Tattered Saddle

By Doug Leppanen

During July of 2012, at the age of fifty-six, the author rode his bike sixteen hundred miles from eastern Wisconsin to West Virginia and back. Unlike many bike touring books describing majestic and life-changing ventures, this reflective, doen-to earth and relatable travel memoir is often spiked with cynicism, shrouded in melencholy, and occasionally veers into absurdity. On the other hand, it is also story of gratitude and perseverence. In other wors, it is much like everyday life.

 

Although closely based on actual events, there are various embellishments and obvious fabrications, all for entertainment purposes. Historical and popular culture references are included for good measure.

 

As a tour cycling book, meaningful attention is also given to the physical and mental apects of biking, including battles with extreme heat, demanding hills and unrelenting wind. In addition, the bike, its accessories, and the camping gear used on the trip are examined.. 

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Leppanen
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215181799

Doug Leppanen

Doug Leppanen is a retired attorney living in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, with his wife. He has two adult children. Originally from Michigan's Upper Peninsula, he received his undergraduate degree from Michigan State University in East Lansing, and his law degree from Marquette University in Milwaukee.

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TATTERED SADDLE

WINTER

THE DECISION

WITH A CLEANLY shaved face and fresh white ass, I hopped on my loaded bike, rolled out of the garage onto the asphalt driveway, pedaled through the adjacent concrete gas station lot, and eased onto the street to begin a month long, 1,600-mile bicycle trip from my home in Sheboygan Wisconsin, to Charleston, West Virginia, and back.

The venture started on a warm and breezy early evening on July 1st, but from an emotional perspective, it had really started months earlier on a wintery Saturday afternoon, when I spotted a green steel bike with a mismatched brown saddle dangling from the rafters of an outdoor sporting goods store in suburban Milwaukee. The touring bike was designed for long distance travel. It mocked me: What the hell are you waiting for? My first reaction: How about my work, family, and sense of responsibility? But then with a figurative bop to the side of my forehead with the meat of my palm, I thought, Fool. I was a healthy fifty-six-year-old man. My two-person law firm wasn’t exactly rolling in dough, and if it went totally to hell because I was gone for too long, no big deal. As a lawyer, I could probably resurrect something. Besides, I had a long stable marriage, a wife with a good job, no financial duress, and two adult children. For $500.00, I bought the bike and started scheming.

The day I first saw the bike, I had slipped out of a gathering with my wife’s family. I generally liked them all, but often felt like an outsider when they got together as a larger group.  Her siblings and their spouses, as well as their offspring, were all well-educated products of long-term marriages and had mostly grown up or lived in the security of predominantly white middle and upper-class areas of Wisconsin. For those married, it was the first and would probably be the only marriage. I assumed that most of what they knew and how they acted came from that perspective.

I was a well-educated professional in a long-term marriage with two grown children, but as far as I was concerned, the similarities ended there. Justified or not, I was a hardened cynic with lingering resentments. I grew up in the small decaying city of Ironwood, Michigan, on the western border of the Upper Peninsula, as the seventh of my mother’s eight children from two failed marriages. After the second divorce, the youngest six lived with her in an assortment of rented houses. She was fueled by Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, shots of brandy, and plain end Raleigh cigarettes. Welfare helped to support the family. She did the best she could, and with stubborn pride, somehow kept it together. We all graduated from high school, married, and had legitimate jobs.

Unsurprisingly, I had my own struggles with alcohol. During my undergraduate college years, I drank excessively and foolishly. Then during my first year of law school, without formal rehab or even AA meetings, I quit cold turkey. While I seldom made a big deal of it, I was proud of more than thirty years of sobriety; a real accomplishment.

I used to think that if I stayed sober and put my mind to it, I could handle anything. Nope. Sobriety doesn’t cure, it simply forces you to confront your problems and shortcomings with a clearer head. One of them was my struggle to endure these family gatherings, or for that matter, society in general. I was always looking for an escape.

While the decision to buy the bike was made abruptly, the idea of skipping out in some fashion was always in the back of my mind. A few months before I turned thirty, I quit my legal aid job and wandered about for a year. More recently, even before I bought the bike, a friend and I had discussed the nuclear option, meaning we would blow up our careers and figure out something else to do. Then, while considering where to go after buying the bike, I received an e-mail invitation to visit some old friends and former colleagues in West Virginia. The time was right, and even if it wasn’t the nuclear option, I decided to take a month off and bike there.

