Guest Blog: Cross-Country Bike-Packing at 64: Arizona

Day 19: Panama City Beach, Florida

January 13, 2024: Saturday

At 5:15 am, I woke up. Made coffee and watched the local news. The others woke up, and we packed up. I walked to the parking garage, worried that some mixup might have led to the towing of our van. Or that it wouldn’t start. But I needn’t have worried. She was there, and she started.

I drove to the hotel and picked up Mirna and Nelson. Then we drove six hours back to the condo. 

I love trips for vacation, but coming home is equally euphoric. It was so nice to see my two daughters and three grandkids. 

Our plans have changed as a result of the MRI. I will stay on in the US, awaiting the biopsy and its results. Probably at least through mid-February. Mirna will fly home (Honduras) in a few days with the kids so they can resume classes. Cassie will drive back to Maryland to resume her last semester of classes of her MA program. Nelson will fly to Ft. Meyers, Florida and spend a few days with Mirna’s brother, Henry, before flying back to El Salvador.

Tellie will say with me in the condo. Once I schedule the biopsy, I will fly to Baltimore and stay with Cassie. Await the procedure and results. 

In the meantime, I will work remotely. Invest in some profound reflection, I suspect. As those grains drop from the unknown to the bottom bulb, how to I want to spend my last days. Some people have little say in this way forward. I am fortunate that I can establish my own terms. Summer wants to spend her junior year in Florida, which means that this is my last year in Honduras. And that I drop to part time. Semi-retirement. I do have those projects, after all. Maybe this is the time. This is the year. Set up the basketball goal and shoot around with the grandkids while I am still young enough to make a couple. Ride my bike more frequently. Visit family more often in Indiana. Spend a few nights in my aunt’s camping trailer at the top of the hill where my grandparents’ red block house once stood. Finish the books on Kurtz, Indiana and the genealogy of the Coleman family. So much to do. But only a finite number of sand granulates remaining. Spend them wisely!

After the first two attacks in Iraq, I spent 10 months or so working in Washington, DC. I needed to go back to feel alive. To feel useful. I owed it to the Iraqi people and to myself both professionally and personally. There were significant sacrifices I made, particularly those related to my family.

When the armored vehicle picked me up at Baghdad Airport, I found myself uncontrollably tense. My chest was restricted, allowing only tiny, shallow breaths. The 45-minute drive to my new home inside downtown Baghdad was stressful. I had left the country with a $10,000 price on my head. And a couple times per week, thereafter, I would load myself into an armored car, and we would drive tot he Green Zone to meet with US Government officials. I noticed that my hand would involuntarily grip the handle above the backseat door and my stress would ratchet up four or five notches. I also realized that while I was certainly risking my life, I was not willing to give up my life. I was greedy. I wanted to make a different in the new post-Saddam Iraq, but I was not willing to pay the prices of death or injury, loss of limbs, or other disabilities that result from an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) or a sniper’s bullet. I irrationally committed myself to returning healthy to my family. The South African body guards took me target practicing with an AK-47 a few times. I was pretty good. I scored in the 25% of their men (they were all men). 

Today, facing the cancer and my twilight years, I have made a new pact with myself. I will fight for my life as long as the quality of life is worth living. I have 50 years of activities, projects, and bucket list items to complete. My agenda is full. Naturally, I can’t do it all. But I will life to its fullest while I can. Deal with whatever comes my way. And then accept what I have no control over. 

Day 18: New Orleans, Louisiana

January 12, 2024

He wondered if home was a thing that happened to a place after a while, or if it was something you found in the end, if you simply walked and waited and willed it long enough. American Gods 

For decades, I have asked myself similar questions. By fourth grade, I had experienced 17 school changes. Although Brownstown Elementary represented three of those. Although the school system remained the same until I graduated, I moved to Vallonia for a year and a half. Still we moved a lot. We rented one house on High Street in Brownstown, then one on the hill across from the Bluebird in Vallonia, then back to Brownstown across from the funeral home on N High Street. And then to the Hillview Trailer Court by 8th grade. But the moving from home to home didn’t stop. Over the next five years, I would live with my aunt on two different lots in the trailer court and a different house on N High Street. With my grandparents on SR-135 near Freetown. And with a friend and his family near Medora Junction. During the summers, I packed my bags and lived with another friend not far from Medora Junction, my father in Anderson, Indiana; one uncle in Whiteland: and my cousin and his family in Cincinnati. 

After high school, my work took me all over. I first stayed in a motel in Louisville. Then rented an apartment in Ohio, another in Tennessee, one in Indy, another in Texas. A hotel room in Atlantic City, New Jersey. A rented house in Jackson County. I went back to IU for a semester. And then lived in Bloomington after dropping out. 

Then I travelled to Pakistan, India, and Afghanistan for two months before meeting my wife and living in El Salvador for a year. Then we moved to Indy and finally Florida for a few years. Then we moved India and Pakistan for a year, Florida a couple years, and Costa Rica for five years where I taight English. We moved back to Bloomington, Indiana for eight years of grad school, with one summer spent in Jordan studying Arabic, visiting Palestine and Egypt and the rest of the year in Pakistan, visiting India and Afghanistan. 

My first job after graduating from IU was in DC. We lived in Maryland, but I traveled to Costa Rica and Pakistan for short work assignments until the war broke out in Iraq. I was stationed in Iraq for 10 months and sent to Yemen and Turkey on short assignments. Then after a year in DC again, I mobilized to Iraq for 14 months, then took a job in DC for 18 months. Then I spent nearly two years in Pakistan. Worked five months from Thailand. Then DC. I worked in Afghanistan, and Yemen before taking 18 months’ part-time remote assignment, living in Florida. But after a few months, I became bored, so we bought an old motorhome and travelled Georgia, New York, Maine, Indiana, Tennessee, Mississippi, Texas, and Louisiana. During this period, I also accepted two short assignments to Afghanistan and Myanmar (Burma). 

Then I took a job in Kenya, managing a project in Somalia, traveling back and forth. After six months my family joined me. We remained based out of Nairobi, Kenya for more than five years, but I accepted short-term assignments in Ethiopia, Tanzania, Malawi, Rwanda, and Zambia.

But from time to time, the question haunts me: Where is home?

At some level, I have learned to accept home as where I lay my head, without giving it much more thought. When I fill my Gratitude Diary each morning, I list the security of the house as a blessing. I am grateful that my family is safe, sleeping while I start my day with a good cup of coffee. Two cats race me downstairs where I fill their bowls and crack the sliding glass door so they can creep out into the last vestiges of evening and hear the birds chatter their greetings to day, bidding the sun to rise and shine. 

At some other level, I feel I have missed out. I don’t have a single geographic spot on the map, physical address, immobile and enduring structure to visit, to conjure and envision when longing to return, to dream about. 

I petitioned for a position in Central America. I wanted to end my career where I had started professionally. Where my wife could reconnect with her family. The grandkids could learn Spanish and the culture. I have been there for nearly six years. We lease a house there. We have a condo in Florida and a house there, both leased out while we are abroad. 

In fact, my dreams are about the tiny, red block house, belonging to my grandparents during my formative years. The home where I stayed as a kid off and on during the tumultuous years of my parents’ separation and divorce. During my mom’s first attempted suicide and subsequent hospitalization, this little home with no running water and single outhouse would serve as a sanctuary.

For an introvert like me, I became more introverted, I think, moving from school to school, as making new friends became increasingly uncomfortable and more challenging. I still played and talked with those who invited and welcomed me, but “friends” were few and far between. Learning to trust someone required an understanding of their true intentions, which took time. I was comfortable with acquaintances, classmates, neighbors. 

Even today, I am not close to or intimately “vulnerable” (this generation’s catch phrase) with many people. Most of my genuine friends live in other states or countries. I may not speak with them for weeks or years. But if they need something, they can reach out. And I will respond.

The advantages to moving around a lot are the nebulous ability to adapt. I am flexible in many ways. Even today, I can catch a good night’s sleep on the sofa or floor. I am not picky about a shower or tub. I can keep my clothes in a bag, drawers, closet, or on the floor. And as long as those clothes are warm and comfortable, I don’t care much what they look like. Give me a good cup of coffee, and I am happy. 

In El Salvador, we rented a tiny, one-room mud hut with no electricity or water or appliances. One of the happiest years of my life. During COVID, I was much more comfortable living in our two room condo with my wife, three children, and three grandchildren than were my children. My granddaughter and I slept on an air mattress on the balcony, listening to the gulf waves crashing into the sand. I can adapt to uncomfortable and unconventional situations pretty easily. A tiny bed at Fort Bliss, a bunk bed with 100 other civilians and soldiers in a huge audience hall in Saddam’s palace in Baghdad, a revamped toilet in Peshawar, Pakistan. 

I have always been tolerant of different people from different cultures and subcultures. Had a burning desire to learn, study, and experience new cities, landscape, food, music, and traditions. If home is unfamiliar and illusive, then foreign is attractive and welcome. 

I adapted well on the Sunset Limited Eastbound last night. I slept well on the bottom berth. I woke up an hour or so before daylight, grateful for the silence and peace and solitude, a haven for my thoughts. I walked to the second floor and poured a cup of freshly-brewed coffee. While Mirna and Nelson slept, I snapped photos of the rising sun, grateful for another morning. Like grains of sand dropping from a blackened top bulb of an hourglass, each morning is a blessing but we don’t know how many remain. That state of suspense is fine. There is only the here and now. So, let’s enjoy it. Tomorrow’s grain may not drop.

