This is a collection of all my journal entries when I rode my bike from San Diego, California, to St. Augustine Florida.
THE FIRST WEEK
February 7th
I was turned around almost immediately trying to leave the city limits of San Diego. The road my map had instructed me to cross was flooded by the San Diego river. As I stood in front of the street, now rushing with river water, two men of the streets happened upon me. Being both friendly and knowledgeable, they helped me create a detour and I was on my way again. After getting outside the city limits, the climbs were immediate and steep. I had looked at the elevation charts on my map and was mentally prepared for the first couple days of riding to be physically grueling. All I can compare it to is knowing that you’re going to get punched in the stomach; it still doesn’t change the fact that you’re going to get punched in the stomach. After several hours of riding I reached Alpine, California. I found a local doughnut shop and motel (in that order) and after consuming all 12 of the dozen doughnuts I had bought, I collapsed in exhaustion.
February 8th
I awoke to sunny skies and temperatures in the low sixties. The locals here were complaining about what a chilly day it was.
The ride began with climbs that rivaled even those of the day before, but in terms of directions, the route was more straightforward. I was able to listen to music and not worry about getting lost.
It wasn’t long before I reached my final destination for the day: Pine Valley, California.
On my way into town I stopped at the Trynn Gallery and met an amazing person by the name of Teresa Walker. For more on her story, see below. With no legal or safe place to camp I had called ahead to the only motel and lodging that exists in Pine Valley.
The concierge advised me against making a reservation, because if I decided to camp or stay somewhere else, my deposit would be non-refundable. “We always have rooms available,” he cheerfully told me over the phone.
Upon my arrival he regretfully informed me that the only room left was a dining room. Just thankful for a place to sleep, I accepted the room along with the over priced rate and filled my lungs with second hand smoke.
I got dinner in one of the only restaurants in town where I witnessed a cowboy dancing to Alicia Keys. This made me question everything I thought I knew about cowboys. I returned to my motel room deep in thought and enjoyed a fitful sleep.
February 10th
Not much to report today. I took a rest day in Jacumba and basically just sat around in the hot springs. I vacated the springs at nightfall, as I was warned by a local that an old hippy nudist colony occasionally takes over the springs during evening.
February 11th
Feeling rested and refreshed after my day off. I began the 60 mile trek from Jacumba to Brawley, California. I made good time with the wind at my back and enjoyed a descent down the mountains I had been climbing in previous days. I saw the United States and Mexican border for the first time today and rode through El Centro, where the vast majority of American Agriculture is produced. I ate dinner at a Southern fast food chain called Jack in the Box. Big Fan!
February 12th
Today I severely underestimated the California desert. Still feeling good, I thought I would be able to cross the 70 miles of uninhabited sand and rock that separate Brawley from Blythe, California, in one day. I was wrong! From the moment the ride began, I faced relentless headwinds which at their peak were over 25mph. My average speed was reduced to as little as 4 or 5mph, and I crawled across the desert at a snail’s pace. To make matters worse the strong winds aided by the passing cars continually pelted me with an endless supply of sand. After a full day of riding I had covered less than half the distance I had set out to achieve. I passed a border patrol station, where they replenished my low water rations, and pressed on. With nightfall quickly approaching I was still about 30 miles from my intended destination. I pulled off the road and made camp for the night behind a hill.
February 13th
I awoke just after midnight in a restless sleep, thinking in my semi-conscious state that someone was outside my tent. I went outside and saw something far better than an intruder. In the middle of nowhere, miles from any sources of light pollution the night sky, was one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed: the North star shone so large and bright I at first mistook it for the moon. After some focus, I saw the quick flashes of shooting stars and the more consistent movement of Satellites. All of this was surrounded by the other stars and constellations in a brilliant tapestry of light. Although the sharp rocks on which I slept hadn’t allowed for very much rest, my night stranded in the desert had been more than worth it. I awoke later with the sunrise and finished the remainder of my trek to Blythe.
Teresa Walker
Meet Teresa. She grew up in the foothills of Guatay, California, and has lived there continuously since 1959, making her the town’s longest resident. Teresa is both a self-taught artist and musician. Her primary artistic medium is painting, and she skillfully plays the guitar, piano, banjo, organ, and didgeridoo. Another one of Teresa’s many talents includes accurately predicting the outcomes of presidential elections. “I have been right ever since Carter,” she told me.
