April 19

I get back on the road tomorrow — by car, with my friend George at the wheel.

In one of my moments of imprecise planning, I didn't realize that for a loaded-bicycle tourist there is basically only one, sane way in and out of the Prescott Valley area where George lives. To get here, I had gotten off Bicycle Route 66 — which I'm following to St. Louis — at Ash Fork and ridden south 55 miles on Highways 89 and 89A. During my planning I got excited that, after visiting George, I could return to Route 66 by taking a road to beautiful Sedona and then up to Flagstaff. When I mentioned my plan to George, however, he looked concerned. "I don't know anything about what you're doing, but you're going to have to go over Mingus Mountain. And that road to Flagstaff . . . I don't know."

The next day I got on the phone and called a bike shop in Sedona. When I asked the guy who answered what he thought of my plan, he didn't hesitate a second: "Absolutely not!" He confirmed George's concerns. While I might be able to get over Mingus Mountain (elevation 7,818 feet, nearly 3,000 feet above Prescott Valley), I would encounter a treacherous roadway for cyclists — narrow, winding, no shoulder and often heavy traffic — between Sedona and Flagstaff. The only way back to Bicycle Route 66 would be to backtrack to Ash Fork.

Rats!

Given the repeated delays from high winds I've sat through already, I didn't want to spend a day retracing my route. And with more high winds forecast for Tuesday though Friday this week, I certainly didn't want to wait them out sitting in the dilapidated Ash Fork Inn. So, I found an Airbnb in Winslow that I could reserve for Wednesday through Friday. (The winds are supposed to be much-reduced on Saturday, with a clear week ahead.)

George graciously agreed to put my bike in his car and drive me to Winslow — provided, of course, he could fit my bike into his Nissan Altima. I figured that would be no problem. I've been through similar drills before. Just fold down the back seat, use the quick-release to remove the bike's front wheel, and slide that baby right in. Well . . . we went out to the garage on Sunday and, as it turned out, only half of the back seat in George's Nissan folded down. That's the way the car is designed. To squeeze my bike in, we had to remove both wheels and my bike seat, and then delicately guide the bike's rear derailleur through the opening from the flipped-down seat. We had less than an inch to spare. But it fit. And there was enough remaining room for my bike bags. Whew!

I wish I could be a purist and cycle every mile of this trip, but it's just not possible. And that's OK. What disappointment I feel from not being able to cycle to Sedona and Flagstaff is more than offset by the blessings I've received from my visit with George.

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After sixth grade at St. Anne's, George switched to public school and my family moved to a different house a few blocks away.  We soon lost touch. The six days I've spent with George allowed us to reconnect and to revive our friendship. We've chosen different paths and have been through different struggles in our lives, but none of those things have gotten in the way of our many warm talks that made each day pass quickly here. Neither of us is Catholic anymore — George is a born-again Christian who reads his bible daily, and I converted to Judaism in 2008. He finds comfort in living as a self-avowed hermit, with no internet or television and little social interaction beyond short visits with his neighbors, attendance at church and shopping at Wal-Mart. He checks out stacks of fiction from the public library and reads lots of magazines. He likens himself to a grumpy old man in our old neighborhood who yelled at us to get off his lawn, and shies away from having his picture taken because he thinks he looks like Uncle Fester from the "Addams Family" TV show — which is very much not true.  At the same time, parked next to the shiny black Nissan in his spotless two-car garage is a gleaming, neon-orange, chrome-wheeled Dodge Challenger. We took a Sunday morning ride in the Challenger, which drew admiration as it rumbled through Prescott as George drove carefully, never over the speed limit.

George marvels at what I'm doing, which involves risks and unknowns he says he could never take on. He's told me I was that way as a kid, too.

I told George I didn't want to push him to change the life he loves, but that I thought he shouldn't hide the light he's shown to me under a bushel. When I told him I was in a bind, needing to wait for Susan to send me meds and for the high winds to pass, he took me in — something he hasn't done for anybody in many years. He's a great cook and fed me so many big, wonderfully tasty and nutritious meals that at times I had trouble cleaning my plate — which I almost always do.

For what it's worth, the days spent with him also allowed me to heal from a saddle sore I was developing. And the box of meds and a few other critical supplies that Susan sent via FedEx arrived today.

When I get back on the bike, I feel I'll be fortified physically, emotionally and spiritually. What a blessing our visit has been.

Contact me: Thoughts or comments? Email me at richardridesusa@gmail.com.

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