Would you begin a two-month bike trip in the rain, with sore knees, and with volcanic ash likely to be dumped on you at any moment? That was my situation as I sat in Eugene, Oregon, last June pondering my proposed Oregon-to-New Mexico bicycle tour.

The rain, at least, was expected. Eugene has a wet season which some describe as running from July to June. The foul weather gave me an opportunity to check whether my tent was properly sealed against moisture. It wasn't.

The sore knees were my own fault. I had arrived in Portland on Amtrak at 5:30 p.m. and had attempted a mad dash through the hilly suburbs hoping to find a campsite before darkness fell. I found the campsite but I had injured my knees, and they were to plague me in various degrees for the rest of the trip. Moral: when you first mount that bike loaded with touring equipment, take it easy.

The volcanic ash from Mt. St. Helens was a very real threat which never materialized, at least not in my case. The June 12 ash eruption blanketed Portland and the Oregon coast, but by that time I had limped into Eugene and was camped in the yard of friends. No discernible ash fell in Eugene, and by the time I reached the sites of previous ash falls further east, all was clear. Other cyclists were not so lucky. I talked to one group of 11 riders who had been on the coast as the ash fell. They reported near white-out visibility conditions as cars and trucks kicked up the ash on the roads. They eventually gave up, rented a truck and trailer, loaded up bikes, bags, and bodies, and headed for Salem (a few miles inland) where they resumed biking.

The weather, my aching knees, and the threat of ash fall gave me three excuses for hanging around Eugene, a college town of about 120,000. Eugene has a quite extensive network of bike lanes and bike paths, and I was impressed by the number of bikes on the streets, even in the rain. Most of the bikeways are lanes in streets intended for commuters, but I found it possible to ride almost all the way across town on a separated bike path along the river.

At a party in Eugene I met a physician with experience in treating sports-related injuries. Her advice, imparted to me between her second and third glass of wine, was to take plenty of aspirin to ease both pain and inflammation in my knees. But take it with food, she warned, so as not to insult the stomach, No problem, I replied, since the touring cyclist must eat several thousand additional calories per day just to stay in the saddle.

Armed with a large bottle of aspirin, I finally left Eugene on a sunny June 18 bound for the Cascade Mountains and beyond. This part of my route followed the BikeCentennial trans-continental trail, which is actually just a series of designated federal, state, and local highways. The trail was inaugurated in 1976 by 4500 coast-to-coast cyclists, and runs from the Oregon coast, through Missoula, Montana, Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, the Colorado Rockies, central Kansas, the Ozarks, Kentucky, and Virginia. I had ridden major portions of this trail twice before: in 1976 I rode from San Francisco to Eugene, then from Eugene along the trail to Kansas, eventually to Lawrence; and in 1978, Marci Francisco and I rode from Eugene to Missoula along the trail and then on to Glacier National Park.

I rode the BikeCentennial trail for a third time in l980 because I am addicted to mountain cycling. The climbs are sometimes long and hot, but almost never very steep (seldom over 5% grade), and you can coast downhill for 15 miles without turning a pedal. The mountainous regions of the western U.S. are almost entirely within National Forest lands, which means that campgrounds are numerous, and primitive camping is permitted anywhere. The trail was laid out so that stores and cafes are seldom more than 35 miles apart.

I had another reason for riding on the BikeCentennial trail: other cyclists. This year I was traveling most of the way alone, and I welcomed the opportunity to meet and ride with people from all over the country who were making their way from Oregon to Virginia. (I met several traveling in the opposite direction, as well.) I have no idea how many rode the trail this year, but I personally saw several hundred. At one campground in Oregon we had about 25 bikers spread all over the place in a small tent city, prompting one rider to say, "Looks like Woodstock." "No, bikestock," some wag replied.