Teresa works as a craftswoman at the Trynn Gallery, where she assists in the process of creating artisanal wooden utensils. Trynn is an old English word meaning, “tools from the tree.” Some of Trynn’s woodshop creations have made their way into the Smithsonian institute, as well as gourmet kitchens and art shows across the country. The entire Trynn gallery and woodshop is heated by a 150 year old wood burning stove.
Teresa informed me that the town of Guatay is built on Native American Lands, and on the front side of Guatay mountain was the Native’s burial grounds. Forest fires are common to the area, and in times when the forests were set ablaze, the Native Americans would take refuge at this sacred site. In all of recorded history, the front half of Guatay mountain has never burned. Some in the area believe it is thanks to the spirit of a deceased Kumeyaay Indian chief who watches over that mountain, protecting it from forest fires to this very day. Those who are skeptical of this theory cite the unique soil content of the front half of the mountain as being possibly flame resistant, and believe this to be a more plausible explanation.
Teresa, like many people of the area, is soft spoken and wise. She strongly believes that we as humans exist to love and do good to one another, and has dedicated her life to following the calling of her own heart.
The front yard of Trynn gallery
Trynn gallery work space
John King
Meet one of Jacumba Hot Springs’ 600 full-time residents, John King. For 18 years now, John has worked with his partner Chance Rose, creating and selling wood sculptures right outside the Historic Grey’s Motel.
John’s first daughter’s premature birth served as the catalyst for him taking to wood sculpture. He was a single father at the time, and needed a way to not only earn a living, but be home full-time to care for the needs of his newborn child.
The grandfather of John’s first daughter taught him wood sculpture and he hasn’t looked back since. He has already begun to pass the craft onto the next generation by teaching his eldest daughter, now 15 years old.
John is passionate about his trade and occupation to a degree that many of us probably wish we felt towards our own career choices. Not only does he love his art and the freedom it gives him to create, but he cherishes the time it allows him to spend with his family.
The Second Week
February 15th
After 35 more gruelling miles, my exile in the desert had come to an end, and I arrived in Blythe, California.
Although some may consider Blythe to be a small farming community, Palo Verde, the next closest town, has 171 full time residents, making Blythe and its 20,000 residents a large city by comparison.
In Blythe, I stayed with a well-regarded host of touring cyclists by the name of Wayne Pinkerton. Wayne owns a bait and tackle shop, and he lets cyclists camp behind it. Wayne’s Bait and Tackle Shop, as far as I can tell, is the cultural hub of Blythe. In the evening hours the mayor, along with other high standing members of the community, gather to discuss everything from parenting philosophies to local politics.
This journey has been my first encounter with the culture of small town America, and I am absolutely enamored by it. Just the other day, I was passing through an area and stopped to eat lunch at the only dining option in town. The name of this restaurant was “Restaurant.” I don’t suppose one needs to bother differentiating from the competition when none exists, and stating simply what you are is the best way to avoid confusion.
February 16th
While staying with Wayne Pinkerton, I met another touring cyclist by the name of Brandon Smith. He has been living on the road for several years now, and on his bike he carries everything he owns. Fully loaded, his rig weighs over 250 pounds. Brandon has a wealth of knowledge on everything from military aircrafts to geology. He has taught me a lot about the legalities of being homeless on a bike and all that it entails. For example, on land that is owned by the Bureau Of Land Management (BLM), anyone is allowed to reside in a single area for a maximum of 2 weeks. Then by law they are required to move a minimum of 50 feet and can live in that spot for up to 2 weeks. Brandon and I were headed in generally the same direction, so we left Blythe together and road across state lines to Arizona. We made camp at a public park in the town of Quartzsite, Arizona, and I spent the night sleeping soundly on a picnic table. Picnic tables can be a great place to sleep because they are generally under a canopy that provides limited shelter from the outside elements, and you don’t have to go through the trouble of setting up your tent.
February 17th
I made it to Phoenix, Arizona, today. I am excited to be staying with my longtime friend Kira Okray. Our families first met when we lived overseas in Germany together and have been close ever since. Kira lives and works in Phoenix and today she gave me a tour of the city.
February 18th
One of the strongest storms in several years has hit Southern California, and as a result there are heavy rains in Phoenix. I have spent another day here to wait out the weather.
February 19th
When I left Phoenix rains were forecasted, but about six miles down the road instead of being drenched I saw a rainbow. When I arrived in Mesa, Arizona, later that day, my friends Cindy and King Oldin had prepared a steak dinner. You guys are the best!