SUNDAY, JULY 1st

STARTING NORTH

HOW LONG WOULD IT TAKE?

TO BEGIN MY TREK, I headed north out of Sheboygan for the 24-mile ride to Manitowoc. Traveling north was ironic because my primary route would be southeasterly. The plan was to take the SS Badger Ferry from Manitowoc across Lake Michigan to Ludington, Michigan. From there I would cross the lower peninsula of Michigan, the entire state of Ohio, and finally to Charleston, in the middle of West Virginia.

Once on the road, I immediately looked at the bike computer attached to the front handlebar. Essentially a glorified speedometer, this small, matchbox sized device, with a digital screen, always commanded great attention. Besides continuously displaying the current speed, other data was shown in smaller digits, accessed by pressing tabs on the bottom of the device and scrolling through each item. There were numbers for daily distance, cumulative distance, average speed, maximum speed, and the time of day. I was a slave to my bike computer, much like a teenager with a smartphone. I often wondered if I would be better off without it.

The computer had a thin wire leading from the main unit, down one of the front forks of the bike, to a small sensor. The sensor on the fork recorded how often a single spoke, with another device attached, passed by. This data was sent to the main unit on the handlebar where it was converted into current speed and the other statistics. My bike shop mechanic set it up, using calculations based on the size of the wheel. I never tried to figure it out on my own because lacking technical expertise and patience, I would have inevitably become frustrated and enraged, resulting in broken spokes and a smashed computer.

My basic computer was in the $30.00 range. More advanced wireless models could cost more than $300.00 and provide many more functions such as altimeter, power meter, heart rate monitor, GPS, barometer, and thermometer, to name a few. I didn’t need that much information. Who did? I kept it simple and saved the money.

BY MY CALCULATIONS, an average daily distance of around seventy miles, was enough to

complete the roughly 1,600-mile journey in the thirty days I had allotted. Under ideal

conditions, big miles could be covered with relative ease. Based on my experience, without

brutal winds, extreme heat, or imposing hills, the concept of riding 7 to 8 hours at 10-12 miles

per hour (mph), or between 70 to 100 miles in a day, was not imposing. For instance, starting

at 8:00 a.m., eight hours of biking would take until 4:00 p.m. At the paltry pace of

10 mph., I could cover 80 miles. Even adding an additional four hours for food, drink, and rest

breaks, I would be done by 8:00 p.m. In the summer, there would be plenty of time to pitch a

tent or book a room before dark. The real challenge was doing it over consecutive days, both in

terms of energy and whether my rear end could handle that much time in the saddle. 

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ON THE ROAD TO MANITOWOC, with a southerly breeze pushing me, it was time to relax

and operate on my own time. The arranging and planning for a month's absence had been the

real work. My law practice was situated above a Christian bookstore on the main street in

downtown Sheboygan and was comprised of just me and my assistant. Although my practice

sometimes resembled a glorified legal aid office, I had a fair number of paying clients and their

matters had to be managed, along with the business aspects of the office, which mostly consisted

of paying bills. Fortunately, my assistant was willing to work part time at a reduced rate.

––––––––

A month off without working meant I would not make any money. There were no paid vacations for the self-employed. Court appearances were postponed, and my calendar cleared. My clients were notified, which led to concern that some might abandon me. This was the stuff that made the self-employed reluctant to take time off. Since starting my solo practice six years earlier, there had been years without even one solid week of vacation.

But once was on the road, it was time to not give a shit and ease into a Lamer state of mind. This moniker was established one summer day in my teens when a couple of friends and I were sitting around on the porch, doing nothing. My brother, who was recently discharged from the army, walked by and sarcastically called us Lamers, military slang for lazy, slothful soldiers. In other words, lame. We cynically adopted the label, and even as adults still referred to each other as Lamers. In fact, my 6:00 pm start was akin to Lamer behavior because I didn't get out of bed early enough to catch the morning ferry.

IN A FEW MINUTES, I was out of the Sheboygan city limits and onto LS, short for Lakeshore Highway. Sheboygan, a city of about 50,000, was best known for bratwurst and toilet manufacturing, and had been my home for about 25 years. On the western shore of Lake Michigan, it was halfway between Milwaukee to the south and Green Bay to the north, both an hour car ride away.

