Pedal To The Sea

By Gilbert Newbury

"You are going to get yourselves killed! You are going to kill your kids!"
Not an auspicious start to a long journey when coming from a very angry stranger. Especially when you know he might be right.
Pedal To The Sea is the true story of a family with young children on a remarkable 4-month, 4,685 mile, coast-to-coast bicycle trip across America pedaling a custom-made Quad, a "tandem" for two - and two more. Pedal To The Sea vividly portrays the risks, joys, struggles, triumphs, moments of humor, and accidents of fate and faith that inevitably rise to the surface of such a journey.
All across America people called out, "Can I come too?" as the family pedaled by. Pedal To The Sea answers "Yes!" by inviting readers along for the ride of a lifetime!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gilbert Newbury
• Release date: Sep 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301150939

Gilbert Newbury

Gilbert Newbury lives in a 180-year-old farmhouse in Fairfield, Vermont with his wife, Peggy, their two sons, Anders and Eric, and Molly the Springer Spaniel. He continues to enjoy the woods, mountains and waters of Vermont and elsewhere.

Book preview

1

The Road Ahead

"Who are you? Where are you going? Where are you from?"

A small knot of people gathers around us in the parking lot of the do-everything hardware store in tiny Higganum, Connecticut. They are a varied group: contractors picking up supplies, mothers with preschoolers bundled up against the spring chill, retired folks, and businessmen passing by. We’d hoped for a quick stop to replace a broken strap lashing down one of our packs and then be on our way. But the questions are piling up faster than the rain-laced clouds overhead.

Two strangers passing through a small town with two young children not in school on a weekday is bound to attract notice. Dress them in matching bright canary-yellow nylon windbreakers, black fleece athletic tights and vented silver helmets, and they are likely to attract attention. A family of four riding through town on a seventeen-foot bicycle-built-for-four—a tandem for two—and two more—with saddlebags and bedroll strapped to the rear, pulling a small bulging trailer; that is going to attract a crowd, even in New England.

We’re the Newbury Family from Fairfield, Vermont, I respond, pointing to myself and then down the line of riders. I’m Gil, my wife Peg, and these are our two sons, Anders and Eric. We are bicycling across the country.

The group stirred at that announcement, unleashing a barrage of questions.

Where did you start? Where are you going?

We started at Plymouth Rock, Massachusetts, and we hope to finish somewhere on the West Coast at the Pacific Ocean.

The questions fly faster, and the four of us do our best to field them.

The bike is called a Quad, a bicycle-built-for-four.

Yes, everyone has to pedal.

No, we don’t have a car following us. We carry what we need.

I’m nine and my brother is seven.

Yes, we get tired.

No, we don’t have a planned place to stay every night. Our schedule and our route are flexible, sometimes changing every day depending on where we are and what we see.

We homeschool the children and finished the bookwork early. This is an extended field trip for them.

We started on April 1st, and we expect to take between four and five months.

Curiosity satisfied, the questions thin out, and the group breaks up. Peg, Anders, and Eric make their way inside the store, still chatting with some remaining admirers, and I stay behind with the bike in the empty parking lot. Sometimes it’s easier to have one of us hold the long Quad than to find a blank wall, fence, or tree big enough to lean against. I straddle the Quad and drape our Connecticut road map across the handlebars to puzzle out the next leg in the confusing maze of small coastal and farm roads we’ve been traveling.

Why in the DEVIL would you do something like this?

Startled, I look up to meet the flinty stare of a no-nonsense man standing about ten feet away. I’d always heard old-time New England Yankees were a hard-working, taciturn, mind-your-own-affairs, bedrock sort of people. This guy certainly looks the part with his close-cropped silver hair, flannel-lined Carhartt work jacket and thick blue jeans. He must be close to seventy years old, but his thin build, wind-reddened cheeks, large calloused hands, and boots speckled with mason cement say he is still a working man. His posture is as straight as the steeple of the white clapboard New England church behind him, his stone-grey eyes piercing, his seamed lips set firm as an ash plank. His head is bare to the cold and the wind; his boots planted firmly to the ground. In a different century those boots would have been just as solid and sure behind a team of pioneer oxen, astride a pounding steam locomotive or the heaving deck of a whale boat in the stormy Atlantic a few miles away.

I recognize him from the small group of questioners. He stood in the back, apart from the others, listening intently and not saying anything or asking any questions. He’s asked a question now, though, and he expects an answer.

Is this some kind of publicity stunt? You raisin’ money for some charity, some cause? he demands.

I straighten up, feeling the chill in his voice and the raw April wind.