I finished my book and started another: Killers of the Flower Moon. Not at all what I thought it would be. I was engrossed and into my second cup of coffee when Mirna awoke. We went to breakfast and returned before Nelson awoke. 

I napped twice between meals and chapters of the book. I love train reading. Safe. Confined. Relaxed. Anxiety has no space here. 

We crossed from Texas into Louisiana in late afternoon, but arrived more than an hour late (10 pm) to New Orleans, which was fine because it allowed me to watch both IU and the Pacers win. Mirna and Nelson took a taxi six blocks to the Holiday Inn, while I claimed my bicycle from the baggage car, snapped on the saddlebags, connected and turned on the lights, and rode in my coldest and strongest wind of the trip. I immediately regretted not donning my coat, but peddled on to the hotel lobby. Mirna was still checking in. After a small tiff over whether I could take Lucy to the room or not, we got into the cold room about 10:45 pm. Mirna and I got change and put a load of dirty clothes into the laundry. The first washer ate $2 of quarters and refused to work, so we moved the dirty clothes to the only other washer, and I migrated the soap powders, as my grama would say, to the other machine with my hands. Back at the room, we realized heat didn’t work, but it was not worth the hassle of moving. So we just covered up and slept. It was nearly 12:30 am by the time I fell asleep. What a day!

Day 17: Sunset Limited Train (Eastbound)

January 11, 2024: Thursday

As much as I loved this trip, I am welcome the end. It felt good to drop off the car yesterday. To know we are only one block away from the train station. All three of us woke up at 4 am, more than an hour before my alarm went off. We are ready for the train. This should be more pleasurable than the trip here because we have a full family bedroom—probably big enough for four adults—as opposed to the roomette, which was suited for only two.

When we get back to Florida, Mirna and the kids will fly back to Honduras so the kids can resume classes. I will hang around for the biopsy and results, and whatever comes after. I will deal with whatever comes my way. Not much else I can do, right? 

The Pacers are tied for fourth place in the east, 1.5 games out of third but only 1 game out of 8th. That is how tight the race is in the east. 

At 6:30 am, we checked out of the hotel and walked a block to the Amtrak station. The very professional official changed Nelson’s ticket from coach to stay in our sleeper, even refunding me $22. Plus Nelson now gets all his meals free. It was a complicated process, but the official, Roland, I think, did it. I tried to give him a tip, but he said, “No, I don’t accept tips. Amtrak pays me well enough.”

How much better would our society be if more people did that. 

Around 8:05 am, the Sunset Limited arrived. Naturally, Mirna wasn’t there. She was off taking photos of the city. I called her. Then I pushed Lucy to the baggage car, handed her up to Roland, and then went back to get Mirna and Nelson. We boarded the train and went to the dining car to get breakfast. Before it arrived, we pulled out of Tucson. 

About 2.5 hours later, we crossed over into Nee Mexico. A sandstorm whisked up around us and haunted us throughout that state and into Texas well after dark. We plowed on. 

Day 16: Tucson, Arizona

January 10, 2024: Wednesday 

Everyone says, “Prostate cancer… If you had to have cancer, that’s the best time… it can be cured.” They respond as if you’ve struck the lottery. As if it’s a blessing. And, of course, there is a lot of truth in these comments. 

I hardly think about the cancer anymore. I don’t dwell on it. I will save and apply that at the appropriate time. For now, I think about the last few years. What can be accomplished? How best to channel my dwindling energy. Do I want to work for an additional year? Two years? Drop to part time and undertake many of my pending projects: Convert the barn into a house; build the tiny cabin on the narrow acre; help my granddaughter start a doggy daycare service; learn to play and record more songs with the family; make more silly family videos; complete both history books on Jackson County, Indiana; spend more time with family in Indiana; and check off more bucket list items (which keep growing). 

But at 64, I am slowing down. Maybe even missing a beat here and there. 

I have several more cross-country bikepacking trips I want to make: Yukon to Alaska, Scandinavia, China… But after this trip, I know I either need to drop 20 pounds and get in much better shape, or forget the long trips. Maybe the surgeon will put an end to that anyway, and I will have no say in the matter. 

My dreams have always outpaced my achievements. I am largely at peace with that. As we approach the last days, if we are lucky, we can prioritize better. We can consciously reduce our stress and realized much treasured peace for longer stretches of time. 

To a large extent, our bodies and minds are beginning to fail us at my age. Gravity, habits, and wear and tear begin to take their toll. I saw a cartoon where two fireflies were flying in the air. The younger one’s tail was lit up, but the older one was carrying a flashlight and said, “When you get your be my age, things don’t work like they used to.”

That pretty much sums it up. Curiously, I am in a place in my life that I am genuinely enjoying the golden years. I don’t want to return to teen years. I don’t wish to roll back the clock. I am quite happy where I am. And as the clock winds down, I accept the what’s over the horizon. 

Don’t misunderstand. I want to continue as long as I am mobile and enjoying myself. But I am tired. My energy is winding down. 

As we age, we can focus on all the deteriorating abilities and closing windows of opportunities and lament the loss. 

Or we can embrace this new stage in our lives, enjoy what it has to offer, which is considerable: Adult children, grandchildren, more time off, opportunity to travel and visit family, carry out our personal or professional projects, and so on. Despite my belly aching with technology, there has never been a better age to enjoy our sunset years. Streaming is a blessing. Internet. We can video chat with our loved ones. Growing up, video chatting was science fiction. We called loved ones sparingly, at a cost of $1 or $2 per minute. Health care is better than ever. Researching history or ancestors or any topic is at your fingertips. Writing and publishing has never been easier. We can volunteer, exercise, plant gardens, and on and on and on. 

My experience with Indian, mostly Gujarati, hotel managers has been mixed. I would say the vast majority are taciturn, some are exploitative, and only a handful are friendly. However, the Indian couple at the Overlook Lodge were extremely friendly. When I went for breakfast, I was the only one there. The wife greeted me with a smile and hospitality. She asked me, “Do you want me to make some more eggs?” 

I am not a fan of scrambled eggs, although I will eat them. There were enough for two servings, so I said, “No thank you.”

“What about sausage? Can I make you some sausages?” 

The container was empty. “I would love some sausages.”

I sat down and began eating despite the country western music. 

Five minutes later, she returned with the sausages.

“Here they are,” she said beaming a wide smile.

We made it to Tucson around midday and checked into the hotel. We unloaded the car, took it to the room, and left Nelson to rest. Mirna and I returned the rental to Hertz. Then took an Uber to the hotel. I walked to Amtrak, only a block away, to try to make some changes to Nelson’s ticket, but they were closed. 

Back at the room, I ordered vegan food and watched the Pacers. Mirna and Nelson went out to explore the city.

Day 15: Tombstone, Arizona (3 miles walking)

January 9, 2024: Tuesday 

When I was about five years old, my parents took me on a trip out West. I remember four things: 1) Riding in the back of the station wagon, 2) the afternoon in the swimming pool and subsequent dust storm in Las Vegas, Nevada, 3) Vegas Vic, the giant neon cowboy pointing his thumb in Las Vegas, and 4) Boot Hill in Dodge City, Kansas. My parents had my photo taken as a Wanted: Dead or Alive poster. 

Much of this trip has been reminiscent of my youth, my heritage in many ways. My paternal grandfather and grandmother loved Arizona. For maybe 25-30 years, they lived off and on in Flagstaff. They spoke about the beauty of the mountains, the fresh air, the native Americans, culture. I never fully appreciated their attachment to the state. Being here for two weeks has helped me better value the desert, the hospitality of the people, the freewheeling sense of liberty, snow capped mountains, and rich history.

From 1881 to 1886, Tombstone, Arizona was in the Jackson County newspapers regularly. In 1881, a fire that started in the Oriental saloon destroyed six blocks of downtown Tombstone, rendering 800 residents homeless. Years earlier, Mexicans killed Americans in retaliation for stolen cattle. An article from 1882, describes Tombstone in great detail, including the names of 11 saloons on a small strip of Allen Street. In 1884, outlaw Big Dan was arrested in Tombstone, wrapping up five murders from Bisbee, Arizona.

The Banner published an article titled “The Name of the Town is Appropriate,” describing “a shooting matinee… Four cowboys… had been drinking heavily… The four met the Marshall, his brother Morgan, Wyatt Harp [sic], and the city Marshall, JH Holliday, ordered them to give up their weapons, when a fight commenced, in which thirty shots were fired rapidly… Both the McLowry [sic] boys were killed, Bill Clanton was mortally wounded, dying soon after… Wyatt was slightly wounded.” This one-minute shooting matinee would become the most family American Wild West shootout, better known at the Gunfight at the OK Corral. In fact, the gunfight is reenacted every day, drawing paying customers from all over the world. 

Today, we drove nearly 200 miles to Tombstone, Arizona. From our very modest hotel just outside of town, we walked about a half-mile to Boot Hill. Then we walked to Old Tombstone, strolled Allen Street, took in some gunfights in Wyatt Earp’s Oriental Saloon, and took hundreds of photos. We also watched a 1-hour comedic gun show. After that, we walked up to Big Nose Kate’s Saloon and ate. It was a nice day.

