A Parent's Perspective

Biddle drops out…
Pete Brockett asked for a parent's perspective, so I share a few thoughts and memories as I peel away and head back to Vermont.
It's mid afternoon in Bozeman, Montana. I left the group yesterday and I'm sitting in the airport where my welcome back to reality is a massive flight delay and the prospect of having to spend the night in Chicago, courtesy of United Airlines. I wish I were in the high plains of Montana, pedaling home with the kids, with a sore butt and a sore back and that insatiable appetite that comes from eight hours on a bike, and struggling to keep up with those speed demons.

I met the St. Paul's group at the Seattle airport at midnight 15 days ago. Ten days of cycling, roughly 800 miles and five 5,000-foot passes (Washington, Sherman, Loup Loup, Wauconda and Marias) later, through rain, hail, laughter and assorted mishaps, we coasted down into the rolling plains of eastern Montana.

Moments after I left them this morning, the pilot of the small plane flying me to Bozeman spotted the string of seven cyclists on Route 2, an organized now-experienced group, heads-down, sailing eastward. It was cool to watch from the air. They stopped and dismounted to wave, and we buzzed them twice.
For the past ten days the routine has been consistent. Rise at 6 a.m., with Gwen's early bird alarm the first at 5:45 a.m.
"It's 5:45!" she'd chirp (I'm told by the other girls; I slept with Mark in our cozy little tent). Everyone's usually up just after 6 a.m. If all goes smoothly, we'd be on the road by 8.
My morning routine included two essential pain relievers: 400 grams of Advil and a generous application of anti-friction balm (also known as "butt-er") to key posterior saddle-contact areas. I wish I could report that it was of great use. Let's just say I'm still tender.
On the road, the tribulations came daily: every set of tires on every one of the kids' bikes developed weird bulges and had to be replaced; there were about 15 flat tires in the first two weeks (I have blisters on my thumbs from changing punctured tubes); Parker and I got lost for hours in the woods one day (yes, in the woods); a fair amount of rain and cold and even some hail; lost support-car keys….
Mishaps aside, this is a smooth-running trip, honestly, which I attribute to attitude. These are kids with a shared mission and an understanding that, well, shit happens. You just have to deal with it with equanimity and push on. Always more road to gobble up.
On day one, Parker and Brendon were way out in front, which made them our lunch-spot scouts. When the rest of the group arrived, I eyed the un-shaded, un-scenic, no-place-to-sit, next-to-the-highway hot-and-prickly road-side pullover with ill-disguised disapproval. As I devoured my peanut butter, banana and honey sandwich, I suggested to Parker as supportively as I could that in the future he might be a little more discerning.
"OK," he said cheerfully, adding "Mr. Duke, really, I get it. But on something like this you just have to go with the flow."
Going with the flow. Now there's one of my lessons from the journey. The lunch spots, however, were superb from then on.
Days on the bikes are filled with singing and games — often led by Ellie. The song game is a favorite. Everyone who knows music gets a chance to sing. Parker favors hymns and the like, being a madrigals tenor with a wonderful voice, while Ellie and Sarah seem to know all the words of a million great songs. And even when we weren't singing Ellie seemed to be humming something. Gwen is the aspiring rapper in the group.
These being brainy kids, discussions up and down the pace line can be mind-boggling. Ellen, for example, raised the following questions, which sustained us for a few miles in Idaho: Why is it easier for the cyclists behind the lead rider? What do you call the energy behind the rider at the front of the group? You should have heard the chatter on this with Mark Richardson, who's some kind of math and physics wonk, guiding the discussion like a seasoned prep school prof. The conclusion? Like a book on a shelf that requires energy to place it there, resting high up with energy set to release in its fall to the ground, the lead rider is creating "potential energy". Ergo: drafting is using another rider's potential energy. Thank you, St. Paul's physics teachers.
Evenings bring delicious meals, including in the first week: paella, grilled lamb with chimichurri, and Peruvian ceviche (Graysons, Richardsons, Dukes, Brocketts, are you ready to stir up some "road trip haute cuisine"?). And tons of fresh fruit. And when we got to Montana, down-home barbeque.
A highlight of my leg of the trip was having Jay Speakman and his daughter, Rachel, join up. They drove up from their home in Gearhart, Oregon to camp with us at Marblemount on the first night. In typical Jay fashion he slipped in at midnight and we awoke to him making coffee and oatmeal on a single Coleman stove on the tailgate of his truck.
Their intention was to spend one night only, and push on into the Cascades to camp and hike. Their plans changed when they met the seven teenagers. Rachel, who is 12, was mesmerized. Quiet as a mouse, she just took it all in: the intelligent banter, the jokes, the sense of shared mission. No fool, she also thrilled to the downhills on her mountain bike, some of them as long as 20 miles. Their single night stretched to one day and another night…
They left six days later.
It was great to see Jay, whom I don't seen often enough. I met him almost 30 years ago when I went exploring for surfable waves in Maine. A lobster fisherman living on Little Cranberry Island, Jay had grown up in Hawaii and Maine (mom was from Down East and dad was a collge prof at the U of H). He's one of those guys that knows how to gut a deer, and build a house, drive a forklift and reconcile a balance sheet. He can dismantle a Cummins diesel in his garage and rebuild it while discussing the merits of constructive engagement with Cuba. Idoline, Ellie (when she was a year old) and I drove 1,000 miles from New Mexico to the tip of Baja in 1994 with Jay. He met up with us two weeks ago in Washington in the same Toyota truck, running like a top 150,000 miles later.
We needed Jay. He was our third indispensable wingman on the early Washington-Idaho leg, and quickly befriended everyone. At one lunch stop he eyed the sky suspiciously and declared that it would begin to rain hard "in 30 seconds." As predicted, it did, and everyone scurried like manic chickens to save our scrumptious lunch spread and find cover. Jay, meanwhile, whipped out a tarp and in one quick motion covered lunch and saved our food.
The kids marveled at the simplicity of the act.
"Sage!" Renzo declared.
Jay taught us all a thing or two.
I'm up to about 1,000 words now so I'll just punch out a few random memories:
• I am in the shower at our first campground, cheerily lathering up, and I hear someone in the next stall. For some reason I thought I'd seen Renzo headed to the showers.
"Renzo?"
"It's Gwen!" comes the voice, followed by a chuckle.
"Ooops."
Seems I'd wandered into the girls' bathrooms.

