placed it over his golden wheelchair planter. Letters on the arch read, “God's last name isn't d—n.” He also anointed his door frame, and every time he entered or left his house he prayed over that door. On the outside of the frame he posted a sign that stated, “Beware if you have evil intents or evil thoughts. Door frame is anointed.”

One day an especially profane neighbor paid a visit. As he entered the house, he fell to his knees. Dumbfounded at his unexpected collapse, he looked up and exclaimed, “Something's wrong with me!”

“You just walked through my anointed door frame and God has struck you down,” replied Danny. “You will never use God's name in vain again. You need to give your life to God right this minute.”

The man broke down. With tears running down his face, he confessed he was a sinner, and on the floor, by the anointed door frame, that profane neighbor accepted Jesus Christ.

Danny was riding beside me. As he remembered the day his neighbor was saved, he gestured emphatically with outstretched hand and exclaimed passionately, “I GOT HIM!” Then he added, “That is, God did!”

We neared the exit to Ukiah and suspended our conversation as we rolled into town. It was a beautiful morning and young people, many with dreadlocked hair, were already out and about. Many of them were openly smoking a product that would get folks arrested in most towns in America. I suspected they all had maladies of one sort or another, requiring a certain permit to obtain their medication. But their maladies did not include rudeness, unfriendliness,
or disrespect. There were many welcoming waves and warm smiles as we rode down the street toward the bike shop.

While waiting for the mechanic to install a new, heavy-duty tube on my bike, Danny and I went in search of a restaurant; I wanted to fulfill my promise to him. Following a prayer from Danny that included everyone within earshot, our conversation continued.

Several months ago, he had gone to Willits for an event and had parked his bicycle and trailer behind the backstop of the town ballpark. When he returned for his bike, he was attacked by three meth addicts. Methamphetamine is a highly addictive drug responsible for many violent crimes. I told him about all the hypodermic needles I'd seen along the roadside the previous day.

“The marijuana users are harmless; no one's afraid of them,” Danny said. “But these meth users are completely insane. Those three addicts attacked me and beat and stabbed me. They took my bike and trailer and all my money and left me for dead.”

Danny lay there until his battered body was discovered by a woman walking her dog. The dog found him and barked until its owner came to investigate. Medics were called, but their first thought was that he was already dead; then someone detected a small movement. At the hospital, doctors removed half of one of Danny's lungs; that explained his frequent rest stops and gasping breaths as we biked.

After his release from the hospital, Danny was very angry and withdrawn. He rejected offers of assistance from his church family and sank into deep self-pity.

“But I just got so tired of pitying myself that I couldn't tolerate who I'd become,” he told me. One morning in church, under conviction about his anger and bitterness, he stood to his feet during the sharing time and addressed the congregation. He apologized for his anger, and with tears streaming down his face asked their forgiveness for rejecting their offers of help.

The three addicts were eventually arrested and were in prison awaiting trial. Danny was on his way to testify against them. One of the three had already been in prison three times, but had been released every time. The last stint had been incarceration in San Quentin. He had murdered someone, but was released on a technicality.

“He's already killed one person and got away with it,” Danny said. Friends of Danny's assailants had threatened to harm him if he testified, but he was determined to go to court. “If I don't do my part to put them in prison, they'll do this to someone else. I'm not afraid of dying anyway; it's living that scares me,” Danny told me.

Danny's only income was a monthly disability check from the government. His court date was looming and he had no transportation to Ukiah, since his stolen bike was never recovered. He spent five dollars at a local junkyard and purchased a broken bike frame, two knobby tires, and several other bike parts. He welded the parts together into what he called his twenty-six-inch knobby bike. That satisfied my curiosity about the small bike he was riding. And on this bike, he set out for Ukiah.

“Early this morning, while I was riding up Route 20 from the coast, my front tire blew out,” he told me. But he was prepared. In that big, heavy backpack he carried an extra tube, a roll of duct tape, and another set of clothes for his court appearance. Trying to fix that tire in the dark was difficult, but he did manage to insert the new tube.

Then another problem arose. Not only had the tube exploded, but it had also blown a hole in the tire. A gaping tear in the tire allowed the inflated inner tube to bulge out. He wound duct tape around the aneurysm and managed to hold the tube inside the tire.

Relieved that he had been prepared for these emergencies, he attempted to continue his ride. But he was abruptly stopped. The duct tape wound around the tire created a thickness that would not pass under the brake pads.

Danny was devastated and desperate. He raised his face to the sky and pleaded with God for help. “God, if I'm to make this court date today, it's now in your hands; I don't know what to do.”

In the early morning light, he saw a pickup truck coming down the road. It pulled over and a young man stepped out of the truck.

“Sir, do you need help?” the truck driver asked.

“Yes. I'm in trouble here. I need a front tire for my bicycle.” Half in jest, Danny asked if he might have a twenty-six-inch tire lying in the back of his truck.

“Take a look,” the young man said. “I stop and pick up all kinds of stuff I find along the highway. You never know when you might need something.”