After watching IU stink up the Rutger’s floor, I went to sleep. 

Day 14: Mesa, Arizona 

January 8, 2024: Monday

Almost exactly 121 years ago, in 1902, former Jackson County resident, DJ Miller, wrote a letter to the Brownstown Banner from Phoenix, Arizona, not far from where I sit now. Miller ran a restaurant in Phoenix.

“Mountains… are now covered with snow,” Miller wrote. “This is a good place for many of the Jackson County boys… plenty of game… such as, jack rabbits, cottontail, quail, dove, coyote, tree-fox, and wild cat, with the liberty to hunt where you will.”

“A great number of Indians and Mexicans. Salaries run form thirty to fifty dollars [per month] for most kinds of labor.”

The following month, Miller sent little Georgie Reynolds a pair of jack rabbit ears. 

Today was a six-hour drive capped off with a nice visit to a ghost town.

 

We decided at the last minute not to drive up into Utah, where it is even colder. But rather, we drove 250 miles south to Apache Junction. Aside from fighting the constant dirty windshield resulting from frozen windshield wiper fluid canals, the trip was smooth. 

We stopped to take photos of the snow covered mountains.

Located in Apache Junction, the Goldfield Ghost Town is a Wild West entertainment rehabilitation of the original town of Goldfield. Their website reads in the “1890′s Goldfield boasted 3 saloons, a boarding house, general store, blacksmith shop, brewery, meat market and a school house.” Apart from the brewery, it sounds a lot like Kurtz, Indiana at the same time. 

While walking down Main Street, one tries to imagine the town 130 years ago. Organizers have done an excellent job or recreation. 

Nelson, Mirna, and I commissioned Old Time photos inside a saloon: Cowboy (Nelson), Saloon Girl (Mirna), and Sheriff (me). These are the most memorable photos. We have photos from Jordan, where the kids, Mirna, and I are all dressed as Beduins (Arab nomads). Photos in Cody, Wyoming, where we are dressed as Wild West cowboys and saloon girls. 

Day 13: Page, Arizona

January 7, 2024: Sunday (2 miles hiking)

After three days of the Grand Canyon, the sites around Page were a welcome change. 

In order to visit Upper Antelope Canyon, you must make reservations. I made ours online. We arrived about 11:10 am to check in, looked at some souvenirs but didn’t buy, and hung around until 11:55 am when Scott, our Navajo guide, rounded us up and loaded us into a van. The 20-minute drive to Upper Antelope Canon was uneventful. But once we arrived, the $70 per person, hassle to register online, the wait, the drive, the relatively unfriendly clerk, were all worth the trouble. The slot canyon of Navajo Sandstone was beautiful, layered. Almost magical. 

We spent about 40 minutes walking 200 yards through the beautifully sculpted crevice, stopping every few feet to take photos. Scott was pretty friendly. He was soliciting tips. However, the tour guide behind us yelled at me twice, “Go on! Yeah you, move!” He wanted me out of their line of site for photos. 

Leaving the canyon, we had a 1/2 mile walk that ended in a climb of a few flights of stairs on an grated-steel structure, which was no problem for most of us, but one 69-year old Singaporean man, a retired firefighter, struggled. He used hiking poles until he got to the stairs, and then they started sticking in the holes of the grates. I didn’t interfere until we started walking down, which was about four flights. I hung back and asked him if I could carry his poles. He handed them to me gratefully. 

“This is a challenge,” he said. 

“Like the Amazing Race,” his wife said. 

“You are doing fine,” I responded. 

“You have to try new things or you will never see them,” he said.

“You are doing fine,” I told him.

His mother language was Malay, but spoke English more than Malay, he said. I continued just one step ahead of him the entire time, ensuring that he felt comfortable, and if he stumbled, I would be there to help.

After returning to the parking lot, our next stop was the Glen Canyon Dam. 

Then the three of us drove a few miles to Horseshoe Bend, a beautiful incised meander shaped like a horseshoe, in the Colorado River. 

Afterwards, we ate a really delicious Mexican meal at Tapatio’s. 

Day 12: Page, Arizona

January 6, 2024: Saturday

We ate the muffins with coffee in the room, packed up, and drove off. I was a little worried because Google Maps reported that Arizona 64 East was closed. The next wave of the winter storm wasn’t due until Sunday, so I checked a weather alert number: 511. After several clicks, the GIECO-sponsored service reported that SR-64 was clear. But as we started driving that way, a sign warned us of icy roads for the next 28 miles.

Indeed, inside the park for the next 25 miles or so, the roads were very icy. It was a chilly 32 degrees. For those of you who live in northern states, this is very common. But I haven’t lived in snowy, icy climates for 13 or 14 years or so. I try to avoid it with calculated planning. I have never liked the cold. Not even as a child. Mirna and I moved to Florida in 2010 or 2011. Then to Kenya in 2013. Then to Honduras in 2018. 

Nelson has lived in El Salvador all his life. This is the first cold and ice he has experience. He is quite happy to see the snow, which until now he has only seen on the snow. 

Day 11: Grand Canyon, Arizona

January 5, 2024: Friday: (6 miles hiked)

This was a wonderful hiking day. We hiked a total of six miles around the south rim of the canyon. 

The temperature was about 25 degrees when we woke up. Nelson slept on the floor, and Mirna and I in the queen size bed. We drank room coffee and snacked on energy bars or other leftovers. Around 9:30 or so, we walked to the Maswik Lodge and had an expensive, unsavory breakfast served by an unfriendly host. The potatoes were like pebbles. They had been fried into a state of fossilization. 

By now, the temperature had climbed to about 35 so we spent the next three hours walking 3.5 miles along the South Rim Trail, which was very icy at times, taking photos all along the way. We walked straight back along the road because it was relatively ice free. 

At the room, I napped. Mirna and Nelson went exploring a little more. When I woke up, I ordered food down at Tusayan, and Mirna bought muffins for breakfast. The prices were more reasonable, but more importantly, the quality of the food was better. We drove back and ate in the room. I watched the Pacers beat the Hawks. But afterwards, I couldn’t sleep because I was coughing. I have felt just a tiny bit sick. I have had a sore throat for several days. However, this was the first time I suffered a nagging cough. To exacerbate the situation, my upper ribs shot warning salvos of pain with each cough. Finally, Mirna gave me some NyQuil-type powder from Latin America that calmed the cough and I fell asleep after about an hour. 

Day 10: Grand Canyon, Arizona 

January 4, 2024 (Bright Angel Lodge)

We finally made it!

It has been fun to meet back up with Nelson and Mirna. Nelson is a few years younger than me. But I remember him from 1984. Like most of us, in his early 20s, he was thin and strong, had thick, black, wavy hair and brown eyes. During the brutally hot days in San Vicente, El Salvador, Mirna’s family didn’t have AC or a fan. Maybe some houses had ceiling fans. Nelson wore shorts and flip flops with not shirt, like many of the other young me. Even I would on occasion. I remember he would stand, leaning on the concrete wall along the open corridor of Mirna’s house, talking to Mirna or her siblings, with his fingers inside the waist of his shorts. I never knew him well then. He worked on the finca (farm) with his older brother Memos. 

A civil war was going on around us, but life continues. Nelson’s family was poor by American standards, but much better off than Mirna’s. Their houses were side by side. But both of Nelson’s parents lived together, both worked, and they had fewer children. All of the children worked, so that to some extent the family resources helped keep the family afloat. 

Next door, at Mirna’s house, her mother was head of the household. She and Mirna’s father had divorced many years earlier, and he lived in another section of town. He had paid modest child support, but that stopped when the kids reached 18 years of age. Bessy, the youngest had just turned 18, so Mirna’s mom had no income. She and some of the kids had worked or carried fruit from the finca, but the civil war had strangled most of the informal jobs. Mirna’s mom had born two other children, Henry and Aime, by different fathers, but their fathers didn’t contribute. In El Salvador, it was the mother’s responsibility to raise and pay for the children if the father chose not to stay in the picture. 

When I met Mirna, there were 13 people living in a one-room house, including Mirna’s grandmother (who actually owned the house) and Tere, a young girl who from time to time had no other place to go. The only family income was that of a brother who lived in San Salvador and worked at a factory. He owned a motorcycle and came home once every couple of months to visit and provide some support.

I helped out some, but my income was very limited. My father wired me $300 per month, and I would have to ride a bus two hours to San Salvador, go to a bank, and receive the money. Then Mirna and I would go to the supermarket and to Pollo Campero (a fried chicken fast food restaurant) and take it all back to treat the family. Throughout the month, the rice and beans and few food items we bought were usually shared with her mother’s family. I felt a constant state of guilt because I, myself, was not working, was receiving money from my father (although it was an arrangement), was responsible for supporting my wife and her two children, but also had a secondary responsibility to help Mirna’s family. Her sister had twin boys that fall. They became ill, and Mirna and I bought some medicine, which seemed to help.

At the end of the 1984, a very pregnant Mirna, her two kids, and myself moved to the US. On the day we left, I did a horrible thing. I took the radio-cassette player that I had bought Mirna. She wanted to leave it for her family, but I wanted her and the kids to have it in the US. 

