Free from the Grind: A Cross-Country Bicycle Adventure

By David Heflin

David is a middle-aged university administrator dealing with the dull routines of long work weeks, diapers, snowblowers and bills. He escapes from the daily grind and takes to the road on a bicycle with the goal of pedaling across the country in twenty-eight days. This physical challenge turns into a pilgrimage of sorts, with the stories of pilgrims he meets along the way informing the lessons learned during the adventure. The stories from the road highlight the path to self-discovery that is central to David's pilgrimage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098328054

Book preview

Free from the Grind:

A Cross-Country Bicycle Adventure

©2020 David Heflin

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 978-1-09832-804-7

ebook ISBN: 978-1-09832-805-4

Contents

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

DAY 1 Saturday, May 28, 2005

DAY 2 Sunday, May 29, 2005

DAY 3 Monday, May 30, 2005

DAY 4 Tuesday, May 31, 2005

DAY 5 Wednesday, June 1, 2005

DAY 6 Thursday, June 2, 2005

DAY 7 Friday, June 3, 2005

DAY 8 Saturday, June 4, 2005

DAY 9 Sunday, June 5, 2005

DAY 10 Monday, June 6, 2005

DAY 11 Tuesday, June 7, 2005

DAY 12 Wednesday, June 8, 2005

DAY 13 Thursday, June 9, 2005

DAY 14 Friday, June 10, 2005

DAY 15 Saturday, June 11, 2005

DAY 16 Sunday, June 12, 2005

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments

DEDICATION

To my family and friends, who sacrificed so much to allow me to experience pilgrimage. To my wife, Suzy, and my children, Katy, Brent, and Kelly Anne, who sacrificed the most. And to my friends, who quietly supported, and challenged, my plans for a special adventure.

PREFACE

Spring is typically a no-show in South Dakota. The months of March and April punish the people of the frigid northern plains, as winter doesn’t yield to spring dependably until Mother’s Day. While azalea bushes perfume the languid spring days in my native Mississippi, South Dakotans struggle under the burdens of heavy snows and bone-chilling temperatures. It’s during these months that the other challenges of life grow, and South Dakotans flee the ice-cold plains for relief.

In 2005, I experienced the burden of the South Dakota spring and looked for relief. I was at such a point in my life that I felt a trip was necessary. Ishmael, in Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, explains his need to go to sea:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.

In the late spring of 2005, I quietly took to the road in search of an attitude adjustment. The dull routines of fifty-five-hour work weeks, diapers, snowblowers, and bills challenged me to find an experience that would snap me out of a serious slump. I needed something transformational.

A trip is often more than transit from one location to another. A trip may be a pilgrimage. A pilgrimage is a journey embedded with meaning, and this meaning often emerges from the telling and retelling of the stories that make up the journey. At the age of forty-four, I put my life on hold and challenged myself to ride a bicycle 2,900 miles across the country in twenty-eight days. This book is a collection of the stories that reveal the answers to the questions people have asked.

These questions came early from supporters and detractors. These questions came in different forms. Sometimes the questions were spoken, sometimes they were unspoken. Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? Do you know how stupid you’re gonna look when you fail?

My wife, Suzy, was both supportive and confident in my dreams of adventure, but she had doubts. I know I had plenty of doubts and questions. Would my legs and heart arrythmia survive the daily marathon-like mileage required to finish the trip in twenty-eight days? Would I be safe riding alone in remote areas of the country? Would my detailed planning support a solo 2,900 miles race across America?

After the trip, people asked other questions. Why would you attempt this? How long did it take you to finish? What did you learn? For the answers, read on.

INTRODUCTION

Two uniformed Transportation Security Administration officials cornered me behind the luggage belt of the security screening area of the Sioux Falls, South Dakota, airport. I had attempted to pass security for a flight to Phoenix, Arizona, and the officers pulled me over for questioning. The two stood between me and my plane, adding to the stress of arriving late to the airport.

My adrenaline spiked, and my senses swelled as I waited for them to tell me what I’d done wrong. I looked past the officers toward the main terminal and my destination. The sensory wonderland of the airport sharpened my fear of missing my plane.