No charity, no cause. It’s our nickel. We just want to show our children their country and its history. Places like this.

I gesture across the parking lot at the boarded-up remains of a cavernous red brick mill factory dating from the mid-nineteenth century. The plywood covering one window has pulled away and through the missing glass panes I see hulking shapes of dark machinery that once powered American industry.

We want them to see the real America, not what you see on the news or read about in a textbook. And we want to do it in a way where they can meet people, and at a pace where they can really take in the experience, to see and hear and smell …

My voice dies away. There’s something more, something bigger, but I don’t know how to say it. I’m not sure I understand it myself. I don’t even know if I’m right.

It doesn’t matter, he’s not buying it. He shakes his head as light rain starts to fall.

And catch your death! Or get run over by a damn truck! Or killed by some psycho. He takes a step closer, his voice urgent. Look, you’ve had your life. You’ve had your fun. Why take that chance away from your kids? Why risk their future?

His riveting eyes send a message so clear; his thoughts might as well be shouting,

You are going to get yourselves killed! You are going to kill your kids!

I stare at him, my mind churning. Peg and the boys come out of the store bringing three store employees with them to look at the Quad. I turn back to the old man.

Where do I even begin?

He doesn’t wait for my answer. There’s no talking you out of this, is there?

I shake my head, No, guess not. We’ve started and we have to try.

He turns without another word, walks quickly across the parking lot and climbs into a contractor’s pickup truck. There’s a rustle of activity around the Quad as I cinch the new strap, and we all buckle on our helmets. The store employees hurry back inside the warm store and I swing my leg over the Quad and brace the bike for the others to climb on.

I hear the scrape of boots and look up. The Yankee man is standing next to me.

He thrusts something in my hands and says gruffly, I’d feel better if you took this with you.

Before I can say anything, he is in his truck and driving away.

What is that, Gil? What’d he give you?

Peg and the boys gather around as I unwrap a tight, small bundle.

Is it a gun? A knife?

Other well-meaning people have urged us to carry a weapon for protection, but we always refused. This package is too light to be a weapon. It’s a bright, reflective orange vest that highway workers wear. I hold it up for the family to see, weighing it in my hand and in my mind. We already have reflectors on the trailer and an orange triangle on the back of the Quad, but every bit helps.

I look at Eric, It’s light, the mesh won’t catch the wind, and it sure is visible. Eric, why don’t you wear this?

Noooo! he wails, I don’t want to wear THAT! Why do I have to be different from the rest of you?

Because you are the last in line on the Quad and the most visible to cars and trucks coming up behind us. It will be safer if you wear it.

I don’t care! I don’t want to wear that! I’m not going to wear that all the way across the country!

Peg, the cool-headed family sheriff, takes the vest, rolls it up, and tucks it under the new strap just behind Eric’s seat. There. The vest will be right where you can reach it if we ever need you to put it on. Now let’s go!

We pedal swiftly away with the Yankee man’s vest on the rear pack and his words burning in my brain.

Why would we do something like this? Why ARE we doing this?

We’ve been asked this question dozens of times, and I’ve asked it myself a hundred more. There is no short answer. There’s something we have to find out, and the answer is out on the road ahead of us. Somewhere. We’ve started and now we have to try to find it.

2

The Plan

The Quad sways as Peg cinches her jacket tight against the bite in the wind. Even twenty miles inland, the cold fingers of the Atlantic Ocean still tug at us. The old man’s words nag even more.

We don’t have to be out here. We could be home, warm and safe and comfortable.

My mind drifts back over the years as the pedals on the Quad start to whir, back to the beginning.

I was born in Detroit, Michigan in 1961 and raised in the fresh air, blue waters and big woods of Northern Michigan. We were a big, rambunctious family of seven children in a small house, and my parents wisely encouraged us to use our creative energy exploring and adventuring in the great outdoors. I was also introduced to a little country church with Mennonite roots that taught me a simple, salt-of-the-earth faith, baptized me in the cold waters of Walloon Lake, and steadied me through the turbulent high school years. After graduating from college as a civil engineer, I met my wife, Peg, on a project in New Jersey. We dated for a few years, married, and moved to Vermont where we found good jobs, a good church, a dog, and a log cabin on ten acres of upland birch trees. A few years and job promotions later, we started a family and moved into an old brick Vermont farmhouse and twenty acres of fields and ponds. As Anders and Eric approached school age, we decided Peg would quit her job and homeschool them. Money was tight, but we were making it and we were happy. Life, it seemed, was close to perfect.