Some bikers were traveling in tours sponsored by the ongoing BikeCentennial organization. They put on not only coast-to-coast tours, but also shorter tours, either on this trail or others, such as to Glacier National Park or along the Mississippi River. But the vast majority of touring cyclists have no connection with BikeCentennial other than to be on the route and to use the maps and guidebooks they publish. (I didn't even have those - my style is to use highway maps distributed by the various states, obtain National Forest maps where available, and, most importantly, inquire locally about roads, camping, etc.)

The one-dimensional nature of the BikeCentennial trail creates a unique society with an efficient information flow. If you want news about a rider who is a day or two ahead of you, just ask someone heading in the opposite direction. You can send information to riders behind you in the same manner or by leaving messages in the numerous sign-up books along the way. The best source of information about road conditions ahead is a cyclist traveling in the opposite direction who has just been there. However, don't expect motorists to give you reliable information about hills or distance - they never seem to get it right.

Since I was traveling alone, I could join up with a group for several days and then split up to ride alone, then merge with the same or different group. This ever-shifting group make-up prompted us to invent names for the various groups that rode together. I belonged to the Neo-Nimrods, the Cutters, and Sundance. The original Nimrod group took its name from a small town in Oregon and split up in Yellowstone. The Cutters consisted of the remaining Nimrods, the Buckhorn Boys, the Western Wheels, the Saratoga Kid, and me. After Marci Francisco joined me in Colorado, we rode as Sundance because we both had T-shirts which read "Sundance Yogurt Athletics." At other times I rode with the Kentucky Cruisers and the Buffalo Boys.

I met the Kentucky Cruisers and the Buffalo Boys (groups of two each) two days out of Eugene and rode with them for over a week to a place just south of Missoula. At that point I decided to get off of the BikeCentennial trail and travel alone for a while. At Lost Trail Pass (over the Bitterroot Mountains between Montana and Idaho) I headed south for a second swing through Idaho instead of east along the trail toward Yellowstone. I wanted to see a part of Idaho I had never seen before and I wanted to avoid the traffic in Yellowstone (horrendous) and rejoin the trail in Grand Teton National Park.

For the next week I followed the Salmon River (the famed River of No Return) to its source in the Sawtooth Mountains, over Galena Pass and into Sun Valley, then out into the desert and lava fields in south Central Idaho (Craters of the Moon National Monument). Some of this country is so desolate that you can see nothing for miles but sagebrush and jackrabbits.

July 4 found me in a nowhere place called Terreton, Idaho, looking for a place to camp after riding through 100 miles of desert. I was aiming for a place on my map called Mud Lake, but when I got there it turned out to be nothing but a mosquito swamp. I stopped to look around and dozens of mosquitos began to bite. At that instant I discovered that I had a flat rear tire, and the only way to ward off the insects was to keep moving. I had an effective mosquito repellent (G.I. issue, commonly called jungle juice, active ingredient N,N-diethylmetatoluamide 71.25%, same as in Cutters' brand, but in higher concentration and at a fraction of the cost), but I had no way to apply it while wearing cycling gloves. During the time it would have taken me to remove the gloves and spread the juice over me, I would have been severely bitten. My solution was to ditch the bike, stuff the jungle juice into my pocket and take off running down the road. I took off the gloves and discarded them and then put on the repellent, running all the way. After this maneuver I was finally invisible to the mosquitos, so I fixed the flat and got on my way. (Yes, I found my gloves.) I eventually camped in right field of a vacant baseball park in Terreton.

