This is the story of my 42 day solo bicycle ride from Colorado to Florida which 
logged 2070 miles on my bike's odometer in the summer of 1994.

The bicycle journey:
Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, Florida.

Prior to leaving Breckenridge, Just a bare, unpacked bicycle


The beginning of a 42 Day, Bike Ride from Colorado to Florida 2070 mi. '94
Left from Hoosier Pass in Breckenridge, Colorado

The first night out, I missed the Hostel on the map and had to choose
a ditch in which to set-up tent for the night

Tent set-up on the first night out, in a ditch or raveen by the road

The first morning out, I tightened the seat to adjust it for comfort, too
tight and it broke!  I had to ride fifty miles with my knees almost
touching my chin

And off I go into the adventure whole heartedly


Daily Cloth Drying Line, took two pair of all bike clothing, no more.
Wash one pair, wear the other


Could this have been the beginning of a  Mid-Life Crisis?

The bottom of the sign read correctly, "Try Our Dive"

On the road with miles to go

Miles and miles to go


2nd State crossed was Kansas. 
From Colorado to Florida 2070 mi. '94

Passing a farm with Llamas

Passing a house left vacant to weather and become destroyed

This is the Coyville, Kansas Post Office with hours: 1:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m.
Mondays through Fridays only, of course 


Slept in parks and hostels 98% of the time.
I followed Bikecentenial bicycling maps that take you across America.
Each map is approximately 50 to 100 miles and shows the local hostel,
park and bicycle shops

I arrived in the darkness of the night and did not realize that I was
setting my tent up right next to an 'animal farm' within the fence
till the morning arrived and 'cock-a-doodle-doo'

This is the 'animal farm' that greeted me directly behind my
tent when morning arrived

This is the cafe known as "Sandy's" see the story below

Sandy's cafe was an experience, full story below

Passing Lake Pueblo

When you can 'See 7 States' you know you biked to a higher elevation

Being a vegetarian, I found this sign humorous yet unappetizing

Beautiful St. Francis Catholic Church in Kansas
 

3rd State crossed was Missouri.

You've got to look closely but this is where I set-up my tent one
night 'on stage' at the Veterans of Foreign War building thanks
to a fellow named "Dusty," see story below

Crossing the Mississippi River for the first time

Crossing the Mississippi River for the second time on a 'steel-mesh' bridge

View of the Mississippi River from the bridge

The 'wire-mesh' floor of the bridge made it very strange when crossing
the Mississippi River on a bicycle

This was once a school which housed children before the town died out

Entering the Ozark Mountains in Missouri

The stench was disgusting as I got closer and closer to this barbed-wire
fence in the Ozarks, in the middle of nowhere, only to realize that this
fence was strung with 'dozens' of cattle heads, rotting in the sun

Yes, I still to this day have no idea what the purpose could possibly be
to string dozens of cattle heads to rot on this fence

I thought these two lawn ornaments (little black and white boy fishing) was
so unique, but not till after shooting the picture did I notice about five
faces in the windows watching me take this picture

This bull looks mean, I didn't stop


Some of the hills that had to be crossed in the Ozarks

The humidity and difficulty of those hilly roads was evident

Crossing the Mississippi River to enter Illinois on the other side

Entering Illinois


Illinois was the 4th state to cross

Sometimes the bathroom showers were non-too clean

Even with the map placed upon the handlebars of the bike, sometimes
the view of the miles needed to ride was somewhat daunting

A green lake I like to call 'Moss Lake'


42 Day, Bike Ride from Colorado to Florida 2070 mi. '94

Bikecentenial lead a tour across country for a few thousand dollars each
for ten biker / campers with whom I spent one night with

It appears the creator of 'Popeye' was born in Illinois

Passing a deer that must have gotten hit on the road

Enduring 45 miles of rain in Illinois

Celebrating my June 19th birthday with a twinkie and candle within tent


The 6th state Tennessee crossing state line

A multitude of parks were my normal accomodations without company,
since most people following the Bikecentenial Trail were traveling
the opposite direction or East Coast to the West Coast 


Stopping to visit friends, Monique and Phil in Nashville, Tennessee
and spending a night indoors