A straining truck loaded with gravel elbows by us a bit too close and I nudge the Quad farther into the shoulder. You’re 40 years old. You could be home by the woodstove.

But as more years and the 1990’s passed, troubling questions filtered into our little Vermont bubble, like snow falling on the mountain outside our kitchen window. A moral crisis in the White House and no one seemed to care. School shootings in the heartland and no one seemed to know why. A crash in the stock market and no one knows how. A plane bombed out of the skies over Scotland, a million lives lost in the Iran-Iraq war, but a new video game is all the rage. A hurricane rips into the coastland, followed closely by looting and thievery. Virtual is deemed more important than reality. Schools eliminate shop class, cut back on recess and report epidemics of obesity, drug and alcohol use. We first hear the term, hurried child.

Peg and I store all these things away and talk late at night when the boys are asleep and ask ourselves, What happened to the America we remember? We are not naïve; we are both old enough to remember the scars from the 1967 riots in Detroit and Newark. But are things really as bad as the headlines and news media are telling us? Is this real America? Are America’s best days behind her? We have no answers, only more troubling questions.

One day we took the boys and the dog exploring along a river recreation trail up near the Vermont-Canada border. It was a beautiful, lazy summer afternoon and we were in no hurry. The boys had Jack down on the riverbank, hoping he’d flush out a duck or a rabbit.

A middle-aged woman walked by and we asked her how far to the next road crossing.

It’s about a mile ahead, just around the next bend. She smiled at us, You must be new here.

We told her we were and chat briefly about the weather, where the closest grocery store is, a restaurant she could recommend. She asked about my work and then turned to Peg,

And where do you work?

I stay home and homeschool the boys, Peg replied innocently.

The woman reacts like someone just slapped her in the face! A dark thundercloud washed over her face.

She gestured dismissively in my direction, When he divorces you, then what are you going to do? Two complaining kids, no skills, no job, no money. Honey, you’re screwed!

Her words cracked like a whip. I started to puff up at her foregone conclusion that I am going to divorce Peg and our kids were going to be brats. But before I could speak, the anger in her face changes to real anguish and pain. Her eyes were moist.

Oh my gosh! She must be living this right now!

Peg pulled at her lip, thinking. She looked over at the woman, her voice soft, Well, yes there’s a chance that could happen. Everything in life is a risk and a gamble. But if we try to save ourselves from every possible problem, we can’t risk enough to really live.

Peg looked at me, then back to the woman, I guess I’m willing to take the risk rather than try to save myself.

The woman quickly recovered her emotions and masked them with a smile. Well, good luck to you, she said politely and walked away without a backward glance.

If we try to save ourselves, we can’t risk enough to really live!

We never saw that woman before and we never met her again. But meeting that woman by the river, and Peg’s words, were like the last two snowflakes landing on the snowpack that send an avalanche rumbling down a mountainside. Once started, there was no turning back.

About a month later, I came home late from a work meeting. Dinner was long over and the kids in bed. A note on my empty plate told me my dinner was in the oven. The day’s mail was on the table and as I shuffled through the pile, an envelope fell to the floor. The envelope was open and the letter missing; Peg must have it upstairs. But inside the envelope was a small folded newspaper clipping with a note on it that Peg must have missed. I unfolded the clipping and stood rooted to the floor as I scanned a photo of four people riding one bicycle and pulling a small trailer. The picture was grainy black and white, and I had never seen a bicycle like this, but I immediately knew what it was.

Attached to the bottom of the photo was a handwritten note in Peg’s mother’s handwriting, Saw this picture and thought of you!

A great silence ballooned in my soul as I stared at the picture. I know what we have to do. I know it. But am I willing to risk enough? The clock on the kitchen wall started to tick again, a cricket chirped in the garage, a car purred by out on the road. Released from the spell, I bound up the stairs two at a time and skid breathlessly down the hall. Peg was waving frantically from our bed as I sailed past the boy’s room.

Quiet! she whispered hoarsely, I just got the boys to sleep!

I slowed down and perched on the bed beside her, barely able to contain myself.

Peg! Did you ever think about bicycling across the country?

"What? What kind of question is that?"

No, I mean it! Did you ever think about riding across the country?

Peg thought for a minute, Well … yeah, maybe when I was a kid. Nothing serious.

And do you remember how we said someday we’d like to show the kids what America is really like? Find out what is really going on out there, not just listen to what the news media says? Remember? Well, how would you like to do it now—by bicycle?

