Dad’s Favorite Meal Miles 950-1000 February 3

Dad’s Favorite Meal Miles 950-1000 February 3

I didn’t realize until after I had left the restaurant what I had done. I had just eaten one of my dad’s favorite meals. Lettuce-salad. Pinto beans and ham, with chopped onions. And cornbread. Coffee and a piece of coconut meringue pie. We had that often for the meal coming at the close of day and called supper in 1950’s East Texas. But it’s more than I usually eat for lunch in 2003.

Coming to the Mill Inn after pedaling 20 miles in a cold rain has revved my appetite into overdrive. Everything on the menu looks good, but Today’s Special jumps out at me and calls its name when the waitress comes. Each time the waitress comes to fill my cup, I tell her how good this all is. Then one last time to the cashier as I pay my bill I praise my meal.

“How far you rode?” The young woman asks. “Twenty miles to get here just now. But I’m at a thousand since January 1st. I’ve promised to ride 10,000 this year. That’s 1,000 miles every 36 days. I’ve made my first thousand with three days to spare. And I’m here to celebrate with a piece of pie.”

It’s gotten colder and it’s raining harder as I leave. I need to put on the sweatshirt I’m carrying in the bag behind my seat. Before I do, I rush back inside to hold it beneath the dryer in the men’s room. I’m a mile or two north of Excelsior on my way toward the Pasta Plant when I think of Dad. He’s been dead for 16 years, and memories of him do not come regularly. Why at this moment? That meal! His favorite. Maybe that’s why it jumped out at me. Thanks, Dad.

Rain becomes sleet and stings my face. Not enough to cause me pain. But enough to keep me focused. Then to snow. Temperature in the 60s the last two days has warmed up the ground, and the snow vanishes as it hits. The wind is in my face. Cotton-ball snow puffs melt on my glasses.

I’m on B Highway nearing Glen Ridge Cemetery when an irate driver in a red pickup leans on his horn and comes screaming up behind me. He gives way just enough to pass me, and with his free hand as he roars past, he makes threatening motions. If, by chance, dear driver, you are reading these words, please forgive me for riding on your private road. And I beg your forgiveness in advance for the next time I do it.

Raymond’s Gift Miles 1555-1655 February 27

“Are you riding the bike?” The man asking me is thirty-something, about my height and powerfully built. His close cropped blonde hair, his sky-blue eyes and the faint upward turn at the corners of his mouth give him an angelic presence. His soft voice endorses my instant comfort with him.

“Yes,” I reply. I am riding back from Old Ocean, Texas where Bobbie and I are spending the night with her Aunt Weezie. Two convenience stores stand side by side on the left side of Texas Highway 35 in Van Vleck. I glance at both to see which seems more promising. I spot the name on the one nearest to me: “Ed’s Country Store.” I park my bike beside the front door and step inside. I’m waiting to pay for my pint of chocolate milk when the question comes.

“How far you ridin’?” He asks. “Sixty miles today but ten thousand miles this year. Raising money for charity. Fifteen hundred miles so far.” “That’s wonderful,” he says. He shakes my hand. “Thanks for asking,” I say.

Back at my bike I gulp my milk and devour a granola bar. Then I grab a Mickey Card from the bag behind my seat and step back inside to find my questioner. “You asked about my ride. This card shows the trophy Disney gave me when I rode across the country some time ago. The back of the card tells about my ride this year.”

I have just put on my helmet and gloves and am about to wheel my bike off the porch when he comes from the store and passes me. He has a $20.00 bill in his hand. “Please take this as my contribution to your ride.”

“Thank you!” I’m stunned. I can’t think of more to say. I fumble for my wallet to safe keep his gift. He is in his blue pickup, motor running, when I recover my wits and hurry to his window. “I’m writing stories about my ride. My editor tells me I must get names.” “My name is Raymond.” “Could I get your last name and address?” “I don’t have an address. I move around. I’m from Tennessee. I’m layin’ pipe right now. Livin’ in a hotel in Bay City. Job’ll be over in about a month, and I’ll move on.”

Raymond tells me he has an eight-year old daughter back in Tennessee. He wants to take her to Disney World this summer. I show Raymond my e-mail address and my web page on the back of the Mickey Card. I tell him he can keep up with my ride by checking my web page. He can send me e-mail. “I don’t have e-mail.” He says.

He has put the Mickey Card in his right shirt pocket. It also shows my snail mail address. If we are ever to have contact again, he must not loose that card. And he must initiate the contact. He did it today. His spontaneous generosity has touched me deeply. I ride for many reasons. But none the equal of moments like this when a sudden encounter with a total stranger makes vividly real all the noble sentiments that have come to me from learning of saints and heroes.