We sent a little money in those first few months in the US for the twins, but times were tough, I was only partially employed. We were living hand to mouth. But one of the twins died anyway. By March 1985, we were in Florida, and I was selling cars. My first son, Tyler, was born in April. From the economic lessons I had learned in civil war-torn El Salvador, I pinched pennies and saved everything I could. Sent a little money a few times a year to Mirna’s family, but the second twin died. The guilt and shame has never left me to this day. I should have done more. 

Tyler died in February 1986. I was devastated. It took me 25 years to process that blow. I could not imagine losing twins.

Later that year, we traveled back to El Salvador, and then once every year or two when we could afford it. I began to get to know Nelson a little better. He would come over and play UNO, walk downtown with us. But that was the extent of it. I know that he was like a brother to Mirna growing up. She was one year older than him. They lived next door to each other. 

But in 2006, after I returned from Iraq the second time, Mirna and I returned. Nelson picked us up at the airport. I would not have recognized him had I met him in a crowd. Like most of us, he had gained 30 pounds. His hair was gray. He was like me: Older. 

Then in 2018, when we moved to Honduras, Nelson came to visit us. And we visited El Salvador about every year. He and I would go on walks. Chat occasionally on WhatsApp. I began to see what Mirna had always appreciated in him. He was kind, humble, accommodating. He began to suffer some health issues that he deals with even today. 

Last night in Prescott, we rented an inexpensive suite for the night. Mirna and I both got queen beds, and Nelson slept on the sofa. In the morning, we picked up Lucy from the clinic: High Hear Bicycles. Then we drove to Watson Lake and walked around just enough to take photos. It had snowed overnight and was in the mid-30s. So we got back in the car and drove north on 89 with the heater on. 

We hit highway 40 at Ash Fork, and drove east to Grand Canyon Junction, which is still a hour or so from the Southern Rim.

Day 9: Prescott, Arizona

January 3, 2024

My ribs bothered me all night. Every movement shot bolts of pain through my chest and arm. 

Morning was bright and chilly. I drank coffee and found a clinic in Prescott that would admit Lucy. I reserved a suit for three adults just three blocks from the shop. Mirna and her cousin Nelson, who is visiting from El Salvador, arrived about 10 am. We drank coffee and then loaded Lucy in the car. I drove us a little over an hour to the clinic: High Gear Bike Shop. Johnny assured me he would take good care of her, so we left Lucy in his capable hands. 

We ate at Chipolte’s and then checked into the hotel. Mirna and I washed clothes. I was dead tired. So I napped. Nelson watched something on TV. I was cold outside. Mirna went off for a hike on her own. 

I woke up and worked on photos and videos. It is a bit of a process. Takes time to edit, transfer, and sort. 

Around 4pm, Johnny called to report that Lucy was ready to be released. I know she will be excited to see me.

We ordered some Chinese food, and I watched the Pacers hand the Bucks their four defeat at our hands this season. In fact, we have given them 4 of their 10 defeats. 

A pretty uneventful day. Which is fine by me. 

Day 8: Black Canyon (15 miles; 200 total) 

January 2, 2024

Bike Wreck!

I knew this was going to be a really tough ride. At least 1/2 of the way was going to be dirt path. But I only had 18 miles to go. Figured I could make it. 

Left at about 8:10 am, and had blacktop with relatively smooth sailing for about 5 miles. Then at New River, the road turned to a wide hard pan, and I crossed a cattle grid. The road has some small hills and some loud, barking dogs, but otherwise it was fine.

Then at a bend in the road, it suddenly turned into a path with a hand written sign that said, “No Through Traffic.” 

Two men were working on an old broken down pickup at this spot. One of the men told me I could take the dirt path. I would get rough, but it would take me to the on and off ramps of I-17. 

I plowed on but had to push almost immediately. This path was little more than an ATV trail that was a tributary to a river in the rainy season. At times sand and dirt, at other times a bed of boulders. Twice, I crossed creeks but kept my shoes mostly dry. Suddenly, I came across cattle. I tried not to spook them, but they ran off. I was hoping the bull was not around. Finally, I got through it and came to I-17. I crossed the highway and immediately the blacktop gave way to a wide, relatively smooth hard pan. I sped down a hill, peddled up a few small ones. Stopped to take some photos. This was the nicest route of my trip to date. This was genuine Arizona desert. Fun! 

Once I stopped and called Cassie and the kids to video chat and show them the desert. I felt stronger than I had since I started. Usually about Day Five is when I start getting in better riding shape. 

But after lots of curves, the path got worse, narrowed and transitioned into a very hilly ATV path. These hills were very steep, very curvy, and very dangerous with lots of small boulders, loose gravel, and sand. It was a virtual five-mile long dirt and gravel rollercoaster. I hated it. 

I pushed Lucy up the inclines, sometimes stopping 3-4 times to catch my breath to get to the top of a 60-foot climb, slipping and losing my footing the whole way. At the top, I tried to coast down some of the shorter hills, tapping both brakes the entire way, and still she would slid and skid. 

I wanted to coast as much as possible, because pushing up and down for five miles on this rollercoaster would take forever. I was within a few miles of my destination. I just wanted to take advantage of the coasting opportunities while maintaining a safe balance. 

But Lucy is a hybrid. Not a mountain bike. She doesn’t have shocks. Her tires are wider than normal street bike, which helps. But all my saddle bags, 30 or so pounds of gear, are strapped around her back tire. She is not balanced at all. Great for a touring bike on blacktop, and tolerable on hard pan. But loose gravel, big stones, and loose dirt or sand are the enemy. 

At one particular nasty hill about two miles into the treacherous path, I tried to coast down the steep grade. Lucy built up speed and started skidding, and I was trying to brake her, but we were sliding out of control. Then she slid out from underneath me. After she went down, I was still holding her up, trying to protect my camera, and managed remained on my feet, my tennis shoes skidded about six feet. 

That was a close call! This is no country for old men!

I was only part of the way down. I got Lucy back up, and started back down but this time more carefully. And while I braked and veered from side to side avoiding the small boulders, stones, and sharp mini-ravines as possible, Lucy began to slip and slide and fish-tale, until she threw me. I landed hard on the right side of my chest, involuntarily emitting an expletive upon impact. 

Fortunately, I landed on a flat bank, and not a stone, or I would have done serious damage. I was reminded of the motorbike wreck in Thailand that broke my collarbone, scapula, seven ribs, and punctured a lung. The motorbike had landed on me, and the muffler was burning the skin on my right leg. I kicked it off. Adrenaline was rushing through my system. I crawled up an incline of the bank to the blacktop, maybe 15 yards. Then, I sat there appraising the situation. If I could shake this off, I could go back down the bank, get the motorbike and continue on. That’s when I realized that my left shoulder was about three inches lower than my right shoulder. The only place I was going was to the hospital. 

But here in Arizona, I faired better. I knew I had bruised, maybe broken some ribs. But otherwise, I was fine. Lucy, however, was bent out of shape. Literally. (This is the correct use of literally, BTW). Her front tire was warped and wavy. 

I got up, pushed Lucy (although her front tire didn’t move) to the side, and sat down to appraise the situation. I couldn’t ride Lucy. In fact, she couldn’t be pushed. I tried calling Mirna who was 150 miles away to see if she could come and pick me up. She didn’t answer. Which was a good thing.

I was forced to reevaluate. Many things were going on in my mind. Did I remove the bags from Lucy, and hike the next three miles with the bags on my back, and try to get someone to bring me back to get Lucy? Did I call Jack, the Airbnb owner, and ask him to come and get me? Did I want to sit here for hours and wait for help. I hadn’t seen another vehicle all morning on this path. Did I get my valuables out of the saddle bags and just walk with my backpack for help? So, I did the only logical thing that an old man could do in my set of circumstances. I took a photo of myself smiling and Lucy bent out of shape. 

I saw my water bottle back at the scene of the accident and went back to get it. I pressed Lucy’s front tire. Bent, but still full of air. Hmmm!

I removed the wheel and carried it to two large stones. I laid the rim on the stones and pushed my considerable weight onto the steel, reshaping it. After about five minutes, it resembled something that would rotate. I put the tire back on. It spun. I removed my jacket and sock cap. It was maybe 60 degrees and I was sweating. 

With Lucy back on her wheels, I could push her. The next three miles took hours. Up and down these Godforsaken ATV hills, my IU tennis shoes slipping and skidding going up and going down. My right shoulder and ribs shouting in pain each time I used my right hand to push or pull Lucy, which was constantly. I stopped at one spot to catch my breath. On the right, I looked over and saw a dirty penny on the bank at shoulder height in the dirt. I cleaned it up and put it in my bag. A lucky penny!

Before long, I heard the roar of UTVs, these four-wheel dune buggy type of vehicle. There was a caravan of a dozen of them coming my way. Arizona Outdoor Fun Rentals was at the end of these trails, training and sending off adventurers for the day. 

The first in the group of a guide, to lead and supervise the fun seekers. 

“You OK?” He asked, giving me the thumbs up, which I returned. I was too damned tired to talk. 

“Got 11 behind me.”

Many people gave me the thumbs up signal to ask if I was OK. I gave them the a thumbs up response to let them know that I was indeed OK. There was nothing they could do for me.