A nearby coffee shop greeted passengers to the main terminal. Coffee beans rattled in a grinder, and aromas of fresh-baked bread and roasted coffee filled the air. My stomach rumbled from hunger. I was late for my plane, and I had skipped lunch. I had hoped to grab a coffee and croissant, but a line snaked from the coffee shop counter into the main terminal walkway. An electric passenger shuttle parted the bread line and buzzed down the corridor to deliver its latest payload. Airplane pretzels and stale coffee would have to suffice.

Noise from the loudspeaker bounced off the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked jets thundering off the concrete landscape. A genderless voice trumpeted a series of gate changes, late arrivals, and last calls for flights. I listened anxiously for the last call for my Phoenix flight.

Passengers gathered their bags from the security area screening belt and scrambled past me into the main terminal area. The officers had dumped my bags on a long metal table under the South Dakota and United States flags. They rifled through the contents wearing latex gloves and serious expressions.

The male officer wearing a badge, a white shirt, and a red tie, clanked two pieces of my bicycle handlebar extensions together, struggling to combine the two. He shrugged his shoulders and replaced the parts on the table. He lifted a green fuel bottle, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed the contents.

He winced. This is a fuel bottle. He screwed the cap back on and returned the bottle to the table.

Yes, sir. But it’s empty, the other official offered. The female official, wearing a blue shirt and black tie, smiled and retrieved the bottle. She shook the empty bottle next to her ear and shrugged at the other officer as if asking a question. Not receiving any feedback, she replaced the bottle and returned to her position at the scanner.

The male officer looked back at me and seemed to be inspecting my appearance. I didn’t look like an average Sioux Falls passenger. Wisps of hair on the top of my head grew thick and shaggy over my ears and neck. I hadn’t used a razor in weeks, and I had the appearance of a forty-four-year-old who was trying to grow a beard for the first time. My wardrobe consisted of bulky black cycling shoes, baggy knee-length khaki cycling shorts, and a tight yellow T-shirt stained with bicycle grease.

The alarm on my oversize black sports watch rang a late warning. According to my travel documents, boarding should have started twenty-five minutes earlier, and my plane should be wheels up in ten more. The timeline of my trip, riding a bicycle over 100 miles per day for twenty-eight consecutive days, didn’t provide any cushion for a missed flight. The clock ticked.

I had packed for the trip in a hurry. I carelessly placed two empty fuel bottles, a camping stove, and a small bag of bicycle tools into two carry-on crimson panniers. The panniers resembled saddlebags that would be attached to the rear wheel assembly of the bicycle. The security scanner quickly identified a problem with the panniers, and she called the second official for assistance.

Sir, are these your bags? The officer took charge of the questioning.

Yes, I said.

Could you please give me your name and address? He pulled a small spiral-bound notebook from his shirt pocket and began to scribble with a stub of a pencil.

David Heflin, I said and shook my head. I felt my frustration build, and I thought for a moment that I was being unfairly treated. I put those thoughts aside and provided my address.

After he finished scribbling my address, he said, Sir, I’m going to need some additional information from you.

Well, good afternoon to you, too, I said and laughed. I thought I could help by keeping things light.

The officer raised an eyebrow and looked up from his notepad.

Have I violated some law? I asked.

The official ignored my question. I’ll need to see some identification. Where are you traveling to, sir?

I provided my driver’s license and told him of my plans to ride a bicycle from the West Coast to the East Coast. I detailed how I had packed my bicycle, tent, and other gear, and checked those items in two large boxes with the airline agent. I stuffed everything else I needed for the trip into my carry-on panniers on the table. My answer produced a blank stare.

I explained the importance of my carry-on items. I could tell by the way the man had handled the equipment earlier that he didn’t have any idea what it was he was inspecting. He probably had never seen a spoke wrench or a chain-removal tool.