Raymond has not told me his last name. Some small voice deep within me tells me not to ask again. Grace! That’s what I want his last name to be. Theologians define grace as “unmerited good favor”. A perfect illustration of what Raymond has bestowed on me today on the porch of Ed’s Country Store beside the road in a little Texas town.

I will post this story on my web page in the hope that Raymond will see it. And that he will send me an e-mail to tell me so.

In Praise of James Milliff Miles 1655-1725 February 28

South out of Bay City Avenue F passes First Baptist Church and then through town before it acquires a wide shoulder and becomes Texas Highway 60 and runs another 25 miles to Matagorda on the bay. I have pedaled here on this last day of February and taken a hard left onto a side road and over the drawbridge to the beach.

Now on my way back to Bay City I’m expecting a tail wind off the water to give me a push. But a norther (what Texans call a sudden cold spell) has blown up and lowered the temperature, and I’m pedaling into the teeth of a mini-gale. Oh well, this road somewhat makes up for the head wind. It’s wide and smooth and flat, with shoulders on both sides as wide and smooth as either traffic lane.

Wadsworth sits alongside Highway 60 about midway between Bay City and Matagorda. I’m about halfway back to Wadsworth when I see a hand cycle coming toward me on the other side of the road. I cross the road to meet its rider.

“Where you headin’?” I ask. “Matagorda,” he answers. ”Where from?” “Wadsworth.” A man about my age sits aboard this adult size tricycle, his legs out in front of him, supported in metal cradles. The chain ring and pedals are at shoulder level. He pedals with his hands. “My name is James Milliff. I live in Wadsworth. Been there most of my life. I got this machine seven months ago. Ever hear of Turning Point? They give these to paraplegics and handicapped. I ride from Wadsworth to Matagorda. My wife drives my van over to pick me up. Can’t ride every day. But last month I rode 180 miles.”

James Milliff is a Korean War Veteran. He says the VA Hospital in Houston is the best hospital in the world. “There’s not enough money in the world to fix all that’s wrong with me,” he says. He has had multiple operations on both arms and legs and has had tumors removed. “I’m 71 years old,” he says. “I’m just maintainin’.”

“Where you from?” He asks. “I live in Liberty, Missouri. Been there for years. But I grew up in Huntsville, Texas.” “Huntsville? I know Huntsville,” James says. “I went to Sam Houston.”

“I went to Sam Houston,” I shout. “I graduated in ’56, after I got out of the service.” James says. “I graduated in ’57,” I respond. Sam Houston was a small teacher’s college in the 1950s. James and I surely saw each other about on campus back then and never knew it. And here we meet on a winter day going in opposite directions as old men on our childish machines.

“Some of my friends get depressed in the winter,” James says. “I tell ‘em you can’t be depressed pedalin’ this cycle.” James can’t ride every day. Some days his legs are cold and he can’t manage to get out. But nothing about him invites pity or pictures defeat. “I’m still here after all these years. And still fightin’. Still feelin’ victorious.” James does not say these words to me. But as I see the jaunty way he commands his machine and his caviler dismissal of his catalogue of ailments, an ocean of respect floods my soul and those words ring in my ears.

“You have a hard ride back to Bay City in this wind,” James tells me. “When you pass through Wadsworth you might see my house. It’s 107 years old. My fireworks and snow cones signs are in the yard. Don’t make much money at ‘em. But it keeps me busy.”

When people ask me why I ride, I always stop short of telling them all the reasons. Maybe if I am brief, I will not wear out my welcome and they will ask again at another time. “If I don’t ride, I can’t walk. If I ride, I can run.” I always say this. “To visit small town cafes and visit folks.” I usually say this. “To be inspired and awed.” I seldom say this. “To meet Raymond Graces and James Milliffs.” I have not until now said this.” Along two Texas roads just days apart I’ve been reminded of the most profound reason I ride.

I’ve been carrying Zorba the Greek with me for weeks, reading snatches of it here and there when I can. On the day after I met James, I’m 150 miles away in The Woodlands, Texas, staying with Bobbie’s sister and brother-in-law. After an early morning ride through this planned community of shops and homes and high-tech futurism, I’m back at the house, reading Zorba. I’ve almost finished the book and come to a page where Zorba demands that boss tell him why people die.

“I don’t know,” Boss says. Then he says, “… the highest point a man can attain is not knowledge, or Virtue, or Goodness, or Victory, but something even greater, more heroic and more despairing: Sacred Awe!”

That is exactly what I find in my encounter with folks I meet along the road when I come into their lives for a few minutes aboard my bicycle.