You mean bike across America? Now? Peg stared at me in astonishment. Gil! How? Our kids are too small, and we can’t go off for that long and leave them! If we did something like that we’d have to wait until they were teenagers, but by then we would be too old and they might not want to hang around us.

I smiled gleefully and unfurled the folded clipping in front of her. Here’s how! We can do it all together, right now, while the kids are young.

I started to babble as Peg stared at the photo. We can really show the kids what a great country this still is, an’ they’ll learn more history and geography than they ever will in a book, an’ instill a sense of adventure in them, an’ …

Can you get enough time off work? Would we have enough money? Peg’s voice was tinted with excitement.

I think so! I have a lot of vacation saved up and I could ask for a sabbatical. And we have some savings. Our travel costs would be minimal, the food bills should be the same as they are now, and if we camp to keep the lodging costs down …

A cold finger of caution wormed its way into my excitement. Uh, on the other hand, it’ll be long … and hard … and we don’t know how people will treat us. It is a risk …

Peg put the clipping down and looked at me with eyes shining with excitement, Gil, let’s do this. Yeah! Let’s do it! Even if we don’t make it, we have to try.

Planning the trip was actually pretty easy because there was so much we couldn’t plan. It was telling people about the trip that was the hard part.

We made our initial plans in secret. We bought a big, wall-sized map of the United States and tacked it up in our schoolroom. We placed colored dots on the map to mark the homes of all the friends and relatives we could think of. The long, empty spaces between the dots were sobering. We placed more colored dots on all the historic places, national parks, and natural wonders the United States had to offer.

We traced different routes with colored yarn but the choices were endless. Cross the Appalachian Mountains or go around them? Follow the Trail of Tears? The Santa Fe Trail? The Oregon Trail? Where should we cross the Rockies? Do we aim for California, Oregon, or Washington?

In the end, we couldn’t decide. We knew where we would start; we placed a dot on the map at Plymouth Rock. We would take our leap of faith into the unknown where the Pilgrims took theirs. We would head south in the footsteps of the Revolutionary War and the campaigns of the Civil War. We left a dot on the map to mark my brother’s house in North Carolina and dots on the Mississippi River to mark areas memorialized by Mark Twain’s writings. In between the dots and beyond them, the map was blank. There would be no motel reservations, no campground bookings. We would follow whim, chance, and the advice of strangers to choose our course day by day.

We knew when we would start. We needed a year to save enough money, and we needed to start in the spring. We chose April 1, 2002, April Fool’s Day. We estimated how much time the trip would take and started banking vacation time to carry the paychecks as far as possible. I volunteered for all available overtime, and we scrimped and saved everywhere. We added up costs, trimming and cutting to make the outgo match our income and savings. It would be close; but it could work. Finally, we were ready to bring our secret into the light.

My boss was a retired military officer who served in the Pentagon. Managing 500 employees of the Vermont Agency of Transportation was semi-retired child’s play for him. The only time I ever heard him raise his voice was when I sat down in his office and told him I wanted a five-month leave of absence to bicycle across the country with my family. I had all my ducks in a row: a neat portfolio with a start date, end date, purpose statement, staffing changes to cover my absence, copies of my outstanding performance ratings and merit awards. After his first startled "What?" he never even looked at my material. He just sat back and listened to what I wanted to do and why. I’m not sure he understood, but when I finished, his military calm was back and he just said.

You’re sure you want to do this?

Yes.

He pulled my portfolio across his desk, wrote Approved on the top page, signed his name below and handed it back.

Take this down to Personnel and good luck.

Very few reactions were as calm and simple as that. Word began to leak out and our cover was blown. In many cases, we were met with stony silence, even from family. If we had announced cancer, a new baby, a job transfer, or a vacation there would have been a response. Biking across the country with young kids? No response.

Other reactions were not silent and did not mince words. The betting at work was we wouldn’t make more than 100 miles, if we didn’t get killed first. A business associate from South Africa leaves a message on my phone:

Oh my God, Gil! Don’t do it! There are so many whackos out there!

South Africa! I exclaim to Peg later, This is what they think of America in South Africa!

A relative tells us, Well, I guess you know what you are doing. It’s clear he doesn’t believe that, and he’s right.

A friend surveys the tiny tent we plan to use and tells me bluntly,

You say you’re trying to build a strong family bond? That thing is going to break your family apart!

The reactions have a chilling effect, and Peg and I are at our lowest point when we visit our attorney to update our wills. But there is also encouragement from a few friends and family. My older brother and his wife call from North Carolina and offer their house, their car, anything they can do to help if we decide to come their way. Peg’s brother sends an e-mail around her side of the family,

Peg is teaching her kids an invaluable lesson—follow your dream! I envy Anders and Eric for being able to grow up with the notion that the world is their oyster, and nothing is impossible! I hope they learn that lesson well!

