My Letter to Marvin Miles 4420-4500 June 17

If Not Coincidence Miles 4535-4545 June 20

Okay, Dorothy, I’m convinced. If you hadn’t died without giving us warning, I could tell you in person. Now I’ll just write you a note and make it public. Since you convinced me that nothing is ever just coincidence and coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous, I can now entertain the possibility that somehow you might be aware of these words I write to you and send to the newspaper.

One of the reasons I ride is that I prefer a ravenous hunger to a timid appetite. So usually I plan to pedal 20 to 30 miles before I find a small town café and sit down to eat. That was my plan today when I awoke at 5 AM. Storms in the night ordinarily have spent themselves by dawn. Not so today. Thunder and lightening and heavy rain are with us ‘til mid-morning. Then after I have pedaled around town to Pony Express Bank and the post office and RC Printing to pay a bill, the bowl of cereal I ate before dawn is long gone, and my appetite already is fierce.

Watkins Mill State Park! That’s where I decide to go as the sun comes out and I’m pedaling past our town square. I spot Pandolfi’s Dehli to my left as I pass the Corner Tavern. On impulse I circle the block and prop my bike beside the door and step inside. I order #3 and a Coke and take a seat. The door opens. In steps Carl. And I think of Dorothy.

Carl has been a pastor and a seminary professor. He joined the staff at William Jewell several years ago. He is my Sunday School teacher. We have no prescribed curriculum. Individual members of the class suggest books we might want to study. Right now, we’re studying a book that Anton Jacobs wrote. Anton joined the Jewell faculty in 1988, replacing my colleague of 23 years, Earl Whaley. For the next seven years, Anton and I were the Sociology Department. He left in 1995 to re-enter the ministry. I left to make HateBusters a 501 C-3 non-profit and devote my full time to it.

Religion and the Critical Mind: A Journey for Seekers, Doubters, And Curious Believers. That’s the title Anton gave his book. At my suggestion, our class voted to study it. Yesterday in Sunday School, Carl and I agreed that we should meet sometime soon to work out assignments and the approach we would take to the book. But we didn’t choose a meeting time or place. Now at noon on Monday here we are together. It was not conscious plan that brought us here. And Dorothy has persuaded me never to dismiss a thing as simply coincidence. What then is it?

Buy a Mile Miles 4545-4615 June 21

Before the sun is up and I’m on the road, I send an email appeal to Dale. He will post it on our greaterliberty.org web site. This is what it said.

I promised to raise $100,000 for Multiple Sclerosis and $10,000 for HateBusters. So far I have raised $7100.00 for MS and $2800.00 for HB. If I am to meet my goal, I need your help.

Please buy one of my last 5000 miles. By the end of June, I will have ridden 5000 of the 10,000 miles I promised to ride. I have raised just under $10,000 of the $110,000 I promised to raise. If I ride the miles but don't raise the money, I will be disappointed, and all the good things that would have come from the money won't come.

Here's what I'm asking you to do. Pick any mile from #5000 to #10,000. Look to see if it has been bought. If it has, pick another. If not, purchase it on line by using your credit card. Specify if you are buying a MS-mile or a HB-mile. When you have made your purchase, your name will then appear beside the mile you bought. The amount you paid will not be listed. If someone buys every one of the last 5000 miles, we will have raised a major portion of the goal I set myself. You may buy a mile in memory or honor of someone special to you. As I ride each mile, I will post it on www.greaterliberty.org. I will tell you the total miles I have ridden and the amount of money that together we have raised.

To those who see only with their eyes, I will appear as a solitary rider as I ride these last 5000 miles. But to those unhindered by physical sight-those who see with their soul-the spirit team that accompanies me will be readily apparent. With me as I ride, I will carry the names of those who bought the miles I am riding. My body will be on the bike. My mind and heart will be with you.

South out of Orrick Z Highway runs straight and flat across river bottomland until about two miles out it crosses a dual set of railroad tracks and makes a hard left. Red brick farm houses and canyons of corn rise on either side of the road. On this late June morning the corn is higher than my head. The road curves gracefully back and forth from left to right through growing green walls of corn for miles before giving way to fields of wheat and soybeans, giving my ride a meandering character and a fairy tale ambiance.

A single car passes me. A giant mechanical praying mantis roams the field of beans off to my right.

“Would you like a drink?” “Yes, I would.” I say. Scott hands me his insulated mug. “It’s cranberry juice and water.” I take long drags. I’m carrying three water bottles in the insulated bag behind my seat. When I left home they were filled with ice and water. I’ve drunk them dry several times already and replenished the ice at several Casey’s. I cannot ride and drink at the same time, as almost all bikers do. So I have made repeated stops beside the road to gulp ice water and devour cookies and candy and power bars.

But I never get enough to drink. This Good Samaritan tells me his name is Scott. I think he told me his last name. My friends think I’m crazy for loving the heat, wind and sun. I actually prefer these riding days to those in the 60s and 70s. I love to sweat and guzzle ice water. My body seems to work better when the sweat pours like Niagara. Physical exhaustion is exhilarating, a whole different species of tired from that brought on by mental work. But not all that Scott says to me sticks with me as it would if I were fresh. Scott, my friend, I apologize for not remembering your last name.

“I used to ride this highway on my bike to Lawson and back,” says Scott. But not anymore. Too many big trucks. They don't care that you’re on a bike. They’ll run you off the road.” Just a few miles back up the road an 18-wheeler blew by me with a long blast on his air horn. I shot bolt upright. A fierce anger surged up from my gut. Long practice, though, prevented me from shaking my fist or responding in some other provocative way. In neither speed nor size are bikes equal competitors with trucks.

In over 100,000 miles on my bike, I’ve been passed by many thousands of trucks. None have ever hit me. Very few have cursed me with their horn. Almost all have given me wide berth and have passed as inconspicuously as any herd of elephants possibly can. When I see a big truck coming up behind and an on-coming car, I know the road belongs to the strongest and fastest. The truck cannot pull around me into the path of the car. So I pull off the road. And live to ride another day.

I sit hollow eyed and mute some two hours later at The Dish in Liberty. I’m a half-hour late. Rich, Mavis and Jordan Groves, Ron and Helen Ford and Michael Calabria are already here and have ordered. We are here to wrap up final details of our May 31^st Greater Liberty Ride for MS and HateBusters. I’m too tired to be of much help. After several cherry cokes and a giant hamburger, I’ve come part way back from zombie land, enough so that as Rich, Michael and I linger at the table when the others have gone, the three of us make plans for a smaller Autumn ride and a much bigger Greater Liberty ride the weekend after Memorial Day next year.