LS was a mostly flat, well-maintained two-lane highway that ran parallel to Lake Michigan. The only two stop signs, both of which merited only a cursory glance for traffic, were in the village of Cleveland, halfway to Manitowoc. With the tailwind, I cruised at an average of 14 mph, an average that would not be matched on any other day of the trip, and two miles faster than I had planned. The highway also ran next to Whistling Straits golf course, where major

tournaments had been held. Earthen berms were built to keep the commoners from seeing the course, so unless one could afford to play, or had a ticket to one of the events, the best way to appreciate its grandeur was to watch a tournament on TV, or by checking out pictures on the internet. The scene was impressive, comparable to the English or Scottish courses, which was the idea.

Shortly past the golf course, LS ran along the top of a bluff, within spitting distance of the lake about twenty yards below. Eventually this quarter mile stretch would be moved away from the lake due to erosion concerns. Passing by, I was treated to a dramatic view of the various blue hues of water and sky meeting on the horizon. It was uplifting and I failed to understand how feeling depressed, or in the dumps, could be called the blues.

The meeting of the water and sky at the horizon created what I believed to be the only straight line in nature. (Although there might be other candidates, such as a shaft of sunlight emerging through a gap in the clouds on an overcast day, or the edge of a boulder cleanly broken by an earthquake.) Of course, the horizon is not straight due to the curvature of the earth, but why quibble? I had ridden this stretch many times and never took it for granted. The view along the bluff ended quickly but riding among the various earth tones of forest and farmland was a good substitute.

I ARRIVED at the ferry dock well before dark and bought my ticket. Eighty dollars for a four-hour boat ride seemed excessive, but the alternative would have been to ride south through Milwaukee, Chicago and Gary, Indiana, at the southern end of Lake Michigan. I preferred the experience offered by my anticipated route through rural Michigan, especially since this was my first actual bike tour. On the other hand, a Midwestern rust belt tour seemed like an interesting concept. Added to Milwaukee, Chicago, and Gary, could be cities like Flint, Detroit, Toledo and Cleveland; places regularly listed as among the most dangerous, violent, and overall worst cities in the country.

Manitowoc, (pop. around 30,000) was once a significant manufacturing and ship building city. It was also featured in the crime documentary Making a Murderer. The show was about alleged law enforcement wrongdoing leading to the murder conviction of a local resident. Even more than a decade later, questions remained, and litigation continued.

The city had done little to make the ferry area attractive. Blue block print on a low white rectangular building said, TICKET OFFICE, and nothing more. The office itself was a bland, brightly lit, functional place, where I bought my ticket, went to the bathroom, and fingered through the rack of tourist attraction flyers. Offerings included the Manitowoc Maritime Museum, with a tour of the USS Cobia Submarine; the Bay Beach Amusement Park in Green Bay; Noah’s Ark water park 140 miles due west in Wisconsin Dells; various antique shops and boutiques in Door County, a haven for affluent types, about seventy-five miles north; and charters for Lake Michigan salmon fishing. Outside, the office was similarly sparse and barren, with dim lighting and plastic chairs lined up against the wall. There were no vending machines. Across the street was a gigantic coal pile.

With an 11:00 pm. departure, I had plenty of idle time. I slid baggy black shorts over my padded bike shorts, replaced my biking shirt and helmet for a dry t-shirt and baseball hat, and exchanged my biking shoes for sandals. That was pretty much the extent of my casual wear for the month. For actual biking, I had packed one more pair of bike shorts, a few brightly colored tops and two more pairs of socks. In case it got cold, I had stuffed a pair of long running pants and a lightweight jacket into the bottom of a saddlebag.

After asking a couple of strangers who were waiting for the ferry to keep an eye on my bike, I sauntered half a mile to a mini mart for a pack of cheap cigars. Upon my return, I lit up and called my son and wife, one of the few times I would call home.

A person who may have been homeless, or simply waiting for the ferry, was sleeping on a picnic table under a tree near the water. Had he left, I might have taken his place. Reading was a possibility, but I didn’t have anything. I had considered jamming Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance into my handlebar pack, but it seemed like too much of a cliché. If the mood struck, I would pick up something on the road. A lighter read, perhaps. But even with nothing to do but wait, I was content.

