Author Kari Loya has lately printed an inspiring ebook about an epic cross-country bike journey he took in 2015 along with his 75-year-old father, who had early-stage Alzheimer’s.
Conversations Across America – Excerpt (Days 3-6)
Days 3-6. Charlottesville to Vesuvius
Our first three days bode nicely. We common 75 miles every day on the moist, comparatively flat (aside from Monticello), historic journey into Charlottesville. After sleeping the primary night time on the ground of a church—our Adventure Cycling Association maps point out locations keen to host cyclists—and tenting the second behind a hearth station the place now we have a Domino’s pizza delivered to our tent, we splurge for a lodge the place we sleep nicely, eat nicely, and hit up a motorcycle store for minor gear changes.
Cycling out of Charlottesville the following morning is beautiful. The solar lastly greets winter-weary UVA undergrads on seashore volleyball courts, aromatic apple blossoms desirous to have a good time spring, and storybook vineyards. We’ve deliberate for a lighter day of simply 40 miles to see how we handle our first thousand-foot climb—up Rockfish Gap on the Blue Ridge Parkway, then right down to Waynesboro on the opposite aspect. Because of our leisurely morning departure, we don’t attain the campground till nightfall, however we make it. Slow and regular, Merv powers his manner up and over the go—after I take his backpack to lighten the load—then enjoys the lengthy descent.
As quickly as we arrive on the campground/RV Park, Dad goes to the toilet whereas I arrange camp. I sneak into the on-site retailer simply earlier than it closes to choose up odds and ends, then whip up a easy dinner. Forty minutes later when Merv returns, his dinner is ready on a desk, however I’ve already completed my very own. Forty minutes? Mental be aware: verify on him within the toilet going ahead.
The subsequent morning, Dad comes out of the toilet carrying his Lycra shorts inside out—the brilliant pink crotch padding screams like a wierd, speaking bullseye. An sick omen for the day? I silence the detrimental thought, make dad conscious of his style blunder, get him squared away, then we’re off.
After a full nation breakfast at Weesie’s Café in Waynesboro, we climb slowly 700 ft again as much as the Parkway, then flip south for what ought to be our longest day to this point—practically 100 miles—seemingly doable given our mileage to this point. But I’ve made a important, albeit well-intentioned, error in making ready for our cross-country journey: To lower your expenses, I’m utilizing maps I bought in 2000 once we initially explored the journey concept. I assumed any variance with routes, highway names, and ancillary sources (cafes, service stations, and many others.) wouldn’t be an enormous deal—we’d determine all of it out. What I hadn’t realized, although, was that the older maps don’t embrace elevation profiles. Without these, 5 miles could possibly be a breeze… or torture. And spotty wi-fi protection alongside the route isn’t serving to. We sadly by no means know precisely what lies forward.
Reality hits exhausting. By early afternoon, we’re struggling atop the Blue Ridge Parkway, which I mistakenly assumed could be comparatively flat after the preliminary climb—and pa begins strolling his bike. Okay, I believe, we alter.
“Dad,” I say, “Why don’t I take your backpack?” He agrees, arms me his heavy, however prized, possession, then mounts his bike once more to start pedaling. Twenty minutes in a while one other upward stretch, he dismounts. Okay, we alter.
“Dad,” I repeat, “Let me take one of your panniers.” Once once more, he agrees, and I strap his left rear pannier onto my again rack beneath the tent. We resume pedaling, however solely get 20 minutes down the highway. Okay, we alter. This new mantra is now cemented in my mind.
Except there aren’t any extra weight changes to make. This already borders on a comedy sketch, like I’m hauling my life possessions and could be residing beneath a bridge. The extra weight is testing my steadiness and practically killing me.
The uncommon warmth—80 levels, welcome in different circumstances—doesn’t assist. So we do what we will: we cease continuously, drink and snack plentifully, even nap on the aspect of the highway. We simply must get to the following city to regroup.
We begin descending from the Parkway, driving steeply down Route 56, winding towards Vesuvius, removed from our unique vacation spot, however now a spot to get well. Because of the load of my load, the odor of burning rubber rises from my brakes as we white knuckle our manner towards the underside. But midway down, Dad is not behind me. I pull over to one of many few spots with a shoulder, then wait 5 minutes. Nothing. I yell. Still nothing. So, I’ve no selection however to start out pedaling again up.
Fortunately, I discover Dad after a number of hundred yards. He has a flat tire, our first of the journey. I hunker down, then spend an hour—an hour—on what turns into the hardest tire change of my life. His new tire is so stiff I can’t get it again onto the rim—and I break a plastic tire lever attempting. When I lastly get it on, I inadvertently puncture the tube, so it goes flat once more. AHHHHH! After screaming my full R-rated vocabulary as loudly as I can, I notice we’re shut sufficient to the underside that we will stroll the ultimate mile into Vesuvius, a one-store city with a three-table store-restaurant. We enter Gertie’s Country Store, the place a heavy-set native on a stool greets us.
“You felluhs just come down Route 56?” he asks, pointing his arm east. “Back about ten years ago, they did the Tour DuPont and Lance Armstrong came through. He wore number four. They rode about sixty miles, then shot up 56 over there. You know how fast he got to the top, son? Six minutes and forty-seven seconds!”
He couldn’t be extra excited or proud. While I admire the pleasant banter and enjoyable reality, we’re ravenous, so we make our strategy to a again windowless room with a lone card desk wearing an affordable, plaid, plastic tablecloth. We piece collectively a pseudo-meal of a hamburger patty and shredded iceberg lettuce (restricted by our gluten-free weight loss program—extra on this later), then sit down, grateful not to be biking.