February 20th
No steak dinners today. Just lots of mountain climbs that culminated in a flat tire and busted chain. After several frustrating hours, all necessary repairs were made and I am ready for the next week of riding.
The Third Week
Feb 23rd
I left for Globe, Arizona, at around 8am, and with strong winds at my back was headed towards Safford, Arizona. It wasn’t long before I was riding through the Apache Indian Reservation. As I came down a hill, a large crowd of people began to cheer for me. Both flattered and confused in the moment, I would later discover that I wasn’t the intended recipient of their praise. The crowd had assembled to cheer on the local high school basketball team as they left to compete for the Arizona State Title.
After crossing 75 miles of desert I arrived in Safford, Arizona. There I spent the night with a cycling host by the name of Jay Rosco. I slept quite comfortably on top of a chiropractor’s table in a snug corner of Jay`s Auto Body Shop. Jay, at age 81, is a passionate environmentalist and local history buff. As an environmentalist, Jay organizes community litter pickups and lobbies for local legislation, which repurposes green waste for compost instead of putting it in landfills. His love of the area is easily demonstrated by the wealth of knowledge he has for its history. He used to give tours of the backcountry in a dune buggy he outfitted to fit up to eight people.
Feb 24th
On my way out of Safford this morning I was chased by two dogs. I will say, there is no greater motivation to pedal fast than a barking canine nipping at your heels. Before this trip I did prepare for such occasions by purchasing a canister of pepper spray. I believe it works on both dogs and humans, but most fortunately I haven’t had to use it on either.
So, with a healthy surge of adrenaline to start my day, the short forty miles to my next destination went by quickly. I arrived in the town of Duncan, Arizona, early that afternoon, and set up camp behind the home of another generous cycling host. I then ate one of the best calzones I’ve ever had and called it a night.
Feb 25th
Last night, the temperatures dropped down to 21 degrees Fahrenheit. Even inside my sleeping bag, wearing every piece of warm clothing I had, it was freezing. Special thanks to the Thomson family, who let me borrow one of their sleeping bag liners for this trip. It would have been a rough night without it.
I officially crossed state lines into New Mexico today! After another 40 miles I spent the night at a campsite in Lordsburg, New Mexico
Feb 26th
After a long day of climbing, I reached the Continental Divide and witnessed some majestic mountaintop views. I will have to cross the Continental Divide two more times in the following days before I come back down to sea level.
I made it to Silver City today, where I stayed with Patricia Geels.
Feb 27th
Took a rest day in Silver City, New Mexico.
The Fourth Week
From March 1st to March 7th I stayed in the sleepy little town of Kingston, New Mexico.
Today Kingston is home to just 25 full time residents, but in 1890 it was a thriving metropolis of 7,000 people—more populated than even Albuquerque at that time. In 1882, Kingston was founded shortly after a large deposit of silver ore was discovered in the area by Jack Sheddon. It is strange for me to imagine that this small hamlet once boasted 23 saloons, 14 grocery stores, 3 newspapers, and an opera house. President Grover Cleveland, Mark Twain, Butch Cassidy, The Sundance Kid, Black Jack Ketchum, and Billy the Kid were all noteworthy visitors of Kingston.
In 1893 silver prices plummeted by almost 90 percent, and what was once a thriving city became a ghost town nearly overnight. Residents abandoned Kingston in droves, tearing down many of the town’s buildings to salvage the materials. To this day the Percha Bank building, which resides near the entrance of Kingston, is the town’s only fully intact and completely original structure.
I have cherished many of my stops across the American southwest, but my stay in Kingston at the Black Range Lodge stands out as my favorite so far. The lodge is run by owners Katherine and Gary. They have comped the last six days of my stay for free, and in exchange I have worked and helped out around the facilities. The grounds of the lodge are unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed before. They have embraced both a building technique and lifestyle known as “permaculture”. Using hay bales and clay, Katherine and Gary have constructed several buildings that are not only stunning in their appearance, but 75% more efficient in their energy consumption than buildings constructed with conventional materials and techniques.