About 20 minutes later came a second group. Then a third and a fourth. Probably 60 UTVs and ATVs (3-wheelers) all in all. There were mostly white people, but I noticed many black men and women. I felt encouraged by the diversity. Several older folks, nearing retirement age with their younger offspring. Lots of kids as young as six years old. 

The route was hard. Pushing Lucy in this state, both her and me, was tough. But after a couple hours, I covered the three miles, and arrived at the Arizona Outdoor Fun Rentals office. 

Brian was a very friendly assistant manager, who had been working there for three years. I asked him if someone could take me the last 2-3 miles to Black Canyon where I was to spend the night. Brian and I loaded Lucy into the back of a UTV, strapped her in, and drove the rest of the way to my rental. 

Jack met us there. The rental is like a large, detached mother-in-law suite. Two sofas, queen bed, bunk beds, kitchenette, large screen, and ping pong table. 

After pushing Lucy the last three miles, the last thing I wanted was to walk. But I needed to eat and get some supplies. So I walked .8 miles to Beni’s Pizza. I ordered a slice to eat then, and 10 wings for later. At the Dollar Tree, I bought some supplies, and walked the .8 miles back to the room. I was exhausted. Somehow I managed to shower before I dozed off. 

I woke up shivering and turned on the heat. I spoke to Mirna. She and Nelson would come to get me on Wednesday, and we’ll go to Prescott to try to get Lucy into a clinic.

By now the ribs were making it known that they didn’t appreciate the agony I had put them through. And they screamed at me with every movement in the bed. Up and down. It was a difficult night. But still I slept.

Day 7: Anthem (37 miles; 185 total) 

January 1, 2024

Times like this are really critical for my mental health. I am alone. I am physically exerting myself for six hours a day. I have time to think. Reflect. As I am pushing through the day, peddle after peddle, I am wondering about myself. How long can I keep this up? While I love the sites and experiences, I don’t particularly like the moments, hours, each day when I feel like I am drained of all energy, but still have 20 or 30 miles to go. I ask myself each year, am I too old to be doing this? Is it time to stop this nonsense? I am not in any better shape than I was last year or the year before. 

Outside of Scottsdale, I started to get on I-17, but realized that I was reading the GPS wrong. Rather, there was a bike and walking trail beside it. A motorcycle rider and his female companion stopped beside me, and with a friendly smile told me that the interstate was not for bicycles. I circled around and got on the bike trail. It was black top for a very short stretch before disappearing entirely. I had to stop and look at the GPS. I was supposed to go on a dirt trail that weaved under I-17. From where I sat, the 35 foot drop was too steep to try it. I backtracked half a block and found another dirt track down to the bottom. It was more gradual. So I took it.

I followed this dirt track for several miles, lifting Lucy over a steel barrier several times, mean to keep ATVs (four-wheel All Terrain Vehicles and motorcycles out). After a long, slow ride, I came to Cave Creek Road. It was a busy highway, but the road was better. After a few more miles, I came to the best part of the day’s journey: East Sonoran Desert Road. 

The Sonoran Desert is a vast 260,000-mile hot and dry eco region that covers parts of three Mexican states and California and Arizona in the US. I peddled several miles across this beautiful desert. I stopped and took photos. There were many bikers, one man about my age and size who traveled without bag and moved much quicker than I. He passed me going the opposite direction (east) and the after a while I saw him coming back west. I saw a man who was in his mid-70s riding without bags who was traveling at my speed if not faster going the opposite direction. 

Finally I reached the hotel. Ordered a Philly Steak Sandwich, something I haven’t had in a decade or more. I watched the Pacer game. They played really well to beat the Bucks in Milwaukee. 

Day 6: Scottsdale (38 miles; 148 miles total) My Birthday!

December 31, 2023: Sunday

I woke up at 4:40 am. Decided to stay up.

The last day of 2023. Hard to believe another year has passed. It was a fascinating year in so many ways. So challenging. And also so very rewarding.

I think that I am enjoying life more. I know that I am nearing the end. One way or another, whether the prostate cancer gets me, or something else, these are genuinely my golden years. I am certainly much wiser in so many ways. I am trying new things. Have done a lot of things. Been a lot of places. Helped hundreds of thousands of people who will never know my name. And perhaps a few hundred who will. 

I rode my bike in Vietnam and Cambodia this year. Now I am back riding in Arizona. Gonna see the Grand Canyon. I published a few articles. I researched a lot on Hoosier History, on violence prevention, on irregular migration causes, and other topics. I played my first song on a music keyboard. Recorded the song with my family. Started my second song. I made my first animation video.

I left the room about 8:30 am. It was about 44 degrees. On Sunday morning, traffic was not bad. After a few miles, I entered a bike path that would take me the next 20 miles or so. The path brought me to a petting zoo with cows and goats in people’s back yard. Families with little children and some retirees were there. Right around the corner, I followed the path along a canal. Another neighbor had several horses in his backyard. 

The canal path was blacktop, smooth, and quiet. There were retirees walking, couple with their baby in a stroller, mothers and daughters riding bikes, lots of dog walkers. Immediately, I came across many mallard ducks in the canal that were following a dog walking on a lease with his master. So interesting.

About 15 miles into the route, I stopped at the first bench of the day along the canal. A tiny soccer field sat in a small valley below. A couple fathers were playing with their children. Four or five boys and one girl. I was worn out already. My legs were not a whole lot stronger than yesterday when I stopped. 

I removed my bag and ate an apple. Drank some water. Then got back on Lucy and we plugged away. At the Salt River, the path turned west to wind around the waterway. I stopped at a bench and took some photos of some ducks and geese in the river. 

After crossing the river, I stayed on North McClintock Road for several miles, then N. 87th Terrace, which is largely a bike path, but cars can drive on it. They don’t because there is no easy outlet for the cars. I think I passed one car that last 45 minutes or so on that path.

Again, I had to stop every couple miles or so. I was just out of breath and my legs were wobbly. 

I was really happy to get to the hotel, around 1 pm. It took me 4.5 hours to go 38 miles. But inside, the desk clerk told me I would have to wait until 2 or 2:30 pm for a room. 

“I don’t have any rooms clean,” he said. 

No problem. I set up my iPad and started watching the Colts game, which was almost over, but I watched it from the beginning. A native Indian family was in the lobby. A little girl about six was running all over. She was so cute. The father asked me about my trip. I told him. 

A woman with black hair, probably in her 50’s, came to the lobby to complain that their room was not clean. The clerk explained that they only cleaned it when the guests asked. She remained there, asking who else she could complain to. She left and returned with her husband, who had a shaved head.

“What do we have to do to get our room cleaned?” He said in a Minnesotan accent. Which I have to say is not a good complaining accent. 

“Just tell us… here. Like I told your wife,” the clerk said.

“I told him,” the wife added. Apparently, her husband figured that his complaint would have more weight. 

The husband continued to complain. After a minute or so of complaining he said, “The sink is not draining right.”

I grabbed an apple and devoured it. This was entertaining.

“I’ll have it looked at,” the clerk said patiently.

“Hair has the drain clogged up,” the wife added.

The clerk told me he had a room. It was about 1:30 or so. 

As I pushed Lucy to the elevator the couple exited the elevator. They had more complaining to do. 

“I want to talk to… this manager is not…” one of them was saying.

I smiled at them, but they didn’t have time for smiles. They were deeply engaged in complaint mode. 

At the room, I resumed the game, ordered chicken wings, and enjoyed my birthday. I do miss the kids. My family. My wife on this day. But, soon enough, I will be with them. 

Day 5: Queens Creek (45 miles; 110 miles total)

December 30, 2023: Saturday

It was 44 degrees when Lucy, my bike, and I rolled onto N. Sundland Gin Road. Immediately, I noticed that my left knee was swollen and sore. The one that underwent two surgeries during high school. The one doctors have been telling me to replace for years. But I ignored it.

We rode south on Casa Grande-Picacho highway for a few miles then crossed east into Robson Ranch, which is a housing community. The guard at the gate was a nice 60-year-old man named Dennis (I think). He told me it was going to get very cold the nearer I got to Grand Canyon. We spoke for a few minutes, shook hands, and then he let me pass. 

The road that circled around the community was wide, blacktopped, and vacant, except for a few senior citizens walking their dogs. At the end of the route, the blacktop turned into a dirt road for a block. Then we turned left on a hard pan dirt road that was almost as smooth as blacktop. Immediately, I spotted a coyote. He stared at me, refusing to run off. I wondered if he might attack. But he didn’t. 

After a few miles on this road, it turned to blacktop again, and I ended a stretch of several miles of solar panel fields. Rows and rows of them went on as far as the eye could see in one direction. When I turned onto a major highway, I came across a short stretch where they were on both sides of the road. It was encouraging. Between the solar panels and the sophisticated irrigation systems, Arizona seemed to be leading the technology advances into the 21st century. 

Wow, it just dawned on me, that we are almost a quarter of the way through the 21st century. 

I peddled upon a horse ranch that I could smell before I saw it. I saw a huge quarter-mile racing track and several horses in a pasture behind. 

Next, I started noticing cotton littered all around both shoulders. This went on for miles. Then I saw a semi truck pass with several large, rolled bails of cotton. 

A sign informed me that I was entering the city limits of Coolidge. But I never saw businesses, communities, nothing. I was whipped already, so I stopped at an abandoned gas station with a Private Property sign warning that it had 24-hour security cameras. But I couldn’t spot a camera. They must have been well hidden. 

