Gordon Taylor is back home in Stone after his summer cycle ride across America, when he travelled almost 4,000 miles from Boston to Seattle. Here’s Gordon’s final report and photos for A Little Bit of Stone (click HERE to read all six previous installments).
Huge thanks to Gordon for sharing his adventure with us
“If only someone would steal my bike,” exclaimed the weary cycle-tourer beside me in the cafe, “I could just go home…”
The others round the table laughed, but I know that same thought has occasionally gone through my mind. On wet days, hot days, hilly days and (worst of all) windy days there’s often a nagging doubt at the back of your mind. Why on earth are you doing this?
I’d met the other three cyclists by chance in a cafe on Long Island, to the east of New York. We were all struggling with the humid heat of the afternoon and had decided to stop for a cold drink. The trio were heading north, to Montreal, whilst I was going eastwards, to catch a ferry to Connecticut. From there, I would ride up through the tiny state of Rhode Island and finally to Massachusetts and Boston.
Boston! I had a rather optimistic hope that I’d reach the end of my trans-American bike ride by cresting a hill and seeing the city laid out in front of me with the Atlantic ocean glinting in the sunshine on the horizon. No such luck… the reality was a long afternoon slog through the city’s suburbs, being hemmed in on fast dual carriageways and ending with a confusing walk through the tall buildings of the business district down to the famous “Tea Party” harbour. Nonetheless, despite that anti-climax, my ride is finished. Not all of it was fun, but I’m chuffed to bits to have made it to the end.
It had taken 42 cycling days, averaging nearly 91 miles a day, to complete the whole 3,817-mile journey from the Seattle on the Pacific coast to the Boston on the Atlantic.
I’ve just arrived home in Stone after a long flight, so my memories, at the moment, are confused. Like many cycle-tourists, my world becomes very small when on the road – hardly thinking about anything other than the distance to the next food stop, searching the horizon for the distinctive shape of a water tower which would mark the position of the next tiny town, or working out where to sleep that night. I keep a notebook and fill the pages with odd bits of writing and scraps such as ferry tickets, leaflets and (even) a few beer bottle labels.
On one page I’ve written “SKUNKS” in capital letters to remind me that over the course of that day I’d passed four of five of the poor creatures that had been run over on the road. The smell was quite extraordinary; after the slightest whiff I’d sit bolt upright on the saddle and try not to breath in at all for a minute or so. On another day, whilst I was having a drink under the shade of a tree, I remember the amazing spectacle of a huge bald eagle, distinctive with its white head and broad white tail feathers, swoop down to try to grab something from the verge close by. It veered off, though, when it caught sight of me.
Many things made the journey tough at times: mountains, mosquitoes and blazing hot afternoons to name a few. However the overwhelming memories are positive. I remember arriving in Frankenmuth, Michigan, one early evening, expecting it to be another simple mid-western town with its grain silos and water tower. Until I arrive, all these places are just a dot on the map to me. However, as I rounded the first street corner, I was surprised to see a horse-drawn white carriage, followed by several more, carrying tourists. This immaculate little town is built in a germanic style and is full expensive restaurants and shops selling spectacular Christmas decorations – in August! I stayed in a motel that night and was delighted when the receptionist gave me a ten percent discount for being Scottish; she had been to university in Aberdeen.
I also enjoyed talking to people everywhere – not just cyclists in cafes – but friendly, normal people on campsites and at gas stations. On nine different occasions, through some cycling internet connections, I stayed overnight with strangers in their houses. A couple of those were slightly weird, for sure (especially the one who’d built an outdoor shower for guests) but I was warmly welcomed everywhere and treated to dinner and a bed, or a couch, or a bit of floorspace.
In most of those places, the bike came into the house as well. Of course I’d be devastated if it was actually stolen. My bicycle, a made-to-measure Longstaff, built locally in Chesterton, ran absolutely perfectly. I had only one puncture in the whole journey and not a single other mechanical issue at all. The rear tyre did wear out, though. The canvas was showing through by the time I arrived in Canada. I’m glad to say that the bike has made it home safely, with me. A kind man in a Boston bike shop gave me a spare cardboard box and once I’d pedalled to the airport I unbolted a few bits and pieces and managed to squeeze the bike inside.
I’m still not sure I have an answer to the question about why on earth one would spend all summer cycling across the USA. For me, however, it was a wonderful experience in an intriguing country. I’m also lucky to have the health and the time to go off on these little adventures and amazingly privileged to have a family who supports me so well.
And I didn’t fall off once!
