Previous to the recumbent, I had been on this mountain bike
Jacksonville, FL - 1990 - 1993
Anticipation
Anticipation can drive one nuts, raise blood pressure, or at the very least, make you think you have just swallowed every last species of butterfly the planet has to offer. Like getting your first car when you're sixteen, like getting or giving your first kiss, or riding a giant rollercoaster for the first time.
One week down and one week to go. The seconds tick as if they were weeks. I am lying in bed, eyes closed, counting "bents", in attempt to get even the slightest few winks before the 7am sunrise. one million, three hundred and twenty-seven thousand, six hundred and fifty-eight. One million three hundred and twenty-seven thousand, six hundred and fifty-nine... It's no use. I'm up and walking the floors for the third time tonight. Moonstruck over a few pieces of metal, rubber, and fiberglass fashioned into a simple piece of machinery. Thoughts of the bike ebb and flow. Thoughts of modifying the frameset that would include two more bottom brackets. One will be used for gears and the other to sport a pneumatic landing gear, similar to a motorcycle. Another addition would be a fairing for the front of the bike to house my laptop, amateur radio gear, lights, CD player, XM satellite radio, GPS, TV and other electronic gizmology. For the next hour and a half, I stare at the walls... thinking... finally admitting the insanity of it all I hit the sack.
Cessna Caravan - 1997
Aurthur Dunn Airport Titusville, FL.
A few days before the bike arrives, Ralph Mc Cannon and I decide we must take a mini vacation and so we go to Arthur Dunn Airport in Titusville, Fl., not far from the "Rocket Ranch" on the east coast. With lots to see and do at the airpark, I watched intently as some skydivers donned and straightened their chute packs. Still others were sitting or laying on their chutes, to get all possible air out of them in preparation for packing their parachute into a very small backpack, or were laying out the canopies and straightening out chute lines. With a light smell of "JP-5" fuel in the air I got into a Cessna Caravan, a single engine turboprop. This 650hp sleek "elephant in the sky" vehicle, is used for hurling 12 skydivers to 13,000ft in just minutes. I tell you, it was exillerating. For me to play with my flight simulator (Pro Pilot) on my laptop and then go up in a real plane, their is no comparison. Touching and feeling while looking at the planes dashboard that looked like the inside of the space shuttle, the pilot busily manuevering and talking with ground control, I could only hear the whine of the turbine and the sound of the prop beating against the hot soggy, mid june air. Getting approval from the tower, we were off down the tarmac and in the sky in seconds. The "G" force pushed me back in the seat. Soon we were at a pre-designated altitude. Cars, people, houses and trees looking lke ants in the hazy sky. The skydivers prepare for their own heart-stopping experience.
Cessna Caravan
Aurthur Dunn Airport Titusville, FL.
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As I sit in the co-pilots seat, ears popping every few hundred feet, strapped in while listening to the aircraft radio, and watching the pilot move levers, turn knobs, yank yokes, push pedals, yawing the aluminum and steel bird to counter the effects of a 20kt crosswinds. Only expert parachutist dare to be in this kind of wind. The jumpers are yelling to the pilot as the almost deafening noise from the turbine, and the 140 knot winds whistling by the open rear door, muting any sound coming from their mouths. "Three tenths to the left", the diver yells, and then as though they thought they could fly themselves, within seconds, all 12 vanish
Jumpin' Out
Aurthur Dunn Airport Titusville, FL.
The pilot yells in my direction, "Are you ready to have some fun"? Not even hinting that I am highly prone to motion sickness, I yell "HELL YEAH !!!", The pilot immediately pushes the yoke forward to its extreme position and we go into a 4000ft a minute dive. As the plane twists and turns, the wind whistled over and under the wings at 140kts, I see us passing the skydivers in a race for the earth. There is just no substitute for the real thing
Volutia County in 1997
Volusia County, FL
It's Monday, June 17, 1998. All systems are "go". I am headed north on hwy 17 from Jacksonville. Altough I am looking forward to the cooler days of the north, the first couple of days are far from relaxing. Wildfires are out of control in St.Johns, Volusia, and Brevard Counties. Even Duval County cannot escape the rath. Whole counties are under a mandatory evacuation. Homes burn like matchsticks. The winds are out of the southwest from the Carribean. The heat coming from the equatorial regions only serve to add fuel to the fire, The smoke is thick, choking,and blowing in my direction. The Thursday before leaving, I had ridden to the riverwalk on the southbank of the St.Johns River in downtown Jacksonville. The smoke was so dense, one could not see the city skyline of the other side of the river. You could not even take a deep breath without feeling a sharp pain and a tightening of the chest. Like a scuba diver out of air looking for the surface, I felt like I was drowning in a sea of smoke. My only hope was to leave the state.