We plunge ahead with our plans even through the shock and sorrow of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. Amidst the subsequent anger, flags flying and patriotism, we also note a wave of fear and caution. Our neighbors cancel vacation plans and avoid traveling. Hardware stores run low on duct tape and plastic sheeting as people create safe rooms in their houses. People cautiously scrutinize their neighbors on planes, buses, and subways.

We spend the fall and winter scrutinizing light-weight rain coats, gathering expedition equipment, and struggling to find cycling clothing small enough to fit Anders and Eric. We end up buying women’s extra-small sizes for the boys and hiring a seamstress to shrink them even more. All our efforts to find fleece riding tights for Eric that will keep his legs warm come up empty. We end up using a pair of small arm warmers to encase his legs.

We whittle away at the equipment and clothing list, ruthlessly eliminating all unnecessary weight and bulk. Heavy blue jeans, out. Flip-flop sandals are lighter and pack smaller than spare shoes. Plates and bowls, out. We’ll use our cups to eat and drink out of. Silverware, out. Use plastic and replace it when it breaks. Underwear? Anders and I go commando under our padded bike shorts; Peg and Eric refuse to part with the luxury.

The Quad arrives in a long crate from California where we had it custom-made. It’s too long to bring into the house, so I assemble it in the barn. The sleek metallic-blue bike looks as long as an airplane, and we quickly begin to think of it in aviation terms.

I take the front seat as pilot. All the controls are on my handlebars and my job is to pedal, steer, balance, shift the gears, and apply the brakes. I coordinate the starts to make sure we launch the Quad safely, and I dictate the stopping sequence so everyone lands safely. I have the best view forward so I am busy scanning the road for bumps, potholes, traffic and turns. Peg, Anders, and Eric all have great window seats and are free to ride no-handed any time they want.

Peg is in the second seat as first officer. She has no controls, but she directs all affairs, including mine. Each of our jerseys has three elastic pockets in the back. Peg uses my jersey pockets in front of her as the office, storing our map, directions, a few scraps of note paper and a stubby pencil. She uses her own jersey pockets as a rolling commissary, handing out snacks, lip balm and Kleenex. Peg is also the family sheriff and arbitrator to keep the peace on the bike. Peg’s pedaling style is diesel: steady, powerful, and long-haul.

Anders is in the third seat as flight engineer. He is our numbers guy and has the wristwatch-sized cycling computer wired from the sensor on the front wheel back to his handlebars. Anders feeds us distances, miles to go, hours pedaled, and maximum speed. He is also assistant navigator and helps me spot turns and landmarks. We quickly find out Anders pedals like a Ferrari: high speed, lots of horsepower, and lousy at stopping. He’s always pedaling away back there while I’m up front trying to stop.

Eric is our ‘Gib’, the Guy-In-Back, and he’s very busy. He’s our backward radar to warn of cars and trucks approaching on narrow roads, and he’s our tail-gunner when a chasing dog catches up to us. He’s the first to hear and warn us of any mechanical problems with the drivetrain or the trailer, and he is in charge of the bad weather clothing bag. If someone is too cold or too hot while we are in motion, additional items of clothing are passed up and down the line of riders from the bag right behind Eric. Eric also tells me what gear the Quad is in because I can’t see the 27 gears from where I sit. Eric’s strength is not in his legs for pedaling; it’s in his spirit that sings, whistles, and plays harmonica for the rest of us.

Our first flight on the Quad almost ends in a crash in the first ten feet. We line the Quad up on the quiet country road in front of our house hoping no one is watching. I brace the bike as Peg and the boys climb into their saddles and clip into the new pedals. The pedals work like a downhill ski binding: step straight down on them and they lock the rider’s shoe safely to the pedal to prevent slipping off. Twist the foot to the side and the shoe easily releases from the pedal.

I put one foot on my pedal and shakily balance all four of us on my other leg still on the ground. I give the start sequence, One, two, three, go!

Before I can begin to scoot onto my bike seat and get both feet on the pedals, Peg, Anders and Eric eagerly mash their pedals. The Quad leaps forward in a startling burst of power, my bike seat spears me right in the small of my back and knocks me forward into the handlebars. Quick-witted Peg wrenches her feet free of the pedals and plants them on the ground in time to save us from a spill in the gravel road.