One of the jobs I assisted Gary and Katherine with was moving a pool table they had recently purchased from a specialty store in Silver City, New Mexico. Mind you, this is no ordinary pool table. The story goes that this pool table’s original home was at the Riviera Palm Springs Resort, and its most frequent players were Dean Martin and other members of the Rat Pack. According to record, the last two people to have played on it were Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga. Its unique backstory made the pool table a great addition to the lodge, however, at over 800 pounds, moving it was easier said than done. It took eight people, roughly a third of the entire town, to move it from the back of a trailer to inside the lobby.
I’d like to thank Katherine and Gary for a wonderful stay at the Black Range Lodge. My time there was both enjoyable and educational. Hopefully, I will get the chance to visit them again this summer.
The Fifth Week
March 8th
Today, unfortunately, I used the pepper spray for the first time ever. On my way from Hatch to Las Cruces, New Mexico, three full-sized, angry Dobermans charged the street where I was riding. All three of them put together served as a kind of canine road block. The tiny, “travel sized” canister of pepper spray I had been carrying all these miles suddenly looked like a very silly and inadequate form of protection. Nevertheless, I armed myself and began shouting the most threatening things I could think of, like “STOP!” and “GO AWAY!” Heedless of my very authoritative commands, the dogs advanced, snarling and barking all the while.
At this point, I had dismounted from my bicycle and was using it as a makeshift barrier. The lead dog had gotten very close, and I fired a short burst in the general direction of his snarling face. Pepper spray, as I have now learned through experience, is essentially a glorified squirt gun, except instead of water it contains something slightly stronger. My aim was true, and although a strong gust of wind carried away the vast majority of my liquid ammunition, enough found its mark to make this particular canine question his original intentions. The battle may have been won, but the war was far from over, as there were two more angry Dobermans to contend with.
At this very moment, a miracle occurred. On the dusty horizon, a white pickup truck came barreling down the remote country road towards where the remaining dogs and I were attempting to resolve our differences. Something about a young man standing in the middle of the road wielding a bike pump and pepper spray while shouting expletives must have attracted their attention; so they came to investigate. Just as they were coming to a halt, the last two dogs, fearful of the large white truck, scattered and retreated to the safety of their yard. I seized this critical moment, and with an enthusiastic wave to my mystery saviors, mounted my bicycle and pedaled with an intensity that is only possible when one believes his or her life depends on it. That evening, I arrived in Las Cruces, New Mexico, where I spent the night with my good friend, Heather Lam.
March 9th
It was a crazy day in more ways than one. I departed from Las Cruces early this morning with the intention of making it to El Paso. As fate would have it, about 13 miles outside the city limits, I discovered a very deep pothole and pinch flatted both of my tires. This was an unfortunate setback, but I didn’t think it could deter me for long. I was carrying three spare tubes, and set to work replacing the front one. With little difficulty, the front tire was aired up and ready to go, and I set to work upon the rear. This is when I had my first encounter with a lovely indigenous southwest plant known as Goat’s Head.
Goat’s Head are thorns that are usually very small and prevalent in certain regions of the arid Southwest. Despite a thorough inspection of the inside of my tire, before installing the new tube, a small thorn remained hidden along the inside of the rim and punctured the new tube as it was inflated. I had one remaining spare tube and I diligently searched the inside of my tire for Goat’s Head. When my search concluded I installed my last tube and began to inflate it. Just as I thought I was in the clear, I heard the sickening sound of air beginning to leave the tire. I sat there in contemplation, considering the unfortunate circumstances of my new reality. I was in the middle of nowhere with a very flat rear tire, out of patience, and spare tubes. The closest bike shop was in Las Cruces, and with the amount of time that had passed, I wasn’t going to make it to El Paso before nightfall. My friend Heather still had work for another several hours, and I needed to get to the bike shop before it closed. Out of desperation, I called a tow truck.
It wasn’t long before it arrived and I was confronted with a very amused driver. His colleagues had failed to inform him that he was picking up a cyclist along with his bicycle, and after taking in the situation he laughed heartily. Then he laughed again. Then he laughed some more. After we had strapped down my tiny bicycle in the huge bed of his tow truck, he had me climb up and pose next to it. A long photo shoot ensured that he would never forget this moment. After that, we drove the short thirteen miles back to Las Cruces and he dropped me off at a bike shop. There I purchased some heavily insulated, puncture-resistant tubes, and had them installed. I left the shop feeling confident and ready for whatever challenges tomorrow had to offer, and I stayed another night with my friend Heather.