About 12 miles later, I came to Coolidge. I think that these towns have incorporated thousands of acres in the city in order to secure tax breaks for farmers or to protect from encroachment from the state or some other political reason. Have never seen this before.

I sat down, took off my pack, and sat on concrete walkway. I drank water and ate an energy bar. I had removed my jacket a couple miles back, so I shedded my sports pants. It was probably in the 60s. Then got back on the road. My breaks are rarely longer than 5-7 minutes. 

The road was relatively barren. Few vehicles. No businesses. A couple of farm houses, but many electric substations, linked to the solar panels, I suspect. 

At Coolidge, I rode some back streets that were wide and barren. I came across a funeral home, where several mourners were leaving the home, hugging and milling about outside. No one was heading toward their cars, except on tall man with a ZZ Top beard. In the short driveway, a white three-wheel motorcycle and a matching hearse trailer. 

Back on the main road, I saw a Speedway with two tables outside. I stopped and parked my bike. A short homeless man sat at one of the tables, drinking a cup of coffee and scrolling on a smart phone. He had a plastic bag with some clothes in it, and an official letter, maybe a bill, sat on the table. 

“Good morning,” I told him.

“Morning. It is a beautiful day,” he responded.

“Yes, it is a beautiful day.” And it was.

As I was locking my bike, Jesus (no, not that Jesus) came up to the table behind me.

“I will keep an eye on it,” he said. 

Without looking at him, I continued locking it and said, “Thanks.”

“That’s my car over there. I just came from Walmart. I bought dog food for my dogs.”

I went inside the convenience store, looking for protein, but I didn’t find anything that looked good, so I just bought a Propel and went back outside. The homeless man was gone, but Jesus was there. And he wanted to talk. 

Jesus was a 53-year-old bathroom tile installer. He moved from Mexico to Arizona at the age of 4. English was his first language. He got his residency when Ronald Reagan passed a law that gave residency to irregular migrants in the US. 

I got back on the road, and seemed to have a little more energy for a few miles. But soon I was stopping every couple miles. I just didn’t have much energy. I was also facing a cross wind that was slowing me down. I could hear gunshots, firing practice, the entire leg. 

Then I came to a dirt road with lots of loose sand and dirt. It was miserable, and slow. Delaying my arrival with each peddle. I crossed a railroad track an plugged away until the road took a 90-degree jog to the right. And Google Maps changed the route. I didn’t want this. It would add miles and time. 

Ahead I saw a truck and several men, milling about. One was pointing a rifle in my general direction, but not directly at me. As I got closer, I yelled, “Hello,” to them, but they didn’t respond. I double checked my GPS, and I realized that I was on the wrong side of the tracks. Literally. 

I yelled again, “Hello. How’re you doing?”

“Hello,” a couple of them said and waited for me to speak. I noticed one woman among the 5-6 men with a table and several automatic weapons laid out. They were going to and from two pickups, getting ammunition and other items. 

“I need to be on that” I pointed to the other side of the track “road.”

A friendly young man in his 20s told me I could either go back the way I came to cross at the railroad crossing or I could take that dirt mound behind him and cross the track right there.

“It is steep on the other side, but you can make it,” he said.

“Be careful,” another man said. “There are some men shooting up there. We had to move because bullets were flying over our head. We had to tell them that they need to shoot at something. Some people just don’t know what they are doing.”

I pushed up and over the tracks, and rode the bike down the other side. Back on the dirt road loaded with sand and dirt, it was hard to find a hard pan track. The firing continued, but this time in front of me and behind me. I naturally wondered if they were shooting in my direction. 

I stopped, parked Lucy, took off my backpack, and moved an inner door panel under the shade of a big sagebrush. Then for the first time in five years, across 6 trips, I did something I had never done. I laid down. 

While the firing of automatic assault rifles reverberated in the air non stop, I stared up at the clouds. The firing reminded me of Baghdad. Which was maybe why I could ignore it. I hadn’t really stopped to stare at the clouds since I was a child. I don’t know why I didn’t to this more often. The clouds were beautiful. Heavenly. If you believe in a Creator, this was His (or Her) creation. This was the Creator’s planet, His sagebrush, desert, fresh air. And we were destroying it. Literally, destroying it. 

But I was at peace. I closed my eyes, but opened them quickly realizing that I could easily nap, which would mean delaying my arrival. The Pacers were on, and I preferred to watch that live so I could chat back and forth with my dad. How many 64-year-olds have the fortune to still communicate with their fathers? 

For 15 blissful minutes, I was at peace with the world. I hoped to find more and more of these moments. With the spreading of the cancer, or changes of the cancer, I don’t know if I will ever be able to take another bike ride like this. I am not sure how much longer I will be on this Creator’s earth. But I must find more moments of peace like this. 

A dune buggy raced down the dirt road and sped through a gate and into what I assumed was private property 50 yards from me. The rifle toting driver revved his engine, spun tires, and threw dirt and pebbles into the air, demonstrating just what a wild and crazy driver he was. I was very impressed. Ten minutes later he come back through the gate and repeated the testosterone-intoxicated behavior, which only served to impress me more.

I climbed back on Lucy to ensure she didn’t fall asleep there. The roar of the target practice grew louder as I came to a cluster of vehicles, including the dune buggy, four-wheel drive pickups, and vans, where several men were authenticating their precision automatic assault rifle prowess. The more rounds one can fire into a dirt hill, the better you are. When the day comes that the Russians or the Chinese invade our borders, which is just a matter of time, right? When that invasion takes happens, these testosterone junkies can mount their dune buggies and four-wheel drives and throw dirt and pebbles into the air and defeat the communist hordes with their assault rifles.

Don’t get me wrong. I target practiced with an AK-47 in Iraq with our security guards under the instruction of South African professionals. In Pakistan, I trained with our drivers and security guard, firing a 9mm in simulations under the careful eye and guidance of a team of professionals. I kept an AK-47 under my bed in Iraq, Pakistan, and Yemen, and a handgun in my backpack. In Iraq, I carried a 9mm short in my cargo pants. But there (in each situation) was a genuine need for protection. I event went to a firing range a few times in Maryland to practice my skills with a 9mm, and kept my gun in a safe at home. But almost nowhere in the US on its worst day is Iraq or Yemen on the their best. Not in the years I was there. And only a small percentage of gun slinging idiots in the US have even the meager training in supervised environments I had.

And no doubt, some of these people here in the Arizona were experts: wearing goggles, wearing ear protection, setting up tables and ensuring a controlled environment for responsible target practice. Others were learning under their tutelage. More power to them. But the chasm between responsible gun ownership and irresponsible ownership is vast. And our laws do not honor responsible gun wielding. And wild, dune buggy riding shit kickers who insist on free-wheeling, gun-toting, and firing automatic assault rifles into the air over the heads of people as their God-given, constitutional right are contributing to a gunslinging environment that enables US citizens to walk into elementary schools and kill our children. And lunacy and irresponsibility is not a constitutional right.

After passing four clusters of vehicles of automatic assault field fanatics target practicing into the hills, I rode on to larger communities of Johnson Ranch and Skyline Ranch the blacktop road became much, much busier with a constant flow of loud, testosterone trucks and motorcycles and every other shape and size of vehicles. But at least there was a nice bike lake. I stopped and got a hotdog and devoured it. My energy was nearly gone.

But back on the road, I seemed to be able to peddled in higher gears. I was going a little faster. But I still had to take breaks ever three miles. Or two. 

Finally, I got to the hotel about 3:15 pm. So, it took me 7 hours to go 45 miles. Slower than yesterday, but I didn’t care. I was here.

I showered, put my clothes in the laundry, and walked over to a shopping area for a sandwich and milkshake. I ate at the room and went down to switch the clothes into the dryer. But someone had eight items in the dryer. I hesitantly pulled them out and folded them. Then put mine in. I figured it might upset some people, but it was worth the risk. My legs hurt, and I was too tired to walk any more steps than needed. 

I started the Pacer game. At the end of the first quarter, end down get my clothes, but back at the room, my key wouldn’t open the door. I went to the desk and Kasi recharged my keys. But these wouldn’t work. The maid tried and still no luck. This time Kasi came up with me, and she moved the handle up, and it worked. 

Day 4: Casa Grande (65 miles)

December 29, 2023: Friday

Hard, hard, hard! This was one of the hardest biking days I have ever made. 

While on the train, I selected the OYO Hotel in Casa Grande, which at the time was 61 miles. I knew it would be hard for my first day, but it was flat. I was not in shape. Not in cycling shape for sure. Although I run up to 120 flights of stairs and walk up to 5 miles in Honduras, and even lift a few weights, cycling with 25 pounds of baggage uses different muscles. Your legs, for instance, reach the exertion level of 120 flights of stairs at 30 miles. The arms and shoulder that keep you propped up and in the seat wear out about the same time. After that it is pain and agony. I had forgotten just how hard it was. 

Mirna went down with me to the lobby. Stood outside in the 41 degree Tucson morning and snapped a shot of me outside at 8 am. My Kamoot showed 64.4 miles because it was taking me on a more scenic route. I told my wife that I was going to try to push for 10 miles an hour, and arrive at the hotel in 6.5 hours, or 2:30 pm. And I headed off. 