• Parker and me, lost, deep in the woods... and I am describing "Deliverance" to him. You know, the book and movie about the city guys who get lost on a Southern river and chased (and almost molested) by rednecks. "Your point, Mr. Duke?" He might have asked. He didn't because he's too polite. Moments later I pointed to our destination, a two-lane state highway visible across the valley, and explained in classic Biddle fashion that we had two choices: to shoulder our bikes and hike a mile or more through the woods and across a river to the road (my preference) or retrace our many, many steps. Parker, far wiser than I, chose the known route. We retraced. After our escapade in the woods we got a flat in the rain, got hailed on and biked an extra ten miles for the day. Parker never lost his cool, cheerful and focused. He could easily have blamed the whole ordeal on me, Instead, he admirably shared responsibility, and notched it as a memorable experience. What a guy.

• Riding through the Blackfeet Nation's biggest town of Browning, Montana, taking in the rusting cars, the shabby pawn shops, the "loans on payday" signs, the crumbling houses and boarded up businesses, the run-down bars and gambling parlors. Heartbreaking. Then, that night, hearing first-hand from locals of the struggles on the reservation and the tension between the American Indians and the communities around the reservation.

• Seeing the Cascades on the horizon from the Pacific and, 10 days later, seeing the snow-flecked Rockies from the high plains of eastern Montana, knowing that we'd started on the other side.

• Hearing the Fallas' inspirational story of their move from Peru to the USA where Doc Falla is now a successful physician and their son is a top student at SPS; spotting eagles and bear and deer and elk; figuring out drafting and pace-lines whilst singing and talking and riding no hands and videoing; Parker's most excellent pep talk that encouraged us home to Stanton Creek cabins…

• Being with Ellie for two whole weeks! And trying to keep up with her in every way. Still trying.

• Eating endlessly yummy food and knowing that it was all going to a good cause: fueling the next 100 miles.

What an epic adventure. I feel fortunate to be part of it and to have had time with such wonderful people, both parents and kids. The cyclists are an inspiration, and even as they do good, with the support of hundreds of people, they're building memories and friendships for a lifetime.

This probably isn't what Pete Brockett had in mind. Just remember to go with the flow. Most of the rest is details.

See you in Michigan.