I thought about my bike leaning against the ticket office wall. At $500.00 it was a good deal, even if used. A brand-new touring bike started at around $1,000.00. The brown leather saddle was a highly regarded Brooks, worth about $100.00. The two new touring tires that came with the bike added up to approximately another $100.00. The bike was made of sturdy steel, with heavy duty wheels, tough tires, a fender on the front and a rack on the back. Two borrowed saddle bags, known as panniers, hung on each side of the rack. My tent, rolled up like a log in a plastic tarp, was strapped on top, between the panniers.

While packing at home, a nylon strap attached to a pannier, meant to secure it to the rack, broke off. In its place I used a small bungee cord found lying around the garage. I expected these types of annoyances throughout the trip and wondered if I had enough skill to fix them.

Books and articles claimed that bike mechanics were relatively simple. Not for me. I could change a flat, put air in a tire, reset the slipped chain, and adjust a bike saddle. but that was about it. Was I a foolish boy heading out on a long bike trip with only rudimentary knowledge of bike repair and maintenance?

I had packed a few basics such as a multipurpose bike tool, needle nosed pliers, inner tubes, flat patch kit, chain lubricant and duct tape. But how would I adjust or fix a deraiulier...daraylier.... durailor....derailleur? I had trouble spelling, or even pronouncing it, let alone fixing it. As an aside, it seemed to be only bike part with a foreign name. Why not just call it a gear changer or something like that? Everything else had simple names: brake, tire, wheel, spoke, tube, saddle, pedal, frame, handlebar, and so forth.

If something serious happened to the bike, I would be sunk unless a friendly stranger with a big vehicle passed by, or if I was close to a town with a bike shop. I resolved that if worst came to worst, I would throw the bike into a ditch, keep the important stuff like my wallet and phone, and hitch a ride to a bus or train station.

EVENTUALLY, CARS AND VEHICLES started lining up, creating a buzz. A 4,200-ton, 410 foot long, steel tub appeared, lumbered to the dock, and the loading began. The S.S. Badger, first launched in 1952, was the last coal fired passenger ship still in operation in the country. Its capacity was over six hundred passengers and 180 vehicles. It spewed and belched black sooty exhaust into the air. In the past it had dumped coal ash directly into the water before government authorities mandated modifications.

After guiding my bike into the bowels, I was directed to a barren wall away from the vehicles to leave my bike. The wall had no rack, hooks, or protection for my bike and gear. My bike didn’t have a kickstand, so I leaned it against the wall, and conceded that it didn’t have a chance of staying upright with the jostling, rocking, and shaking that would occur during the sixty-mile crossing.

AS THE FERRY chugged along in the dark, I went to the outside deck, leaned against the railing, stared at the black water, and contemplated. If I jumped, how long would it take before anyone realized I was gone for good.

While I had no real intention of jumping, the experts say that when someone expresses suicidal thoughts, they are to be taken seriously. I didn’t know if my thoughts qualified as suicidal, but if they were, I kept them to myself. Even if I had said something, or succumbed to an impulse to jump, there was nobody around to hear or see me. I was all alone. Everybody was inside, out of the cold wind that swept across the water. The coast was clear. Nobody knew me on the ferry. My bike and gear and were in the bowels. There was no identification on the bike, and I doubted that the ferry kept a log of the passengers. After the vehicles disembarked at Ludington, somebody on the crew would notice the solitary bike and wonder if it was abandoned. With no expectation that I would call home on any consistent basis, it would be a while before my wife became curious. But if she tried to call, what good would it do? My cell phone would be in the water with me. I speculated it would be at least four days before she was concerned. Beyond my wife, I couldn’t think of anybody who might care to check on my whereabouts so early in the trip.

Even with no plan to jump, the thought did cross my mind. There were plenty of times when I thought the world would be better off without me. Going back to my adolescence, I had experienced a cycle of foggy depression, anger, and despair, followed by stretches of relative normalcy, and then back to another stretch of stifling depression. It often acted like the tide, certain to rise, before slowly receding. Sometimes it came more slowly, like a slimy worm tunneling deep into my brain. At other times, while the tide was rising, or the worm was burrowing, a sledgehammer would