Tennessee seemed to have turtles that were arbitrarily crossing the road

Some made it across while others, unfortunately were found hit by cars

Finding more rain in Tennessee, from Colorado to Florida 2070 mi. '94

Finding no 'state sign' I had to settle for this 'First Presbyterian Church'
sign to commemorate the state of Kentucky

Crossing Georgia the 7th state, from Colorado to Florida 2070 mi. '94

After a couple thousand miles ridden the shoes were starting to become
caked with tar from some of the hot pavement streets

Taking a break by the side of the road to enjoy the vistas

The packed bike was completely loaded with three water bottles,
tent, bathroom supplies, few clothes and maps

A beautiful 'lake view' campsite at an actual campground

Once again, this cross-country ride was down very rural roads and no
super highways for obvious reasons

The closer I got to Florida, the higher the humidity

The humidity just hung over this lake

I am pointing to the only 'square inch' of shirt not wet from presperation

A typical cafe in a typical small town along the journey

Letter Home #1 below
Day 13, Hutchinson, Kansas
6-9-94
Well sports fans this is the intrepid explorer reaching out to make contact
with family and friends left behind in what has become a challenging
voyage across the U.S. of A. in an effort to find adventure, excitement and
cooperation from the elements of nature and humanity.  It has been a dual of
man and machine for fourteen days with machine winning some battles though
man will ultimately be the victor in the war.

I am now broken down for the second time in as many weeks being
temporarily stranded in mid-Kansas town called Hutchinson.  I spent the
night and am now waiting out the repairs being done at a bike shop while
I'm resting in a church hostel which charges nothing for this temporary
lodging.  A major convenience to bikers.

One half of this relentless sun, burn, sweat, diaper rash, blisters and
aching shoulder bladed trip is being done aided by bicycle maps produced
by an organization called Bikecentennial.  This organization has mapped a
route across America which they've dubbed the "Trans-American Trail"
reaching from Eugene, Oregon to Richmond, Virginia.  The roads they take
you on are less traveled with no super highways being used.  This 'trail' has
and will be my route until I arrive at a town called Berea in the middle of
Kentucky where I will then continue on an AAA mapped journey South
through Tennessee and Georgia, all the way down to the middle of the
Florida Keys.

Riding out the Trans-American Trail has been a great opportunity to
meet interesting individuals on their own bicycle adventures.  On the
highways I have met a chap from Massachusetts on his way to visit
friends in San Diego for the summer.  I'm not sure I can spell
Massachusetts let alone use it as a starting point with hopes of
arriving in San Diego in one piece.

A fellow I met yesterday on the road lives in Kentucky for the winters
but bikes to Vail, Colorado every summer to work for a landscaper.
He claims the summers in Kentucky are just too humid for him.  He
coincidentally will be awaiting his friend to pick him up in Breckenridge.
Since the trail goes right through town, he is the fifth person I've invited
to spend the night in our home while on their journeys.

In the preceding time on the road I also spent two consecutive nights
camping in city parks with two fellows from New Zealand on two
separate occasions.  Both strangely named Brian, did not know
each other but both started in Virginia with Oregon as each of their
destinations in their personal goals to have biked America from shore
to shore.  Brian #1 whom I met the first night is 41 years old, unmarried
and on a spiritual journey to find himself and a soul mate on his hiatus
(he quit his job) as a copy machine repairman in New Zealand.  I felt
mine and my wives souls are so tightly meshed that I had no qualms
in offering him a night's lodging at the old log homestead at 10,000
feet.  Well, maybe I had a few major hesitations but not one
actual verified qualm.

The next night I met Brian #2 who was a 60 year old, twice divorced
New Zealander who had a body to go with his thin dry sense of humor.
Here with no hesitation nor even one qualm I again extended my
generous hospitality.  Brian #2 after only a few minutes in his presence
left one knowing he was one tough cookie.  The night we met he was
completing a 94 mile day aided only by a slight tailwind especially
in Kansas.  Here I have been fighting a 15 to 30 m.p.h. headwind
while traveling East for the last six days.  This is of course one of the
reasons why tremendous miles are being clocked by those traveling
West but 94 miles ridden at 60 years old is never the less, truly
impressive.