We change the start sequence to One, two, three, go easy! and pedal away. We make smooth turns of the pedals until we come to the first corner. It’s a lonely, two-lane country road with the entire road to ourselves. I gingerly turn the handlebars what seems the right amount, and we pedal straight into the ditch. Quick feet again save us from a crash.

Oh brother! What have we got ourselves into? This is harder than it looks!

If Peg is having doubts, she keeps them to herself, and I do likewise. We line up for another try and make our shaky way home. We make more clandestine trips and eventually get the hang of riding the Quad, even venturing to ride in light traffic and through our small town. We practice pulling the trailer and riding with loaded panniers, but some of our equipment is slow to arrive and winter snow shuts us down before we can practice riding with a full load. Peg and I retreat to a gym to try and stay in shape but Anders and Eric follow their usual routine of nonstop motion.

We leave in three months, and our last challenge is what to do with Jack, our sweet, gentle Labrador Retriever dog. We do not have the heart to put Jack in a kennel for five months. We gingerly ask around locally, but no one volunteers to take him. I call my brother in North Carolina; he’s already got two dogs, but did he really mean anything he could do to help?

Yes, he says, you get him down here and we’ll gladly take care of him for you.

Peg looks into ways to ship Jack to North Carolina, and I get ready to board up the house. We thought of renting the house out for five months, but after hearing absentee landlord horror stories, we decide against it.

One winter Sunday morning, we are sitting in church and the pastor introduces a young missionary couple to the congregation. They recently married and planned to spend their first year of marriage living with the bride’s parents before heading back to the mission field. Peg and I turn in the church pew and look at each other.

Yuck! I say, Newlyweds living with parents?

Jack! Peg says, They can stay at our house and watch Jack!

That is the last piece of the puzzle. The arrangements are made.

Late in March, one last message reaches us from a man we hardly know: You are about to live one of my fondest aspirations. Enjoy it fully.

With that, it is time to go.

3

Launch

Easter Sunday morning, March 31, 2002, finds us shivering in a biting drizzle on an empty street in Plymouth, Massachusetts, watching the glowing red taillights of our car disappear into the mist. The grey, dreary emptiness and the rain rattling loud and hollow off our plastic rain suits echoes the forlorn emptiness we feel inside.

Winter hangs around late this year, and a spring snowstorm in Vermont has turned to cold rain near the Atlantic. Our good friends George and Lillian drove down to Plymouth with us in our minivan, towing the Quad on a small boat trailer. We unload our equipment and baggage in the motel for our overnight stay, change into our biking clothes, and pack our normal clothes into the van for the return trip without us.

Goodbyes are swift and strained. Here’s for a warm hotel on a cold night, George says gruffly as he presses $50 into my hand. Lillian hugs each of us long and hard, not saying a word. Car doors slam, pale hands wave behind rain-streaked windows, a splash of tires, and they are on their way home. The red lights grow dim, flicker, and are gone.

We use the last hours of daylight for a quick trip to the ocean’s edge to see Plymouth Rock and the Mayflower II. The waters of Plymouth Bay are protected and calm, but the wind coming off the cold Atlantic is raw and drives grey clouds in front of it like dogs driving sheep. We start to shiver.

If we had started from home, we could have delayed the trip to wait for a better day. If we had started from a friend’s or a relative’s house, we could have waited until the storm passed. In Plymouth, we are over 250 miles from home and friends. We have cut the anchor and are now sailing before the wind. Whether that wind is the teeth of a gale that hurls us out to sea, or a gentle island breeze to sweep us to the far shore remains to be seen. We are on our own, all of America in front of us. And I have never felt so small, so alone, and so afraid in all my life.

The next day, April 1, 2002, dawns cold, dismal, and raining. There is no sunrise, just a lightening in the ocean of heavy, pewter clouds overhead. We eat a quick, cold continental hotel breakfast but the food sticks in our nervous throats. Peg prays feverishly for the rain to stop. We decide to wait to see if the weather will clear.

By 8:00 a.m., it is still raining and Peg is still praying for clear skies. By 9:00 a.m. the rain stops. It is time to go. The Quad feels impossibly heavy and awkward as we wheel it down the driveway to the road. We reach the curb and my heart sinks into my damp shoes. Yesterday’s quiet street is now four solid lanes of fast-moving commuter traffic. No one is lost and going slow, no sight-seeing; these drivers know where they are going and they are in a hurry to get there. And 100 yards down the road, an intersection and a left turn for US 44 West. If I was nervous before, I am in total despair now.

We’ve never ridden with a load this heavy and in this much traffic! And now I have to cross two lanes of rush-hour traffic, get in a turn lane, deal with a traffic light, and go through a busy intersection! We … are … so … dead!