It was good to be back on the bike. Downtown Tucson was quiet. I liked that. I almost immediately got on Cycle Road, part of the Loop, that runs along the Santa Cruz river. This is a blacktop cycling and walking path that was heavenly for cyclists. I did see a few other gray haired cyclists and several homeless people. Some huts created in the dry river bed, made of scraps of black plastic. One out of wooden shipping pallets. 

For those 18 miles, I really enjoyed myself. I saw one coyote. It was pretty, calm, and fun. I watched my speed. I was averaging about 12 mph. Then it dropped to 11.5. Yeah, I might make 10 mph, if I keep my stops short. Several older couples were walking. I realized that this path was mostly for people like me in the early mornings. Retirees. While the rest of the population stumbled groggily into the workforce to tackle another day. 

The last couple miles were under construction, with signs reading, Road Closed. Not wanting to return the way I had come for a mile or more, I walked my bike up to the construction workers. They were Hispanic. I greeted them in Spanish, asked permission to cross, and proceeded after they granted it. 

The path ended, although it appeared that the road would continue on in the next few years. I got on the feeder road that ran parallel along I-10. All was fine until I reached 30 miles. The first thing I noticed were my arms and shoulders. Like you see on Survivor, during those individual challenges of physical stamina, there was no ways to get comfortable. I was slipping from my seat. My arms were aching. I had to push through the pain. But 45 miles further? 

I no longer worried about making it by 2:30 pm, but I worried about making it. I started stopping every couple miles. My body would just not take me any further. Only once did I take my backpack off. I sat and checked the distance. My phone was dying. I was worried about riding in the dark. Always a bad idea. My lights only work about 9 hours if they are fully charged. 

The road was relatively vacant. Most cars and trucks took the interstate. There were no towns on this side of the road. Few businesses. No gas stations. I monitored the mile markers at the side of the road closely. Too closely. That is never good, because they come way, way to slow. A single mile while you are exhausted seems like forever. 

I pushed myself, “Peddle, peddle, peddle! You got this!”

I just had to get halfway. That was a great milestone. I made it. Then I pushed to get to 19 miles. Something psychologically happens when you are under 20 miles. It makes you believe that you can make it.

When I got to Picacho, there were two Shell stations. I stopped at one, got a snack. Sat on a church of wood on the ground outside and ate it. It crossed my mind to ask a pickup driver to toss my bike in the back and take me the rest of the way. But I told myself, You can do this! Suck it up!

I got back on the bike and made it a mile before I stopped. I had forgotten to turn my back light on. And I had to pee. Those are the stories I told myself.

Back on, and I made it two miles this time before stopping. Damn, this was hard. Throughout the day, I compared this 65 mile journey to my longest journey ever, which was 70 miles in Florida on a chilly day, cooler than this one. That was harder because I did a very oppressive 15 miles or so facing headwinds before gathering my bags and finding out that the bridge to Pensacola was out, and I would have to make a 50-mile detour. In addition, there were lots of hills. The last 10 miles also had pretty good hills. I got into a bad section of town after dark. My batteries were all dead. It was a 10 or 11 hour ride. Although that was my 3rd day, and I was in slightly better shape because I had taken a 5 mile journey into Alabama a couple months earlier. And I had been riding on weekends during COVID. 

Then last year, the third day of riding, I had to do 40 miles or so, and I was recovering from an illness in Vietnam and I remember that was really hard. I stopped so many times. Once about 5 miles from my destination, and I was not sure my legs would take me.

These memories helped convince me to plug away. 

By the time I reached Eloy, traffic was heavier. Space on the shoulder for me to ride was minimal, and at times, non-existent. This was not a nice town. I first came across a church right at the edge of the road. Then a couple blocks down, a topless bar. Another topless bar. Then a car repair shop. I stopped and got off the road and stood, trying to catch my breath. I came across many boarded up houses. Close businesses. It was an unattractive town. I didn’t feel safe. So I kept going until I got to the edge of town, stopped at a gas station/convenience store and sat on the block aesthetic wall for two minutes. Maybe three. Got back on and made it a mile. 

Then, when I got to 13 miles to go, I knew I would make it. Somehow, 13 miles has always been one of those motivating milestones. Not sure I would make it before the sun set, but I would make it. I pressed on for three miles without stopping. Rested on another decorative wall. Then pressed on for another three. 

My legs were all but gone. My arms and shoulders were about to give out. But somehow, I made it just as the sun set at 5 pm. My lights had survived as well. 

At the check-in window, a customer in his 40s with a New England accent told me, “I saw you back there on the road… How far did you come?” I told him. “I gotta hand it to you. That is more than I could do.”

Well, it was more than I could do too, I thought.

Check in was easy at the window. The Indian (Gujerati, I suspect) clerk was friendly to me. Ask me, “You alone? Don’t have no wife?” I said, No. I looked back at my bike parked right behind me and said, “Don’t have the room.”

The OYO Hotel sits in the heart of trucker resting area, right next to I-10. Inside, I plugged in all my gadgets, toyed with the idea of not showering at all because I was so exhausted, but decided after all it was necessary. Walked next door to the gas station/Subway and bought water and supplies. I walked to Burger King to get a healthy meal. Then back at the room, I ate and crashed. Tomorrow is another day.

Day 3: Southern Texas near Mexican Border

December 28, 2023

I ignored my 5:30 am alarm, but got up around 6 am. I stumbled up the steps and retrieved a cup of coffee, checked where we were, about halfway to El Paso. I noticed the only shower in the car was vacant, so I seized my opportunity. Feeling refreshed, I got another coffee. Mirna was awake, so we went to breakfast. No sooner had we sat down, when Valery and Andrew were seated across from us. They are really cool kids. 

I had an omelette and bacon that weren’t too bad. And Mirna had scrambled eggs. After breakfast, we walked down to the little shop that sells coffee, drinks, snacks, and sandwiches. We bought a snack and went back to the room. I made up the chairs so that we could sit more comfortably. 

Andrew and Valery disembarked at Alpine, Texas. They were going to rent a car and travel to Big Bend National Park or Carlsbad Caverns National Park. Lunch was not the same without them. The couple that sat down were also in their 20s, but they were quiet. Didn’t try to start a conversation. And naturally, Mirna and I kept to ourselves.   

New Mexico

At 8am on Sunday, November 2, 1919, former Jackson County resident, Otis Bottorff, departed from his home in El Paso, Texas, in a 580-mile road race from El Paso to Phoenix Road Race. Driving a Haynes, Bottorff and his mechanic, Lloyd (or Floyd) R. Brown, were among the 44 competitors who hoped to win the $10,000 purse. The two men were driving a special-made Haynes vehicle, modified for the race, and costing $5,000. Bottorff ran a “splendid automobile business in El Paso,” wrote the Brownstown Banner. In the weeks leading up to the race, he wrote his father that he was “pink of condition” for the competition, suggesting he was in splendid physical condition.  

The Haynes Automobile Company manufactured cars in Kokomo, Indiana from 1905 to 1924, when it filed bankruptcy, closing permanently the following year. 

More than halfway through, Bottorff and Brown skidded off the road while attempting a curve, flipped over, were thrown from the car, and killed almost instantly. His wife, daughter, and son-in-law were awaiting him at the Phoenix State Fair Grounds. 

But those were not the only fatalities of the race. John T. Hutchings, an automobile dealer of Alamogordo, N.M., was shot killed by an unknown shooter while driving two miles east of Lanark, N.M. Abe Aguilar’s car was also shot during the race, but he was not injured.

A few days later one US Army Major FM Scandland along with three other men and four women were arrested for the murder of Hutchings. Mr. Hutchings was General John J. Pershing’s driver during the American Punitive Expedition in Mexico in 1916. 

The prosecuting attorney later claimed that there was no motive in the murder. Rather that the party of eight men and women gathered at the roadside to watch race. Major Scanland reported that they were target practicing. However, alcohol may or may not have blurred judgements as one or more of the party fired consecutive shots at the passing cars. 

Arizona

Sometime before supper, I finally got a message from my surgeon. He said that since there were some changes in my MRI that we shouldn’t wait till summer to get biopsy. So, I wrote my boss and told her. I told my family. My two closest work colleagues. I worried on it for about 10 minutes, then I let it go and returned to issues I could impact: My trip, my book, and supper.

The couple seated across from us for dinner were probably in their late 40s or early 50s. They had four adult children (and friends?) traveling with them in the table across the aisle. They were friendly enough, but reticent. So, we didn’t talk. I worked on my first day’s route and a hotel for the night. It was the right time to get serious about it. After a lot of internal debate, I decided on a 64-mile journey to Eloy for the first day. That is tough, but mostly downhill. It will not be very pretty, I suspect. I will ride along Interstate 10 the entire way. So probably busy and a little loud. But the alternative was an 80 mile ride through the desert with no gas stations or convenient stores most of the way and a modest uphill challenge. So, I chose the easier of the two. 

At the Tucson train station, I got my bike directly from the baggage car, walked Mirna up to the front to station, made sure she got in a taxi with a veteran (the first and only taxi), and prepared my bike to go. It was 8 pm. Several police cars were there with flashing lights. A TV crew came up to me, and one of the young men asked, “Can you tell us what is going on?”

“Don’t have a clue,” I said. Then I added, “I just got off the train.”