I have been averaging 50 to 60 miles per day with a 75 mile day now
and then.  Unfortunately with two breakdowns laying me up for four
days thus far, I will probably have to continue this pace to make my
destination in Florida by August 18th where I have a dive trip already
arranged.  I never allowed for 'days off' when I calculated my miles
per day necessary to complete my destination on time before I left
you see.  This was lesson #99.

Other bikers I have met have been Diane and Terry, with Diane
being the first female I have met thus far.  They are both  in their late
twenties with Portland, Oregon on July 4th as their predetermined
goal.  With their youth and determination I'm sure they will see it
come to fruition while leaving Virginia only a memory.

This trip for myself has been fraught with pain and mistakes which
yield learning experiences as well as incredible challenge.  I have
found it to be without a doubt the most grueling, exhausting and
difficult physical challenges I have ever undertaken and I love it!

There are some things those bicycle touring books I have read
prior to embarking on this journey never quite ascertained to.
One being the tremendous toll a cross-country tour can take on
your physical bod for example.  With only two weeks on the road
I am already a pharmaceutically creamed mean bikin' machine.
Ben Gay on the shoulder blades pretends to alleviate some of the
shoulder muscle pain which appears after 5 to 10 hours on the bike
in a prone position.  It was also Mr. Ben Gay who was responsible
for myself learning lesson #98 while in the middle of a 45 mile run
in the wheat fields of Kansas.  Please heed my warning, Ben Gay
and private parts do not mix!  Having had a sore, diaper rashed
booty for three days I lamely thought, hey, if it's good for the
shoulders, then why not?

With a burning sensation consuming the entire buttocks / crotch
region proceeding to get hotter by the second, I found out why
not!  Leaping for the water bottle and trusty washcloth the sight
of me alone in the middle of nowhere trying my damndest to put
out the fire was quite a scene.  But from this I learned, Desitin =
diaper rash and Mr. Ben Gay = shoulder blades.

Then comes SPF 30 suntan lotion which stays on during a swim
but when you sweat, it just rolls on down to your ankles and
wrists which remain to this day un burnt by the sun as a wonderful
tribute to the marvelous effects of SPF 30.

Yes, only two weeks out and my right foot is blistered, as well as
one palm from inadvertently cycling a day without donning my
gloves.  Out whips the bandages and better yet "2nd skin"
manufactured by Spenco Products and 'presto' problemo solved.
A little Cortisone Creme on the pooper scooper to prevent
chaffing and I'm outta here with 'tail in the wind' (and you
wondered why no one is riding with me on this trip?)

This trip has been an incredible challenge but resiliency I
found is a word left out of the books I read prior to mounting
this stallion of steel.  When my first day out of Breckenridge
I biked for fifty miles directly passing an unsigned hostel and
had to end up pitching the tent by the side of the road in a
trough, I began to learn the meaning of resiliency.

The second day in an effort to adjust my bike seat to a more
comfortable 'higher' position to more adequately serve a 6' 3"
terminator as myself, the seat bolt snapped and broke.  I then
had to ride 38 miles up hills to the next town with a bike shop
while my knees were almost touching my chin as my seat fell
flat to rest on the crossbar.  I again learned even more on the
meaning of resiliency.

Once I stopped by a gas station to 'top off' the air in my tires
to a full 100 lbs. pressure which makes rolling this pannier laden
best down the highway ever so much easier.  The air pump
allowed the air to escape but yet wasn't powerful enough to refill
the tire to more than 70 lbs. pressure.  While leaving that station
resiliency again came to mind.

Two flat tires in Pueblo, Colorado within one mile.  With five
holes in each tube from the broken glass by the side of the road
and I wondered, why aren't the tubes more resilient?

A horrendous thunderstorm with tremendous gusting gale
winds practically blowing me and my tent rolling down the street
at 3:00 a.m. in Haswell, Colorado on day 6 in the park taught
me a three season tent is resilient to weather and wind only
in the three seasons which you are not using it.  Resilience
again played a part.