The entire morning shift of the motel has turned out to watch us take off. I turn away from their smiles, waves, and well-wishes.

Oh, God! We’re going to die right in front of everybody!

There’s nothing to do but try. We line the Quad up on the narrow shoulder and we climb aboard. Anders sets the odometer to zero. One by one, Eric, Anders, and Peg lock their feet into the pedals, and I am all that’s left connecting us to terra firma. I am terrified, and there is nothing firma in my jellied legs or queasy stomach. I look over my left shoulder and miracle of miracles, there’s a break in traffic in the lane closest to us!

One … two … three … go easy!

We are rolling and underway. Before we are two feet away from the curb, both boys yell out.

Are we there yet? and fall into a fit of giggling.

Peg laughs, Did George put you up to that?

I’m too busy and too scared to laugh, and I can’t stay on the narrow shoulder. I wobble down the center of the lane and fix my eyes on the intersection ahead. I am so busy balancing and trying to compensate for the extra weight on the Quad that I don’t dare turn around to look at traffic.

We’ve got to get two lanes to the left and there’s not much room to do it!

Eric, I yell tensely over the rush of traffic steaming by us, left turn signal! Tell me when it’s clear to move left!

Eric points his left arm encased in yellow windbreaker to the left. Anders hangs his arm out to the left as well. OK, Daddy! All clear!

What! Already? I yell.

I glance to my left, there’s no traffic coming by us anywhere.

Where’d all the cars go?

I move left but hesitate to cross into the next lane. Peg, what’s going on back there? Can I really go left?

Peg twists her head quickly. Anders and Eric still have their arms out pointing left.

Gil, go! Go! The cars are waiting back there! They’re giving us the whole road!

I swerve erratically left across two lanes without a backward glance and trundle down the left turn lane. The traffic light turns yellow.

Too late! We’ll never make it through!

I grab the brakes but forget to tell the others to switch off the power. The Quad bulls past the stop bar, and we shoot into the heart of the intersection. I expect brakes squealing, a bumper pressing toward us, a horn blaring in our ears. My heart is pounding in my ears, my head is on a swivel, scanning wildly. I have completely lost contact with who has the green light and who has red, but it doesn’t matter. No one is moving but us. We are the only ones in the intersection! Every other lane of traffic has come to a dead halt and is staring at us. They are letting us have the intersection to ourselves!

I release the brake and yell, Pedal! as we carve a wobbly turn and escape to the relative safety of the west-bound shoulder.

The boys are chattering away between themselves, excited to be underway, oblivious to what just happened. But Peg knows.

Interesting technique, she says dryly, I hope we get better at that.

Yeah, me too! And I hope we learn fast!

It’s a day for learning, for stops and starts, for trials and for errors. As we cycle west on US 44, traffic thins but we continue to get friendly honks and waves. A car pulls over ahead and two ladies get out and take our picture. A fine rain starts as we ride through a region of cranberry bogs and Eric gets cold. We stop to wrap him in his rain gear and a warmer hat. A few miles down the road Anders overheats and we stop to allow him to take clothes off. Now Eric is too warm; Anders too cold. Frazzled, we stop again, searching for the right mix of clothing. My ankles ache and throb from yanking them out of the pedals and stabbing my feet down in panic every time we stop. Then the hot tea Peg drank this morning works through her system, and she calls our first bathroom break.

We pull onto the shoulder of the road near a line of cranberry ponds. There are no trees or bushes to hide behind, but the setting is private and secluded. We are the only breathing creatures to be seen. All of man and nature seems to hold the same silent breath, awaiting a surety that spring has made a reservation.

Peg checks up and down the road carefully. No houses and no traffic in sight. I hold the Quad by the road as Peg walks a short distance away from the road with Anders and Eric.

Now listen, she instructs them sternly, you two stand close by with your backs turned to me. Warn me if a car comes, and block their view if they get too close. Got it?

The boys nod their heads and everyone takes their position. Peg braves the raw wind and peels off her fleece cycling tights and riding shorts.

CAR! screams one of the boys. In an instant, Anders and Eric explode out of the grass like partridges rocketing away from a flushing Spaniel dog. Arms pumping and legs churning, they dash for the road and the safe thicket of tubes, handlebars and bags on the Quad. They thunder in for a landing behind me and stand at their riding positions, holding their handlebars and looking around serenely pretending nothing happened.

Peg is stuck out in the open as the car whooshes by. Some things, once started, can’t be stopped. Like I said, Peg was stuck. All she can do is bury her face in her arms.

