Wide Awake in America
Tired of your boring life? Drop everything and take to the road.

BY COLIN RIVIERE

Navigate:
Race Calendar

Last summer, I took a look at myself and decided I didn't want to be the golf-obsessed, brew-pubbing, marketing-executive sophisticate I was rapidly becoming. At 26, I was fed up with countless days of project meetings, e-mails and spreadsheets and tired of merely admiring the rare sunny days through the glass wall of my 16th-floor office. So I quit my job, bought a 10-speed bike and set out to find integrity within myself, somewhere.

I planned on Yellowstone as a destination, with no thought to what I'd find or do once I arrived there; I was just bent on heading somewhere with no timeline, itinerary or return date--only open country and uninterrupted adventure.

I set out in the last week of August to little fanfare and much frustration. After loading my bike with 50 pounds of sweaters, food and books (I thought I'd have time to read), I realized I'd never ridden the thing with all this stuff on it before. Even worse, my parents were watching. Beneath the weight of a heavy smirk, I pushed off from the curb and wobbled down the street, frantically forcing my toes into the clips before I either fell over or got hit by a car or both.

The first day was all work. The morning felt frustratingly slow--stopping and grunting away from endless stoplights, negotiating morning traffic and getting my helmet mirror in the right position. In the afternoon, I came to grips with shoulderless rural roads and what it means to ride a bike for eight to 10 hours a day. It wasn't until camp that night, north of The Dalles, that I realized the hard part was over: I had escaped the tractor beam of familiarity and routine. With any new endeavor, the first hours are the hardest as you move into new territory but remain in the tangible, judgmental glare of what you're leaving behind.

Day two presented different difficulties. I had pulled free of the weight of the world. Freedom was calling, but my body wasn't responding. After a 100-mile day on virgin muscles and a fitful sleep in a bag, my legs felt wooden, my ass ceramic. Mentally I was there; physically I had miles to go.

But fitness did come, and by the end of the first week, after emerging from Hell's Canyon into Idaho, my body had adjusted to the rigors of riding a bike and to the new pace of my life. I was up with the sun and asleep at dark, rode for about eight hours a day, logged 70 to 80 miles a day and ate heartily. For once in my life I felt alive, wide awake in America.

Yellowstone proved to be no destination but instead one of many rest stops. I didn't turn around at that point, but kept going. After encountering Wyoming, I suddenly wanted to see South Dakota. I wanted to test whether the road I started on could take me to the sweeping grasslands of the prairie, to Nebraska and Sand Hills country, to Iowa, to the Mississippi, to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, the Appalachians, the Amish settlements of Lancaster County, Atlantic City, Capitol Hill, Kitty Hawk and the Outer Banks. Is the land in this country really continuous--is it all connected? I had to see it with my own eyes. The thought of West Burnside Street as the gateway to so many exotic destinations seemed so simple, yet, because of its simplicity, so exhilarating. Each day provided this palpable elation. Each day I'd set off eagerly searching for the next bend in the road--the whole time marveling at how easy it all was. My only expense was food. There was no limit to the places I could pitch my tent and hide ay in secluded bliss. Even the biking wasn't that hard. Sure, there was the occasional mountain pass or strong headwind, but I could stop and rest at any point or push on for the satisfaction of a tough day valiantly accomplished. Loneliness was not an issue on the open road. There was no shortage of conversation; I encountered a rich and varied mix of people and can easily label this as the most rewarding aspect of the trip. Social hour in rural America is between 7 and 9 am at any restaurant, gas station or post office, and a fully loaded, well-traveled bicycle is an ice breaker like no other. At times, I was lucky and was invited into someone's house for dinner, a bath or an extended stay. I had Thanksgiving dinner with a family from West Virginia, endured a week at a Pentecostal revival, was put up for a few days at a halfway house for recovering addicts and alcoholics, spent the night in the basement apartment of a reformed Gulf Coast drug smuggler (now illegally growing pineapple, of all things), partipated in medieval revelry with a band of Creative Anachronists and attended Republican fund-raisers in a borrowed navy blazer. These were things I'd never done before, never even conceived of doing. I wasn't paying for them or searching for them or even sacrificing anything for them--they presented themselves to me, continuously.

I had originally sought a challenge, so I was surprised by the ease at which I adopted this new lifestyle. It seemed the only challenge I had undertaken was to initiate this trip in the first place. On the road, life was anything but a challenge--it was intensely rewarding, visceral and addictive. Reaching the East Coast no longer was the end goal. I figured a real challenge would be to see if I could make it back to Portland and the very curb from which I had first pushed off.

There was, however, one small anchor: money. I had started with about $1,000 in savings, and I spent that between Portland and Philadelphia. I didn't budget and really wasn't too smart at times. I wished I could take back that $110 I spent for a tune-up in Jackson Hole (only afterwards did my spokes start snapping) or that motel in Omaha. Now, with only $150 remaining, I bought a bunch of blank T-shirts for $90 and decorated them with what I had, a chain ring and some paint, and sold them for about $15 apiece. Between the occasional shirt sale and an odd job every other week, I was able to sustain myself for the long loop back to the Northwest.

Five more months of riding took me down the Atlantic Coast to Florida just in time for a shuttle launch at Cape Canaveral, across the central Gulf states of Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana, into the dry vastness of the Southwest and the Mojave Desert, and along

 the California and Oregon coasts to our own Willamette Valley--in all, about 9,000 miles of solo touring through 29 states between August and February. My only real bumps were a couple of days of snow and sleet in west Texas and a bout of food poisoning that left me crippled for a week passing kidney stones in a Motel 6. Never once did I feel taken advantage of, threatened or even remotely uncomfortable in the presence of strangers.

This trip began as my summer of infinite experiences. It changed me, my perspective and my life.

Colin Riviere lives in eastern Oregon.

Race Calendar
If you're not up to a five-month ride--or you're interested in training for the long haul--consider on of these upcoming summer group rides.

Best of the Northwest Ride, Sunday, June 21
50 or 100 miles, Woodland Park, Seattle, $21, Washington Conservation Voters, (206) 374-0760

League of American Bicyclists Rally West, Wednesday-Saturday, July 3-6
Eugene, $80, (202) 822-1333, www.bikeleague.org

Seattle to Portland Bicycle Classic, Saturday and Sunday, July 11 and 12
200 miles, University of Washington, $60, (206) 522-BIKE, www.cascade.org/stp

Tour de Vinci, Saturday-Thursday, July 18-23
330 miles in Oregon on paved forest roads and along the coast, $475, Pathfinders,(800) 778-4838

Summit to Surf, Saturday, July 25
53 miles, beginning in Welches, $75 in pledges for Diabetes Association, (888) 342-2383

Ride for a Reason, Sunday-Wednesday, Aug. 13-16
225 miles, Olympia, Wash., $45 single, $275 team, benefits HIV/AIDS organizations (888) 89-BIKES, www.rideforareason.org

Providence Bridge Pedal, Sunday, Aug. 9
28 miles, Portland, $10-$22, 226-0676, www.providence.org/bridgepedal

--Iris Richmond