March 10th
Today was my second attempt to ride to El Paso, and it proved far more successful than the first. I made great time riding along a frontage road that paralleled Interstate 10, and in a few short hours, I arrived within the city limits. In El Paso, I stayed with the aunt and uncle of my friend Rey Mena. Their names are Miguel and Mely, and they are some of the kindest people I have been fortunate enough to meet on this trip. I officially crossed state lines from New Mexico into west Texas today, so to celebrate my arrival into some of the most prominent Cattle Country in all of America, Miguel and Mely took me out to get steak burgers. At the end of a very satisfying dinner, they gave me a tour of El Paso. It was fascinating for me to see where the city lights of El Paso and U.S. sovereignty ended, and where those of Ciudad Juarez and Mexico began. I also learned that El Paso has been voted the safest city in the United States now two years in a row.
As my tour of El Paso was coming to a close, the exhaustion of the day hit me all at once: it must have been obvious because at the end of the evening Miguel and Mely graciously offered to host me for another night so that I could rest.
Both Mely and Miguel have fascinating life stories. Mely, as a young child, came to the United States from Cuba, through a program known as Operation Peter Pan. From the years 1960-1962, nearly 14,000 Cuban minors were flown into Miami. They were sent by their parents who feared for their safety in Cuba. Miguel is the eldest of nine children. Born in Juarez, Mexico, he left his home at seventeen to become a Metallurgical Engineer at the University of Mexico City.
March 11th
In the morning, Miguel drove me up to a scenic overlook known as Trans Mountain. From there I was able to see where the borders of Texas, Mexico, and New Mexico all meet. Later on that day, I accompanied Miguel and Mely to a family reunion where I met a number of Miguel’s nine siblings, along with their children and grandchildren. Miguel has a wonderful family, and I enjoyed spending time with them.
March 12th
After a day off the bike, I was well-rested and perhaps a little too well-fed. I got an early start after Mely made me a fantastic breakfast and some sandwiches for the road. I was a little turned around using my paper maps to leave the city limits of El Paso, but being lost isn’t something that bothers me anymore. Fifty miles later I arrived in Fort Hancock, where I spent the night in a motel.
March 13th
Today started off on a high note when I stopped at Angie’s Diner and consumed the best chicken fried steak I have ever had. During my meal, I met two army soldiers. They were stationed on a base in Georgia, but had driven to West Texas to pick up a truck they had recently purchased. We compared notes and realized that they would be passing through the same town later in the evening that I intended to ride to that day. After we exchanged contact information, they generously offered to bring me dinner for that evening.
With the exception of a slight headwind, and having to wait several minutes as a herd of cows crossed the street, my ride to Sierra Blanca, Texas, was effortless. I made great time to my end destination, which was a city park. As I was making preparations to sleep on a picnic table, I noticed a young child rifling through my bike bags. I would later learn that his name was Jackson and he had just turned eight years old. Jackson had noticed that I had several Snickers bars sticking out of my Ortlieb duffle bag, and that had been reason enough to warrant a thorough search of all my belongings. After I had shared some of my food he asked me what I was doing riding a bicycle and carrying so many Snickers bars. I explained that I was currently riding my bike across the United States. He told me that sounded boring, and with nothing else in common besides a mutual love of Snickers bars, we went our separate ways. Shortly after that, my new friends arrived with a much-appreciated evening meal. Nothing ends a long day of riding better than a hot meal. As the day was coming to a close, I met another touring cyclist camping in the same park. We made plans to ride the next several days together.
The Sixth Week
March 14th
Just when I was starting to think that my trouble with the desert thorn known as Goat’s Head had come to an end I awoke to find that the City Park I had camped in was filled with it. I made this unfortunate discovery by stepping on one in my bare feet. My first concern was not for my bleeding foot but for my vulnerable bicycle tires, and after hobbling over to my bike, at first glance what I saw confirmed the worst. Both tires were filled with Goat Head punctures, but amazingly neither tire had lost any air. I performed a kind of rubber surgery, removing each thorn meticulously with the blade of my knife. With this minor setback resolved I hit the road and a flat forty miles later arrived in Van Horn, Texas. Once there I camped in an RV Park.
March 15th
West Texas has many long desolate stretches between anything resembling civilization. Today’s ride was one of my most intense experiences in that remoteness.
It was about a 90 mile trek of gradual climbing through open desert and with no access to food or water. I left the RV Park early, and fully loaded with as much food and water as I could carry.