She comes back to the Quad red-faced and fuming mad. Warn me and STAND THERE to block their view! she scolds.

Another interesting technique we need to get better at.

Farther down the road, our erratic progress wobbles to a stop yet again, halted in front of a large official highway sign with authoritative black letters that reads,

Limited Access Highway Begins. Pedestrians, Bicycles and Horses Prohibited.

The sign goes on to assure us that the full extent of the law and the powers of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts will be leveled against trespassers. Up ahead I see the regimented lanes, sweeping ramps, grass medians and high-speed traffic of an Interstate! I pull out our official Massachusetts State Highway Map and pore over it in confusion. We chose Providence, Rhode Island, as our destination for the first night of the trip because it was only forty miles and would give the boys the chance to cross into another state on their first day. US 44 is the only road to Providence from the east. There are no other options unless we swing far to the north or south.

I don’t get this! This map doesn’t say anything about 44 turning into an Interstate and banning bikes! Doesn’t anyone around here walk, or ride a bike or a horse?

Peg gives me a little poke in the back, trying to soften my irritation, Yeah, what’s the matter with those highway engineers? Gil, don’t get mad, just find a way around.

I trace small roads with my finger and calculate a fifteen mile detour that brings us back to US 44 farther to the west, which hopefully will turn back into a regular road by then. There’s no way of telling from a map we can no longer trust, and if we guess wrong we will be right back in the same pickle—with fifteen extra miles in our legs.

We set out bravely, riding off route and on hope, picking our way carefully along small, wandering highways. A lonely bronze historical marker commemorates the site of a long-forgotten skirmish known as King Phillip’s War, which erupted some fifty years after the founding of the Plymouth colony. We rejoin US 44 which is back to a friendly two lanes open to pedestrians, bicycles and horses, and pass through Taunton. We gain a bit more confidence riding with traffic and navigating through intersections. We learn to coast up to red lights without clipping out of the pedals, then accelerate through on the green light. Our turns are still ragged, but getting better. A photographer from the local newspaper chases us down and does a quick interview by the side of the road. We are hesitant and tentative, a bit unnerved by the attention and not wanting to sound pretentious.

"We’re trying to bicycle across the country, Peg reminds the photographer. It’s only our first day and we’re trying not to look too far ahead."

We roll into the busy, four-lane, working-class eastern outskirts of Providence with 54 miles on Anders’ odometer. We made it; we survived our first day. We are physically and mentally exhausted, eager for a hot shower, a hot meal, and a warm bed. Dropping temperatures convince us that camping tonight is NOT an option and the last order of business for the day is to find a motel. We ease up on the pedals and scan the businesses along the road. A car disengages from the stream of metal and rubber rushing past and pulls into a parking lot ahead of us. A hippie-looking guy with a long, brushy pony tail and gold-rimmed glasses jumps out of the car and whips a camera to his eye as we approach. We smile and keep pedaling. As we pass in front of the man, my eyes are focused on the traffic and businesses ahead, hoping to avoid another traffic ordeal like we had this morning. The next thing I know, the camera guy is jogging along beside me! Startled, I swing away to put a few feet of buffer space between us and this unexpected encounter.

This is so awesome! Where are you goin’? he asks.

He’s running alongside Peg now, so I let her answer.

The Quad is coasting down a hill and with our weight and momentum, he can’t run fast enough to keep up. He is red-faced and moving backwards, even with Eric, when Peg finishes her answer.

Can you stop? he gasps plaintively, "I want to talk to you!"

I swing the Quad to the side of the road and stop.

Hey, I’m sorry. I thought you just needed a few words for a newspaper picture.

No newspaper, he puffs, his hands on his knees, I just want to hear your story. This is wild! This is awesome! I’ve just got to hear what you cats are up to.

We fill him in on our trip as he catches his breath, his eyes alight and face glowing with interest. He’s about the same age as Peg and me, wearing worn blue jeans and a bright red t-shirt covered by a loose black sweatshirt that looks too thin for the cold day.

Oh, man! he gushes, shaking his head. I wish I was goin’ with you! Can I come too?

I hook a thumb at the low cast of the sun, Right now, the only place we are going is to find a place to stay for the night. You know of any inexpensive motels close by?

He thinks for a minute, No, I don’t know of any motels on this side of town. You could stay with me, but I’m not from around here. His eyes light up, "Hey, lissen’. I’m a carpenter and I’m renovatin’ a house here in Providence for some friends of mine. Let me call the owners; they’re real cool