Just before heading on to Mackville, I experience a most bizarre incident, even by my own somewhat warped standards. A small, gray pickuptruck is parked beside a little bridge over a creek, which I was considering pausing at to cool off in.I figured the owner of the truck was probably fishing. Well…two things happen simultaneously:I decide it is too muddy to bother with, and, as I pedal on by, a clean-cut young man steps out of the driver’s side, totally nude andmasturbatinghis little heart out!We’re talkin’ not even shoes, ladies and gentlemen. It all happens so fast and it is so utterly unexpected, that I just remember him saying, with an almost apologetic smile, “I’m sorry. I just can’t help it!”
In my discomfort and shock I blurt out “Are ya cool enough?”And I pedal on, (because,really, what else can I do?), shaking my head in disbelief at what I just saw, oblivious of my surroundings, focusing on my strokes (as he evidently also was).Then, less than a mile further, there he isagain, still nude, and, yes, still at it!They grow ‘em persistent around here, don’t they?This time I swerve a bit to my left as I pass by where he is standing, because by the look on his face, I am afraid I might get a shot of it in the leg, which I really prefer to avoid.So, ok, before it was kind funny, but now I am feeling icky and freaked. Before I realize what I am doing, my midbrain clicks into a “was- I-completely-crazy-and-naïve-to-have-come-alone-on-this-trip” mode. My gut reaction was initially amusement, slight disgust, but not anger.Should I have been offended?But exhibitionists are usually harmless, I remind myself. The second time I definitely feel vulnerability and panic. Had he been following me, and planned to pull over at the bridge, where he knew the traffic was minimal?Who the heck knows.
Before I have time to regain my composure and formulate a safety plan, I hear a woman’s voice calling out to me from her front porch. “Hey, would you like some cold water?” In a few minutes I am sitting on the porch with Donna, a cheerful, white-haired elder woman.As I drink from the tall, frosty glass of ice water she pours for me, we talk about what just happened.She laughs, slaps her leg, looks at me straight in the eye, and says, “Well, honey, why doesn’t that sort of thing ever happen to me?!” This immediately diffuses most if not all of my anxiety and feelings of having been harassed.We smile at each other, giggle, and shake our heads in bewilderment at male behaviors. Her middle-aged son, who has Down’s Syndrome, joins us on the porch, and it is a good moment.
**********
It is one long, dreary, hellishly hot ride into Leoti, and having spent three hours in ScottCity has sort of given me a mental “late-start” attitude. There is definitely some beauty in the openness of rangeland, but hey, it is too bloody hot to notice.I have stocked up on more juices and water than usual, and I am keeping a close watch on signs of dehydration.At one point I simply have to stop, and the only place I see for miles around that has any shade is one cedar tree planted in a cemetery.I pedal over to it, on the lookout for the dreaded goatheads, place my bicycle up against the tree, and myself carefully and respectfully upon the comparatively cool marble gravestone of Hilda Gansta, 1892-1964. I know she would understand the necessity of this otherwise somewhat sacrilegious action.I lie down and nap for a while.It is one of those full-length stones, about the dimensions of a good sleeping pad. A pale pink Cadillac driven by a woman enters the cemetery while I lie there supine, now snacking on grapefruit juice and Oreos, trying to gather energy to go back out under the sun.I pray she will not report me for loitering or disturbing the dead. I can almost taste the air-conditioning wafting about her.Wisps of hair around her face are fluttering in the stream of air coming from the console.She finds the gravestone she is looking for, and steps outside to place some flowers on it.
Substantially refreshed, I thank Hilda and the cedar tree, and get back on the hot, blacktop road.
**********
There is a different,
Formats
Softcover
£13.49
£9.90
Softcover
£9.90
Book Details
Language :
English
Publication Date :
25/04/2008
Format :
Softcover
Dimensions :
6x9
Page Count :
408
ISBN :
9781425990855
About the Book
Ever wanted to hop on your bicycle and pedal all across the U.S? Alone? On a no-frills, self-contained mountain bike? Meet dozens of quirky, interesting, and at times naked individuals? Beginning in Yorktown, Virginia, and ending in Florence, Oregon, Jane pedals 4,120 miles over two and a half months to really discover small-town America, following the TransAmerica Bicycle Trail. Take this inner and outer journey alongside her, as the back roads unroll a tapestry of sights and experiences. She meets soul-jarring heat and humidity in Kentucky hollers, encounters numbing expanses of Midwestern flatland, and witnesses blindingly beautiful Montana scenery. Taking it day-by-day, this journal account (with photos) of her trip is much more than a diary: you experience the joys, surprises, and challenges she meets along the way, as a woman traveling alone and exploring insights into human nature, politics, family, religion, feminism, racism, and history. Serendipity greets her in numerous funny and unexpected ways. When she finally reaches the foggy Oregon Pacific coast, you will cheer, too, having traveled and grown along with her. Written in easy, humorous style with detailed travel descriptions and ideas you can use to design your own trip.
About the Author
Jane Hellman lives in rural southwestern Virginia, with her husband Mike. She has one daughter, the world’s undeniably cutest grandson, and three stepchildren. Jane remembers learning how to ride a bicycle on the hard-packed sand ground of her childhood home in El Centro, California. Her mom is Mexican, her dad German-Scots-Irish, and they met on the beach in Acapulco. This astoundingly romantic fact has always impressed her. She has a BS in Nursing, an MS in Counseling and Human Development, and works as a child and family therapist and Spanish interpreter. She lived for a year in Mexico as a child, and greatly enjoys traveling, dancing, writing, and various outdoor activities, including, of course, riding her bike. In 1979, she answered a magazine ad to work on a dairy farm hippie commune in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and rode out on a Greyhound bus from San Diego to the town of Floyd, Virginia. This is her first published book. For the sure-to-be-upcoming Hollywood movie version, she thinks her role should be played by Ellen DeGeneres or perhaps Cher, with Robert Redford as her husband. She has just turned fifty and thinks this is significant.