I was enough of a student of post-9/11 airport security to understand how many alarms I had raised. I considered my appearance and the contents of my bags, and I understood why the officials would be concerned. I had recently purchased a one-way ticket to Seattle, and I knew from experience that one-way tickets and tickets purchased near the date of a flight usually drew increased scrutiny. I understood why they would be concerned, but I didn’t think I had done anything wrong. I was frustrated by the stares and the delay. I was close to missing my plane.

What am I going to do, blow up the plane with an empty stove? Do you have some kerosene I can borrow? I asked and smiled.

The man raised his eyebrow at me again and motioned to a uniformed officer standing at the exit of the security area.

The approach of the Sioux Falls policeman made me rethink my position. Ok Hot Rod, you keep running your mouth and you’re gonna begin Day 2 of your trip in the Sioux Falls jail. The officials turned to each other and spoke in hushed tones. I saw the policeman roll his eyes and gesture over his shoulder in my direction. I could feel my frustration grow.

The official cleared his throat. Mister, we have a problem here. Here’s what we are going to do.

The term mister concerned me as I realized I was in trouble. I knew if I was to catch my flight, I had better learn to say yes, sir and no, sir.

The official told me they were going to confiscate my cooking gear and my bicycle tool kit. I was in no position to argue. The presence of the Sioux Falls policeman reminded me how important it was to be respectful.

Yes, sir. I understand, I said.

The official handed me a citation that stated I had violated some new regulation and would receive grace for my first offense. The notice also indicated the government was watching me for future transgressions. I was on my first official watch list.

I was surprised that the conflict ended so quickly. I didn’t have time to process the impact of losing equipment that was critical to my trip. The man read from the citation in a monotone voice. He told me someone could claim the confiscated equipment. I had repacked the bags by the time the officer had completed his required reading. I cleared the baggage screening area as I heard the final boarding call for my flight to Phoenix.

The airline employees waved me into the airplane, where I collapsed into my seat and reached for my journal. I needed to process what had just happened. I had always possessed a great respect for law enforcement, so I questioned why that respect had been absent in this situation. The thoughtless packing of red flag items in carry-on luggage was one obvious answer, but the officials demonstrated no respect.

My bohemian appearance and attitude likely impacted the interaction. I had traded my position as Chief Operating Officer at the University of Sioux Falls for the position of the chief operator of a bicycle adventure. I was the travel planner, executive chef, vagabond, and endurance athlete rolled up into one. The position was humble, and I looked the part. The respect was gone. As the plane climbed into the gray skies covering the northern plains, I wondered how I arrived at that place in my life.

Seven months earlier, I had attempted my first marathon. At the age of forty-three, I was running my first marathon with six weeks of training. The 2004 Race for Education was a marathon in Mason City, Iowa, which drew fifty runners in support of the local Catholic school system. Mason City, Iowa, represented the heart of America. Faith, family, and fun were all present on the morning of the marathon. Everything I knew about Norman Rockwell and Main Street America was alive on the streets of Mason City that morning.

The gloved-and-hooded marathon runners sprinted past me, leaving me to gaze upon the century-old Midwestern neighborhoods and the colors of a crisp fall morning. The main body of runners disappeared around a distant corner, and I assessed my situation. Three runners brought up the rear, and I was the slowest of them. I was determined to begin the race at a comfortable pace. I didn’t care how I looked at the beginning of the competition. What mattered was how I looked at the end. With only six weeks of training, I wasn’t sure I could finish the 26.2 miles.

Three books that I’d read on the subject of marathons had informed me that I needed six months to train for a marathon. I talked to running enthusiasts and veteran marathoners, and they agreed that I could run a marathon with less than six months of training. They also agreed that running with only six weeks of training wasn’t smart.

Completing a marathon was on my bucket list, a list I had created when I graduated from college over twenty years earlier. A wife and three children, my career, and a heart arrythmia all contributed to postponing this item on my bucket list. I had learned over the years that an excuse, good or bad, often puts off something worthwhile. I decided the time had arrived to run the race.

The first 17 miles of the marathon weren’t difficult. The physical and emotional high created a considerable amount of adrenaline and energy. The people cheering along the