This brings up the subject of bike breakdowns and repairs. In 2800 miles at riding, I had six flat tires (all in the rear), six broken spokes (also all in the rear, but only one on the freewheel side) and one pedal that had to be replaced. In addition, I replaced the right crank and chainrings at Braxton's Bike Shop in Missoula as the only practical way to give me lower gears and relief for my sore knees (I had pushed my Shimano 600EX gear system to the lower limit, so a Sugino Mighty Tour 46-36 crankset was the answer, and my gears became 14% lower). I started with a new touring tire on the rear and a half-worn standard tire on the front. I replaced the front one with a touring tire after 1000 miles, and I changed the rear at 1400 miles and again at 2400 miles. I definitely recommend carrying at least one spare tire and two spare tubes. It is a lot easier to slip in a good tube when you go flat on the road, then patch the flat one at your leisure. I also carry spare brake and derailleur cables, some plain steel wire, electrical tape, and nylon cord for emergency repairs, plus the usual assortment of wrenches, lubricants, etc.

A little ingenuity can go a long way in making repairs. One of the Kentucky Cruisers broke a spring in his Suntour VGT rear derailleur, so his partner rigged up two bungee cords in such a way as to provide tension in both required directions. This worked fine for 350 miles through mountainous Idaho until, at last, we found the replacement part at Braxton's. We dubbed this bungee marvel "the Sunslop Bungee VGT."

Before I could rejoin the BikeCentennial trail in Grand Teton National Park, I had to cross Teton pass near Jackson, Wyoming. As a seasoned mountain cyclist, I am not afraid of mountain passes. The climb and descent of a pass is the essence of mountain bicycling. But I was not prepared far the sign on the uphill side which read "10% grade, next 3 1/2 miles." The steepest grade that I had climbed so far on this trip had been 7%, which is very steep when you are carrying 40-50 lb. of equipment on your bike. I managed to make it to the top without walking or further injuring my knees, but it was tough. At the crest I thought I had it made until I saw a sign "10% grade, next 5 miles, trucks use low gears." That's fine for the truckers, but what about the poor cyclist? I generally descend with a minimum of braking, but the 10% was so steep that I could not control the bike on the sharp turns without continuous hard braking. A bike with 40-50 lb. of gear simply has too much momentum. I stopped every half mile or so to let my rims cool; they become too hot to touch from the braking, and I have heard of tires blowing out because of hot rims in just this situation. After such a hard climb, I felt I deserved a good downhill coast, and I was cheated out of it. One of these days I will return to Teton pass and descend it without packs.

The BikeCentennial route through Colorado runs from Walden in North Park, through Kremmling, Dillon, Breckenridge, Hoosier Pass, Fairplay, Canon City, Pueblo, and then east through the plains. This route has the virtue of staying in the mountains as long as possible (where it is cool), but many people feel that it is not the most scenic route. Accordingly, the Cutters (myself included) left the trail at Walden and headed over Cameron Pass, then down the spectacular Cache la Poudre (Hide the Powder) River canyon to Fort Collins. Other cyclists opted for Trail Ridge Road (Milner Pass) in Rocky Mountain National Park, and I met one trio who went over Rollins pass, south of the park, which they described as the most beautiful of their trip, despite the gravel road.

The Cutters split up in Fort Collins after riding 500 miles through Wyoming and Colorado. Some went straight south to rejoin the BikeCentennial trail and some headed east for Nebraska and beyond. I went on to Boulder with the Buckhorn Boys [named for their preferred beer, which they consumed in prodigious quantities). They were bound for the east coast, but they had to make a stop in Eads, Colorado, to go to the June Bug Bar for a few beers. One of the Buckhorn Boys had caught a brief glimpse of the bar sign as he was passing through Eads on the bus on his way to begin his tour in Oregon. The June Bug became an obsession with him and the other two Buckhorn Boys: a minor goal to be reached on the way to the major goal of cycling across the continent.

I had no plans to cycle across the continent. I was content to stay in the cool mountains rather than brave the intense heat which gripped the rest of the nation. Besides, I had a date to keep: to meet Marci Francisco in Boulder, Colorado, and ride south to Santa Fe, New Mexico. But I had a week to kill before Marci's arrival, so I went back up into the Rockies.