Even as recent as yesterday at 2:00 p.m., 25 miles outside of
town when my fifth spoke snapped on my rear wheel and a trucker
stopped (thank God,) strapped the bike behind the cab and brought
my ever resilient soul to the town of Hutchinson so a repair can be
performed.  I learned yet one more lesson in resiliency.

Yet, even after all these lessons in determination, I still ponder,
with a rash the size of a grapefruit on each but cheek in the
morning how resilient will the bike saddle feel?

Alas, probably not resilient enough.

Adios my friends, the lone stranger rides again.

Love, Allen

Final Letter Home #2 below
Day 30, 1736 miles ridden
Padugah, Kentucky
6-26-94
The sign read, 'Park Bicycles Off Sidewalk' with crisp black ink
stenciled letters printed carefully on manila paper stock.  Although the
wall was cluttered with numerous yellowed, tattered papers announcing
the daily special, tractors for sale and various other scribbled notices,
this one was different.  It was thumb-tacked to the wall in the center
of all the other scratchings and was obviously created with care not
given any of the others.  I wondered if anyone was aware of the
miss-spelled word bicyles?  I wondered if anyone cared.

It was only on day 17 and I found myself lunching in a place called
Sandy's Cafe somewhere between Newton and Earie, Kansas in
a dusty dieing clapboard town with no name.  The length of main
street measured no more than one block long with buildings half
empty, left unpainted and peeling from decades of neglect.  A few
were occupied with businesses if that's what these establishments,
battered by the years, could be called but only Sandy's Cafe was
open.  The other handful of storefronts not left vacant and empty
were opening and closing on their own schedule, on their own time.
Businesses seemingly fading into the dust of the streets where their
proprietors must have once thrived and raised their own families.
Sons and daughters who more than likely moved on to cultivate their
own lives.  Moved on to start their families in other towns with a
pulse.  Towns more alive, more vital than this Kansas town in which
I was to dine.  The town where I momentarily eavesdropped on lives
stalled in a world so far removed from my own.

The cafe contained ten tables with only two currently occupied.  The
first, by a man appearing to weigh in excess of 300 lbs. accompanied
by his son who was nearly as obese.  Both clad in suspendered overalls
with tee shirts left dirty and ragged.  Tee shirts too old and shrunk,
exposing their bellies by several inches which flopped, hanging as jowls
over the front of their pants.  Alone in the corner sat the occupant of
the second table who's grayed, bony face appeared to be a man in his
nineties.  The old man with missing decayed teeth asked me a question
as I chose my table and sat down.  A question I've already heard too
many times before...
"Where ya headed to?"
"I'm going to Florida" I explained to which he countered,
"Better you than me."
With that there was a moment of silence.
"I'm not fancy 'nuff to go to Florida" bellowed the overweight
Father from the table across the room.  A chortle was heard
from his son.

With these simplistic statements concluded, there came chatter
of a bailer which was broke and of 'tomatas' he was sellin' for
$1.00 a box.  As I briefly ate my lunch my head was filled with
this world of bailers and gardens.  Conversations so foreign to my
own world in which I reside.  My 'old' world from which
I am removed.

The bill for lunch in my hand as I met the waitress at the cash
register, I paid and then I was gone.  As I rode slowly out of town
             the scene replayed over again in my mind.  I left a town where a name isn't needed to remain forever stamped into my memory.

With thirty days on the road and 1736 miles already ridden I've
met some of the most interesting as well as bizarre individuals.
One of the more admirable fellows I've had contact with was
Steven "Dusty" Gilmore who runs the V.F.W. (Veterans of Foreign
Wars) building in Ash Grove, Missouri.  He opens the building to
bikers coming through his town so that they may have a place with
a roof over their head in which to spend the night.  As he was listed
on the Bikecentennial map as a person to call about lodging, I did
and he happily met me ten minutes later at the V.F.W. building in
the center of town.

"Why do you welcome bikers to stay here?" I asked as I first
shook Dusty's hand.  "Because we like to" he replied as he
clutched a hand written note which the previous nights lodger had
left folded and placed under the edge of the door.  After quickly
reading the note he handed it to me and added, "this is why."

