Biking Across America Read Online Free Page A

like scenes from the rural areas back home. I reveled infamiliar sights and smells. Farms and dairy herds abounded. It was like pedaling past the farms of my youth. Large herds of Holsteins grazed along my route, and I stopped at one feedlot and watched the farmer as he unloaded grain for his cattle.
    In one field, the arms of a large irrigation sprinkler revolved in a slow rhythm. At a certain point in each revolution, the sunlight hit the water at just the right angle and a rainbow shimmered for a moment and then disappeared. I stopped again, watching in fascination as each turn produced a new waterfall of color. So , I mused, this is where rainbows are made .
    My route now veered back toward the coast and took me through the town of Cloverdale, a small hamlet of less than four hundred people. Over Memorial Day weekend, Cloverdale had suffered a devastating fire in the downtown area that spread to a number of structures. Over one hundred firefighters from surrounding towns had been called in for assistance, but they were hindered by explosions and a shortage of readily available water. One charred building caught my attention immediately as I rode through town. The local fire station itself had been gutted by the fire.
    My contemplation of the irony of this tragic circumstance was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. My friend Andy from Talent, Oregon, was calling to see when I expected to arrive in Newport. He lived sixty miles inland but was planning to drive out to the coast to meet me.
    I had not seen Andy since the fateful night, forever etched in my memory, when my idyllic boyhood world was turned upside down and I learned that life was fragile.

    My friend Ivan had biked to my house that evening. Together we would ride to my cousin Marv’s house over at Honey Run for a sleepover. We two were meandering up the road on our bikeswhen a young man from my church drove up beside us. Andy was several years older than I, and he stopped to ask what we were up to. We chatted awhile, and he drove off. I had not seen Andy since that night, forty-four years ago. And that night was the last time Ivan and I were together on this earth.
    At eleven o’clock, Ivan, Marv, and I were still full of youthful energy and decided to take a night bike ride. We headed out the long gravel driveway that led to the quiet country road. At the end of the drive, we stopped and chatted in the moonlight for several minutes. Then we had to decide which way to turn. The road to the right was level and an easier ride. Going to the left required a climb, but our reward would be an exhilarating downhill flight.
    Most decisions we make in life are insignificant, or so we think. But sometimes a seemingly small choice can have unexpected consequences that change the course of a life. Ivan made the call that night. “Let’s go left,” he said. That decision cost him his life. What might have been different if we had gone right? What if we had stayed home that night, and never got on our bikes?
    We were flying down the long hill, our bike tires humming in the quiet night, when my friend Ivan disappeared. On my left, my cousin still coasted toward the bottom of the hill. But Ivan, on my right, had vanished.
    His bike had veered onto the shoulder, where gravel grabbed the thin tires, and he couldn’t regain control. As we crossed a bridge over a small stream, his bike hurtled down the creek bank and Ivan was launched across the water and struck his head on a wooden retaining wall on the opposite side of the creek. Until the bridge was rebuilt years later, the indentation carved in the boards by Ivan’s glasses remained visible, a painful reminder of the uncertainties of life.
    My friend passed away several days after the accident. He was fourteen when he died. I was fifteen, and this brutal dose of realitymade me question everything I had been taught about God. I parked my bicycle in the garage, determined never to ride it