Five minutes later, a lady rushes into the restaurant.
“Can someone call 911?!” she shouts. Someone is having a coronary heart assault exterior. My AT&T cellphone doesn’t have reception, so I ask Dad, with Verizon, if he does.
“Well, I think so, let me see…”
While he reaches for his cellphone on the desk, I look at his bars and see none. Without a phrase, I bolt out the door to assist.
Just across the nook is a 60-year-old overweight man mendacity on his again on the bottom. The native who’d shared the Armstrong story is kneeling subsequent to him, performing chest compressions.
“C’mon, Randy!” the lady who’d shouted for 911 cries out. “Don’t you leave me! C’mon, Randy…”
I crouch reverse our new buddy, who’s out of breath, sweating bullets, and dangerously near cardiac arrest himself.
“Let’s rotate,” I recommend. I haven’t practiced CPR in years—and I’ve by no means carried out it on an actual particular person—however now we have no choices. He does 30 compressions, the sufferer’s companion administers two breaths, then I take over. I’m so amped on adrenaline that I proceed my units for 5 minutes whereas our buddy catches his breath. The sufferer’s face has turned blue, and his stomach is swelling.
Ten extra minutes go earlier than first responders arrive—the unlucky actuality of rural areas.
“We had sex up at the campground,” the girl explains between sobs to a paramedic. “Then he started complainin’ of chest pain…” She continues crying. “Don’t you leave me, Randy!”
I step apart and the paramedics now take over in entrance of a crowd that has grown to twenty individuals, probably half the city. I walked again into Gertie’s, the place Merv continues to be fiddling along with his cellphone.
“Well… hmmm… I thought I had… reception…” he confesses, puzzled. “But I guess I don’t…” He units the cellphone down and appears up. “So… someone had a… heart attack? Boy, oh boy…”
An hour later once we go away, we study the person didn’t make it. The temper is somber. We stroll our bikes a half-mile throughout city simply earlier than nightfall to pitch our tent within the yard of a church the place we’ve obtained permission to remain. I simply need to sleep—and I dread that I nonetheless must deal with the cussed tire within the morning.
But sleep soothes the soul. And so does a correct meal. After granola, fruit, and a Rock Star iced espresso that we’d lugged from Charlottesville, I set to work on the tire whereas Dad relaxes.
Merv’s tire feels as a lot carbon fiber as rubber. I exploit my complete physique to stretch it whereas leveraging my one remaining tire iron. Patience, I remind myself, then take a break. Using Merv’s one bar of cell reception from a nook of the church lot, I Google “bike shops” and one thing comes up twenty miles away. I name and a person picks up, clearly stunned on the early-hour inquiry.
“Sorry,” he says. “We’re closed… and we’ll be closed tomorrow, too.” But then he throws me a lifeline: “Try soaking it in soapy water.”
I suds-up the tire, let it soak, then attempt once more. Finally, after half-hour of wrestling, bingo! Thank God. Problem Number One solved.
Now I’ve Problem Number Two: I want to go quantity two. Fortunately, a blue Port-o-Potty stands on the sting of the church lot. Just as I’m questioning the place Merv is, the Port-o-Potty door swings open, and Dad strolls out.
“You going to use… the bathroom?” he asks politely as I make a beeline for aid.
“Yeah! I gotta go bad!”
“Well… just be careful…” he cautions, pausing briefly. “…the toilet splashes.”
WTF? What does he imply the outhouse bathroom splashes? Geez, am I going to wish to assist him with this now, too?
I enter the plastic chamber, immaculate by Port-o-Potty requirements, then sit down. But Dad’s phrases echo in my head. Why would I have to be cautious? Curious, I elevate my cheeks off the seat, twist awkwardly 135 levels, then peer into the abyss the way in which youngsters would possibly if on the lookout for the boogeyman with a flashlight. It is unusually deep, possibly eight ft, and sensible cobalt blue. Like Crater Lake, sans Wizard Island. Ironically, stunning is the phrase that pops into my head.
My thoughts travels again to highschool physics: for those who drop a useless object from a given peak, the thing won’t rise above the unique peak. I’ll spare the small print, however I spend the following 20 minutes utilizing flimsy paper towels—thank God there are some—to wash up a nationwide park-size mess. It’s simply Day 6 and I’ve already reached all-time low… with my backside.
But sitting on my humble throne, I then mirror on the final 24 hours, smile, and begin laughing. If we will make it by way of this, we would… we would… we simply may need an opportunity to make it throughout nation.
Conversations Across America is a couple of father-son journey of a lifetime: a 73-day, 4,600-mile cross-country bike journey Kari took in 2015 along with his 75-year-old dad, Merv, who had early-stage Alzheimer’s. Their journey reminds us of the ability of perseverance and flexibility within the face of uncertainty. It’s additionally a heartwarming instance of listening and discovery, together with 300 brief conversations with individuals who approached them alongside the way in which, offering a wealthy snapshot of America, particularly rural America.
Conversations is a mixture of Blue Highways, Tuesdays with Morrie, and Humans of New York… on a motorcycle. As you learn, you possibly can’t assist however mirror in your relationship with your individual father and kids, whereas gaining perspective on Alzheimer’s—which now afflicts greater than six million Americans—and getting a way of the TransAmerica Bike Trail and America itself. Above all, you can be impressed to seize-the-day with somebody you like—no matter meaning to you.
The new ebook, accessible on Amazon as an e-book and in paperback, is Conversations Across America: A Father and Son, Alzheimer’s, and 300 Conversations Along the TransAmerica Bike Trail that Capture the Soul of America.