The roads were fine at first but quickly became rough asphalt. By noon I was riding through a construction zone.
Once through this, I turned onto a very rural ranch road and temperatures began to rise. By around two o’ clock the air temperature hit triple digits, after which I stopped checking.
I found a cement drainage pipe and crawled inside of it. From my shady spot I then witnessed what is known as a dust devil.
A dust devil is essentially a funnel cloud of dust. They look like tornadoes and are classified under the same weather phenomena, though they are usually a lot smaller in size.
I shouldered on and rode the remainder of the climb into Fort Davis, Texas. Once in Fort Davis I met a wonderful person by the name of Barbara Hoffman, and made arrangements to spend the night at her house just outside of town.
I cannot use enough positive adjectives to describe Barbara as a person. She is hardworking, incredibly smart, kind, and humble. She put her two kids through college entirely debt free, and currently works as a realtor at Mountain View Properties, helping people buy and sell real estate in the Fort Davis area.
For dinner I ate a delicious stew that she had prepared and then attended a star viewing party at the McDonald Observatory. Unbeknownst to me, Barbara had called the Observatory and reserved for me a free ticket, and in exchange for my free entry she had volunteered to work at the event. Thank you Barbara!
I saw through the lenses of several telescopes different galaxies, star clusters, and far off Nebulas.
March 16th
I took the day off and found the historic downtown of Fort Davis both quaint and charming.
March 17th
I rode twenty miles to the neighboring town of Alpine, Texas. There I ate a large lunch at Penny’s Diner. Afterwards I travelled about forty more miles to Marathon, Texas, where I camped in an RV park. It was spring break in Texas and this small town was flooded with tourists like myself. I made the mistake of walking into the fanciest restaurant in town, where three people wearing suits promptly seated me and put a high-priced menu in my hand. I felt out of place in my cycling clothes, but the food was excellent.
March 18th
Today has mimicked yesterday. I rode around sixty miles to the town of Sanderson, Texas, where I camped in an RV Park. At the only open restaurant in town I met a husband and wife from Gurnee, Illinois. He was riding the Southern Tier route, and she was driving a support vehicle. As much as I love Texas it feels nice to talk about the Midwest with people who are from there.
Conclusion
The last few weeks have flown by. I made quick time through Louisiana and of all the places I’ve cycled it boasted the most interesting roadkill.
In just one day’s ride I saw an iguana, possum, racoon, catfish, and crawfish.
In the wake of tremendous flooding, enough frog carcasses covered the road to make the scenery resemble something out of a biblical plague.
I spent only two days riding through Mississippi, but wish it had been longer for I found the people and drivers to be among the friendliest I have ever encountered.
To be honest I did not see much of Alabama. I rode through the entire state in the span of 24 hours riding all through the night.
It was just before Easter weekend that I arrived in Florida. Still, St. Augustine was some 400 miles away. I was not able to let myself start thinking about the end because, due to lack of rain, forest fires threatened my route, raising concerns about road closures and unexpected wildfire alerts. On top of that, soon after my arrival, I came down with a fever and sore throat. After a day in bed and a two hour wait at a Minute Clinic it was full speed ahead!
Today, after 74 days on the road, I am excited to announce that I have completed a 3,300 miles journey across the United States of America!
As the Atlantic Ocean came into view I began to recollect on every trial I had endured to reach this exact moment in time. Our minds tend to remember with great accuracy the experience of hardships, and so it was with ease that I was able to recall every headwind, angry driver, endless mountain road, extreme temperature, and feeling of thirst and hunger. As I stood there staring out at that blue horizon I saw these memories in a new light. Over the course of the last two and a half months there had been moments of joy and exaltation, but the pain that had been experienced as well was necessary. Necessary, so that I could comprehend the cost by which accomplishments of magnitude are achieved.
After completing this journey I have made a promise to myself that I will pursue my goals with a greater sense of urgency than ever before. Life is so short and uncertain there can be no postponement. It is always now or never.
I would like to express my gratitude to the Robert H. Lurie Comprehensive Cancer Center, Les Turner ALS Foundation, and JourneyCare/Hospice. These three organizations endowed the ride with a mission and sense of purpose it could not have held otherwise. Riding for these causes gave me a mental fortitude to endure even the toughest days.
Thank you to all of you who have made this ride possible. The continued positive support throughout from messages of encouragement, to prayers, and the kind hosts along the way. God bless you all.