Just north of Brunswick, I must have hit the "Twilight Zone". I pulled into a gas staion/convenience store to refuel the body. Just as I got off the bike, I heard a loud hissing sound. I looked north. I looked South. I looked east and west. I looked all around, only to discover that the rear tire on the recumbent had become a bowl of Jello. Limp. Lifeless. "No big deal", I'm saying under my breath. But it is. Although I have a quick release system the trailer hitch gets in the way and it could be up to 30 minutes longer to fix a flat. An hour later, I break out my 12 volt air comprssor from th trailer and plug it into the dashboard of "Bikezilla", resusitating the lifeless tire. I'm ready to hit the road. Ready for more adventure.
But as I sit down on the reclining seat, adjusting myself for the most comfortable fit, I hear the all to familiar hissing again. The tire going flat again, I ask myself, if this is one of those things "that make you want to go HMMMMMM". Thinking that I am now an expert on gluing patches to plug holes in tubes, I remount my steel horse and head across the steet. "Pssssssss". At this point, frustration and bewilderment begins to set in. Abouy two miles down the road, another flat. Rod Serling continues to write my story.
'Road Trains' could be 'Road Kill' for the cyclist
Sometime, somewhere down in Australia
Road Trains
Highway 17 between Interstate 95 and Charleston is not fun. Every minute or so, my position was being reported by professional drivers of flat-beds, bob-tails, refers, log trucks and dump trucks over their "CB" radios. Its seemed as though every third vehicle was a Tractor-Trailer.
The whine of the their tires, the whine of the their transmissions, the whistle of the wind through their windwings, the loud, raspy sound of Jake Brakes winding down, popping loudly out of their tall smoke stacks, the fresh smell of thick, black, unburned clouds of diesel fuel, the sounds of retreaded tires flapping in the wind and finally pealing off, the stench of rubber tires and the asbestos laden brake drums burning while rocks and debris a flying off at sixty to seventy miles-per-hour causing pock marks on the back of my neck and skull, while air horns a blasting a deafening noise, and an occaisional unkind jesture from fello mankind while yellinf "GET OFF THE GOD DAMN ROAD,YOU FUCKIN' MORON", make me think "Is this insane or what"?
still others on the "two-way" were sayin' "What the hell is that thing". I reach over to the dashboard, pick up the microphone. push the button and say "I give up, what the hell is this thing", un utter sarcasm. Some have no concept of figureing it out.
July 2, 1997 and I am in Charleston, SC. I head for the St. Andrews Parish Branch Library. There I would update the webpage and pick up the email. While there, I was visited by Paul Hedden, Vice President of the Coastal Cycle Club of Charleston.
We spoke briefly and he invited me to the club meeting. "I would be honored to attend",I said. Paul is a licensed tour guide in Charleston. He gives tours of the hisoric district by boat, bicycle and several other modes of transportation.
Riders of the Storm
That evening I headed for Folley Beach. Empty foundations still litter the N.E. coast of Folley Island, a strong reminder of natures fury. The people have since rebuilt and life is good here.
While at Folley Beach, I met Lisa, a middle aged woman with a dark tan and looked "knock-out" gorgeous. I certainly felt the heart flutters and the butterflies. We shared good conversation for many hours. Her son "Skylar" gobbled up PBJ's as we sat together watching Lisa's favorite soaps on my bike mounted portable TV, sipping our favorite bevarages on the beach. Skylar, her son, could think of nothing but playing with his new found friends in the waves. I suppose it was romantic in its own way. I had a sense of fulfillment. Later in the evening I mounted the bike and rode to the deserted side of the island to make sure I could still watch tv through my eyelids.
The northeast end of Folley Island was devistated when hurricane Hugo ripped through the island in '89. Few structures were left standing. Concrete foundations lining the street and a lighthouse are the only evidence of human existance. It is still the same as that fateful day in '89. The business and residential district of the center part of the isle has been rebuilt.
The meeting would be held at the Athens Restaurant on Hwy 171.
A Greek establishment, the Athens serves up fine Greek cuisine. I wasn't familiar with the dishes, so I played it safe and ordered a tuna grinder. It was fun, food and a festive atmosphere, and then it was time. Paul made the introductions and I was speaking to the crowd about this over-sized, over-weight recumbent that I had put together. From front to back, all 485 pounds of it. Giggles, ooohs , and aaahs, I think we were all amazed. I was back over to Lisa's house for a final goodbye.