On the way I took in the Mt. Evans hill climb bike race, a 28 mile, 7000 foot vertical climb from Idaho Springs to the summit of Mt. Evans (14,260 feet) along the highest paved road in the world. Bob Cook of Colorado won the race and came within 20 seconds of breaking his old record (about 1:55). Cook was also a favored racer in the Red Zinger (now the Coors Classic) to be held one week later. Marci and I saw the third stage of the Zinger, the Denver-to-Vail Pass 100 mile mountain road race, from a vantage point at about mile 85. The racers had just come down from Loveland Pass (11,988 feet) and were on their way to the final push up Vail Pass (10,603 feet). Quite a few of the field of 76 had dropped out by that time, but we were pleased to catch sight of Mt. Oread Bicycle Club member Steve Tilford, riding with the Anchor Steam Beer team. We cheered him on, and so did those around us who had no idea who he was, except that if we were for him, they might as well be for him, too.

The Red Zinger racers rode that 100 miles in about four hours; Marci and I rode essentially the same route in two days. We met in Boulder and headed into the mountains, aimed for Montezuma, a tiny former mining town above Dillon and the site of the Lawrence City Commission's summer mountain retreat. Marci's fellow commissioners passed us in their van on I-70 a few miles before Loveland Pass and offered to take our packs on to the retreat. They drove through the Eisenhower tunnel, where bicycles are prohibited, while we tackled the mountain with unloaded bicycles. We found the pass to be not too difficult; not at all worthy of all the scare stories we had heard. I think motorists judge a climb by its length and sharp turns, not by its steepness. The cyclist doesn't really care how long the pass is or how sharp the curves are, provided the grade is not too steep.

After two days at the retreat (filled with good food and drink and a hike to the top of Santa Fe Peak on the continental divide), we proceeded south to Leadville, Buena Vista, over Poncha Pass and into the San Luis Valley. Again, scare stories of a hot, dry desert failed to hold up. We had cooling rains all through this region, and they were not unwelcome. On a whim we dropped in on a farm near Monte Vista to see if some Texas friends happened to be there. They were, and we stayed two days. In fact, a vanful of Lawrence people, friends of ours and of our hosts, arrived as well, so we had a party on the spot.

From this point on, the trip became a matter of traveling between Mexican restaurants. Marci and I have hot sauce running in our veins, and southern Colorado/New Mexico is prime territory for beans and burritos. We especially recommend the pink motel restaurant in La Jara, Colorado (great green chile burritos and 25 cent coffee), and Tia Sophia's restaurant near the Plaza in Santa Fe (chiles rellenos and chalupas were our favorites there). We stuffed ourselves with blue corn tortilla delights at the Pink Adobe in Santa Fe after having a few margaritas at the La Fonda Hotel. We are unfortunately unable to report on the Adobe Diner in Tres Piedres, N.M., much touted for its chili, since it was closed when we got there. Honorable mention goes to La Cocina on the Plaza in Taos.

Getting back to Lawrence on the train became something of a hassle when Amtrak could not find cartons for our bikes. For the last year or so, Amtrak has required that bicycles be boxed and shipped as baggage, just as on the bus lines. This is fine at the beginning of a trip, when you are at home and can get a bike box at a bike shop and get someone to drive you to the station with your boxed bike. But what do you do when you want to board the train at Lamy, New Mexico, which is Santa Fe's Amtrak station and 12 miles out of town? Amtrak's answer was to buy a box from them ($4) and pack up at the station. The hitch was that no boxes were available anywhere between Los Angeles and Chicago. I had to spend an hour on the phone with Amtrak to convince them that it was their fault and that I had the perfect solution: allow us to put our bikes on the train unboxed as we did four times in 1978 without the slightest problem. They finally relented and so informed their baggage man at Lamy, who let us check our bikes without boxes. When we got off the train at 6:30 a.m. in Lawrence, our bikes were there, safe and sound but a bit dusty. We loaded them down with our equipment once more and rode directly to Drake's Bakery for one last breakfast on the road.

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