“Oh, OK.” He responded. “Where are you coming from?”

“New Orleans,” I said. 

The Doubletree Hotel was only a mile away. It was chilly but I was fine. It felt good to be back in the saddle. Downtown is really nice. Decorated and lit up. Bar doors open and music rolling out into the streets. Several people were walking to and from restaurants and bars. A block from the hotel, an outdoor ice skating rink was the center of attention. Perhaps sixty people skated and watched in the 50 degree weather. I circled around and took some photos. Then rode on to the hotel. The war veteran was just departing. I joined Mirna with my bike in the lobby to check in. At the room, a young man brought my three packages: my camera and accessories that I had ordered.

I connected to the internet and started watching the Pacer game that had already ended. 

Day 2: Embarkation Day!

December 27, 2023

The Sunset Limited passenger train began operation in 1894, running from New Orleans to San Francisco via Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona in 72 hours. In 1993, the route extended to Florida, but in 2005 Hurricane Katrina forced Amtrak to end that leg. Today, the train makes three round-trip journeys per week, beginning in New Orleans and making major stops at Houston, San Antonio, El Paso, and Tucson before arriving in Los Angeles two days and nearly 2,000 miles later. 

In 1995, saboteurs removed 29 spikes from the rails in Harqua, Arizona. When the train reached that weakened stretch, it derailed, killing 1 person and injuring dozens more. To date, the crime has not been solved. These types of random attacks on vehicles have happened in the southwest for generations, as I will discuss later.

Mirna and I checked out of the room. I drove her down to the Amtrak station. Pulled the bike out. Strapped the bags on. And helped her get the bike inside. Then I drove eight blocks to Heal Parking Garage, but I couldn’t get in. There were no humans attending it, and I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. I had the QR code. When I pushed the assistance button, the very kind lady told me that I was seven minutes early. So, I waited seven minutes, got inside, parked. Then walked eight blocks back to the train station.

One might imagine, the Greyhound/Amtrak station is the assembly point for motley characters: A young transexual who spoke to herself incessantly; a black mom with shirt several sizes too small that didn’t cover her big belly; her two preteen boys carrying a skateboard and scooter—their newest Christmas gifts in addition to their bags; two elderly Japanese men who spoke to each other in English; a white homeless man wearing a warm hunters outfit, a white, heavy set security officer leaned over a counter talking to two young black men while sipping his Subway coffee; a tall, very-friendly black Amtrak official nearing retirement age, who asked me how I was doing, and said, “We gonna be alright”; black taxi drivers; a white man in his 20s wearing worn out cargo pants, who may have been homeless himself, stopping to talk to the security officer; and dozens more. Mirna and I fit right in. She with her 4’11 inch, 105 pound Hispanic frame, dressed in black, wearing a thin, black sweater, attending her roller bag. And me, wearing yesterday’s gray cargo pants and black long sleeve shirt, protecting my bike and saddlebags. 

The security guard told the transexual woman, “You need to leave.” I suspect she was making people nervous.

She said something that I could not hear. Maybe just talking to herself. Instead of moving toward the door, she walked to the center of the station.

“Go on now,” the guard said. He moved toward her, and she scampered to the exit.

I just read Mind Estranged by Bethany Yeiser, a talented young woman who had published three peer reviewed academic articles in biology as an undergraduate before suffering the onset of schizophrenia that forced her into a four-year journey of homelessness. I feel we barely understand many forms of mental illness today, but will in the next 20 years. We should be more tolerant and should educate ourselves more.

Mirna heard the security guard tell the young man that there had been several carjackings recently.

I checked in my bike, bought coffee and chocolate chip cookies at Subway, and snapped a few photos. Mirna and I devoured our cookies. The coffee was what you expect. We were the first in line. Walked down to the fourth car and went to Roomette 13. These are not traditional sleepers. An aisle separates two sets of roomettes, just big enough for two people to sit. Three restrooms and one shower are at the center of the car. One shower for the two levels. 

We left around 9 am, almost on time, and our very kind caretaker announced that there were free muffins and coffee on the second level. I enjoyed them. Mirna only ate the top of her muffin and saved the rest for never. 

I read more on American Gods, a 600-page novel that was made into a a series. At lunch, we found our way to the dining car, where Mirna had a baked potato with vegetarian chili, and I had a cheeseburger. After lunch, I read and napped. At Houston, we had a longer stop, dropping off and picking up many passengers. We went to the dining car again were seated with Andrew and Valery, a young couple who are both civil engineers, living and working in Houston. Andrew grew up about an hour outside of Houston, and Valery was raised in the DC area. She moved to Houston to attend Rice University seven years ago and remained after she graduated.

After supper of salmon, vegetables, and cheesecake (Mirna had the chocolate mousse), we returned to the room. I read for a while, then dozed off. I woke up at San Antonio but fell quickly back to sleep. Then I woke up again, and again, and again, at the same stop. It was about 1:30 am the last time. It was a long, long stop. 

Day 1: New Orleans, Louisiana

December 26, 2023

This is my fifth year of bike-packing. I rode to Fruitland Park, Florida and back to Panama City Beach, Florida the first year. To Louisiana and back the second, followed by my longest of Indiana to Florida the third. Last year was in Southeast Asia. And this year, my wife and I will leave shortly in our van for a five-hour drive to New Orleans, spend the night, then take the Sunset Limited to Tucson. From there, I plan to ride my bike to the Grand Canyon. Meanwhile Mirna will meet her cousin at the Tucson Airport, they will hike for a few days, and then meet up with me at the Grand Canyon.

This should be fun. As always, I am out of shape. In Honduras, I exercise about an hour everyday. Running stairs, walking, or lifting a few weights. Nonetheless, I have not exercised much since I left on the 15th. And I have overeaten. So, I know the first three days will be hard. I have planned long rides too, and no rain days because we are going to be in the Grand Canyon three days. Every year is at least as difficult as the year before. I may be slowing down a little too.

But I am still here, alive and peddling.

Last Wednesday, I got another MRI to get a good look at the cancer inside the prostate. Then, Cassie and I drove 17.5 hours straight through to the condo in Florida. I got the results the next day, read them, compared them to the MRI 20 months earlier, but I couldn’t find comparative data points. They were two different types of MRIs, likely because of the machine they used, or perhaps because my surgeon ordered this one while my radiation oncologist ordered the last. So, I am at the mercy of my surgeon, who should either send me an email or schedule a call to explain. However, I am not stressed about it. If it is bad news, I will deal with it. If it is good news, I will ride unfettered for the next couple years. I have already bought myself two years. Hope to buy another two. The longer I can ride, work, and live my life without surgery or radiation, the better.

I have driven through Arizona before, but I have never spent the night. I saw the Grand Canyon while driving through, but never really stopped to take photos. Mirna has been wanting to see it since we married, 39 years ago.

Sometimes, I feel guilty by not engaging more on the Ukraine and Gaza wars. But I am intentionally trying to keep my emotional distance. Too many horrible memories, and even worse, the potential to empathize with the victims could draw me into a deep depression. So I keep an aesthetic distance. Intellectually acknowledging the horrors, but not dwelling on them. I just don’t have the emotional resilience that I once had.

For a couple years now, I have largely pushed away profound thoughts of retirement. But my oldest granddaughter is 16, and she wants the US high school experience. She wants to return in August. So this may be it for me. I hope to go to part time on this same project. It would be perfect. I love the project, my company, my team, my bosses. I know I would be bored with most other jobs. But if I could stay on this one for a couple years more as an advisor, I would be happy. Going down to 20 hours per week until Full Age Retirement, would be perfect.

This is an election year coming up. I have strong feelings, but will try to keep them to myself. I also think that we get to deeply entrenched in our opinions that we fail to respect opposing views. I know I do. I thought about starting an NGO that worked on bridging gaps and distances between this huge socio-political divide that we are experiencing in the US right now. But I probably won’t. Too much effort. By nature, I am really lazy.

My plan is to take two months off this summer and ride Scandinavia. Then the following summer, ride China. I still want to ride South America, but it is much lower on my priority list. I can see riding Greece, Italy, Spain, New Zealand, Australia. But maybe I am just dreaming. It’s OK to dream, right?

There is so much I want to see in the US. At the top of the list is a ride from the Whitehorse, Yukon to Fairbanks, Alaska. I want to ride in Oregon. Vermont. That will complete all 50 states. Visited, not ridden in. I also want to ride in Utah.

So much to read about. All of those locations. The history. I am more and more interested in history.

My son is putting my first book, Maggie May, on audiobook. He sent me a snippet of it. So cool.

I hope to read a bit on the train. Reminds me of the 48-hour train ride from Bombay to Amritsar 40 years ago about this time. Those trains are so quiet. I stepped off the train somewhere to get a cup of chai and stood enjoying the surreal ambiance. My back was to the train. My bag with all my money, passport, clothes, everything were on the train. By some instinct, I turned around and the train was pulling out. I ran and got on my car, but had turned 60 seconds later, I would have missed my train and been stranded in the middle of nowhere. Not being able to speak the language. What an idiot!

It was on that train that I really learned to enjoy reading. Before getting on the train, I bought two books: Smiley’s People and The Godfather. I read the latter on that train ride. And read Smiley’s People on the way bus trips back to, and once I arrived in, Peshawar, Pakistan. I was hooked. I love reading.