I've got beach on the brain. Today's obsession is the beach and it is looking better by the minute. It has been a long three days since the last shower and rolling around in the sand and surf for a few hours will certainly take some of the barnicles off. I can smell the cooler, saltier air as I trudge across the bridge out of Wilmington, SC. The sign says Pawley's
Beached Row Houses
Beach turn right, then one mile. It seems to be the longest mile of my life, in anticipatin of that salty sea. I get there and there is not a place to park. Certainly not for a twenty-foot long bicycle. Even worse, large parcels of land have been bought up and hundreds of condos have been butted up against each other, like row houses in the inner city, right at the shoreline. "Where's the beach!", I say. I wonder what Christopher Columbus would have thought of all of this? I leave... disappointed. It was not until Myrtle Beach State Park that I was able to dismount.
MBSP is a quiet place along the beachfront south of Myrtle Beach with full amenities. A place where one can come and pic-nic for the day. It also has a playground for the kids and shelters with pic-nic tables for lunchtime activities. Life doesn't stop there. Campsites are available for overnighters. There is also a store there. I pulled into one of the shelters, broke out the PBJ and a two liter bottle of my "nectar of the Gods", diet coke, and had a feast, napped for a couple of hours and woke to find Dr. Stanley Jenkins and his wife two tables over. Dr. Jenkins, who, at 69 years old, is retired and vacationing at the park. Stan is a well educated and articulate and spoke with me for many hours. "I started out on a ballooned-tired scooter I bought for $4.44", Dr. Jenkins recants.
II also learned of his first love, the American Iron, the Harley Davidson, which he still actively rides. Although all of my motorcycles were "Riceburners", I can certainly relate. The power, the wind, the feeling of being in control and not having to be stuffed into the "sardine cans" that so many others feel a need to be driving. I still have some of the same feelings while driving my recumbent bike down the road, though three-quarter horsepower legs don't have a lot of accelleration thrill. Stan is also a member of the Carolina Road Riders Association, a motorcycle touring club.
Receiving his Masters Degree in Graphic Arts at Penn State, Stan taught graphic arts in
Trinidad for many years.
Viva la Paparazzi
Viva la Paparazzi
Pulling into New Bern, SC. I immediately asked for directions to the nearest library. "It's on ___________ Ave. said a gas station attendant. A few minutes later, I was at the main library, and found that there was no internet connecion. I broke out my laptop and started writing again. While writing, a man named walked up to me and introduced himself as Scott Silge Scott asked if that was my bike out there. I tried to ignore him, but he insisted. So I said "yes, all day today". He had brought his daughter and son to the library to pick up some books to read. While the kids were thumbing through piles of books, I was still pecking away at the keys. Scott telling me of our common interests.
Scott also owns a commercial window cleaning business in New Bern. I certainly coud relate, I owned one also, in Jacksonville. The children had picked out there books, Scott had invited me over to the house and I told him I would consider.
S
I walked out the door to the library, jump onto my "home on wheels". As I pulled offf off of the driveway apron, TV Channel 7, vehicle is zooming down the road. I'm taking bets as to whether photojournalist inside will want my story. Sure as the stars are in the sky, a few hundred yards down the road, a well dress photo journalists has stepped out of his car. Allen Covey is the senior photographer for WITN Channel 7 in Jacksonville. "May I do a story on you", he asks. "Sure" I say.
George Washington Bridge looking at Manhattan, NY
September 1998
Ahh. The breathtaking view. From my vantage point atop the George Washington bridge that spans the Hudson River, I look south. Sail boats a sailing, motorboats a motoring, skiers a skiing. The shores of Manhattan, NY. to the left and the New Jersey coastline to the right. I trudge across the old steel bridge, dodging steel girders and lampposts that would be a challenge for even the most experienced bicyclists.
Life on Manhattan is more different than anywhere I have seen. From the subway that was carved into the island by the city in the late 1890's to the skyscrapers that have been planted on every streetcorner of Manhattan, reaching ever higher to meet the sky. The city is buldging at the seams and still growing.
Manhattan, NY - 1998
Being from Los Angeles, I found life on Manhattan to be quite a culture shock. The people are straight forward, no nonsemse people and at times, can seem very cold. But let me tell you, once you get to know them, they are the most warm and loving people on the planet. Bless them all.
Times Square
Manhattan, NY - 1998
09/11/01
Manhattan, NY
I was in Manhattan in a time of relative peace. I had stopped by the World Trade Center to show my recumbent to a group of about 3000 cyclist on race day that had included a trip across the Verrazzano Bridge. This is a bridge that is normally closed to bicycles. On this day, the bridge was closed to all that did not have a non-motorized vehicle. Im no way could I keep up with the 30-35 mph riders so I opted to wait at the WTC plaza for the first speedsters to arrive. I still have fond memories of the twin towers. 9/11/01 was not only a loss for me but for my country. My heart, thoughts and prayers go out to all of the victims, extended families, and all of those who helped in the rescue and recovery efforts.