Opening it I read a brief 'thank you' which was written by the
20 year-old girl named Heather, I passed earlier in the day.
She started her cross-country ride four weeks earlier with her
cousin who 'bailed' after two weeks.  With the exit of her cousin
she phoned her younger brother convincing him to finish the
ride with her.

The note briefly said "thank you, that was the best night's sleep
we've had in some time."  At the end of the note she included a
P.S. which read, "good luck on your ride."  With that, I asked
Dusty what she meant by "his ride" as I smiled and slipped the
note back in his hand.

Dusty proceeded to explain that he and six other cowboys are
making a cattle drive, pushing long horn steer across the prairies
as they did in the last century.  He said, "I ain't sayin' they is
cowboys and I ain't sayin' they're not, but we've pooled our money
and got a special covered wagon built, all ready for the trip."

After spending a few minutes convincing me how it is that he truly
is a cowboy, he continued to explain the ride!  He said he has
already met with Coors and Wrangler seeking sponsorship for his
'ride' and has already received more than $60,000 in commitments.
His ride would take his crew of cowboys and prized long horn steer
(which would be auctioned off after the ride) from Missouri up to
Oregon and on down to their final destination in Las Vegas, Nevada.
By October of 1995 their goal is to arrive in Las Vegas for The Jerry
Lewis Telethon to hand him all the sponsor's monies.  He then
explained how they have spent all of their own money on the covered
wagon as well as funding all of their own expenses themselves.  He
said he always wanted to give more than the small amount of money he
could afford and with 100% of the sponsorship money going to Jerry's
kids, this is one way his dream can come to fruition.

The people and personalities as you can see have been as varied
as the terrain which I have been traveling.  When in Centerville,
Illinois I happened across a $2.00 campground where leading me
to a spot to pitch my tent was a young lady who had an attitude I
will never understand.  The conversation went something like this...
"We lynch blacks in this town" she blurts out between puffs on a
cigarette.  "What do you mean?" I asked trying not to sound too
startled.  "Well, last year a black came into my Daddy's bar.
When he told him 'bout lynch'n blacks, that black man huffed it
clean out of town all night long till he reached the next town."

Not knowing how to respond to such an absurd statement I
quickly changed the subject, pitched the tent, bid goodnight and
crawled in.  The rest of the evening my thoughts were to give thanks
for being born in the right lace, right color and time while feeling
so sorry for those individuals with such strange and bizarre
viewpoints.

The final personality I would like to tell you about I met in Cassoday,
Kansas.  This is where Don Fowler, the ex-fire chief yelled at me to
stop as I almost rode right passed the park where we camped.  Don
arrived earlier with a head filled with stories of firemen, C.P.R. and
trauma.  Don liked to talk.

I willingly played the listener and was filled with incredible stories.
Even upon entering our tents he continued on, talking through the
tents and on into the night.

It seems Don was a Fire Chief for twenty years and related story
after tragic story with this one last tragedy which eventually brought
on his retirement.  As he related it...
All of the Firemen were sitting down to a meatloaf supper when
the fire bell rang.  Promptly dropping their utensils, they rushed for
the trucks.  A seven year-old girl was hit by a hit-and-run driver not
five minutes from their station he was informed as they headed for
the scene with sirens blaring.

Upon their arrival, as they jumped off the trucks, they saw a woman
who had removed her blouse, using it as a tourniquet to stop the
bleeding on a tiny, dieing girl.  There in her bra alone as she was
surrounded by a crowd of stunned onlookers, she was bent over
the girl performing C.P.R. when suddenly, upon their arrival, she
exclaimed "her heart stopped!"

Don said as they examined the street he saw gray matter which
after twenty years on the job, he knew was pavement.  He clearly
saw that a third of the back of her head was missing.

As he continued his voice cracked in obvious pain.
They knew fully well that there was nothing that they could do for
the little girl.  They then proceeded to cover the girl with a sheet
as the crowd boo'd them, making derogatory remarks.

This was one of the few nights he remembered nobody resumed
their meal on arrival back at the station.
Everyone was silent throughout the night
And then so were we.
And now so am I.

Sorry I'm not funny, but so it goes.

Love, Allen 

Passing Go