[Note:This is the story of my older brother Stuart, of Chalfont, Pennsylvania, who, with several other persons, traveled from the Pacific shore of the State of Washington to the Atlantic shore of the State of Maine by bicycle. He was seventy-seven years old at the time. It was a trip of joy, inspiration, learning, frustration, aches, determination, and success over various types of terrain and through various types of weather. Below is the story that he told our family several months after the completion. We hope that you will enjoy reading the story and will learn from the experiences of this adventurous group. The following summer, Stuart and his wife Helen followed the same route this time by automobile.
He has given us permission to use his story. A more detailed story about Stuart can be seen in “I Have a Story to Tell, Too”.]
Food was always purchased as near as possible to the campsites; but, many times, we had to carry the extra load 16 to 25 miles (26 to 40 km). Cooking and cleanup were handled very efficiently. On a rotating basis, two people purchased food to supply dinner, breakfast, and lunch; cooked dinner; and set up supplies for everyone to get their own breakfast and make their lunch. Also on a rotating continuum, two others were assigned cleanup duties. These two were then responsible for cooking on the following day. The cost for food and campsites was paid by the tour organization (from our fee for the tour). The organization is not-for-profit, so daily allotments for expenses not used were accumulated and used for emergency or such unforeseen expenses as motel allowances and special meals or amusement treats. Any remainder was divided and distributed at the end of the tour.
I flew to Seattle, Washington, on May 20, 1999. In the baggage collection area, there was a quiet corner where I could unpack my bike, put it together, and load all the equipment. This was an experience in itself. Two women were seated about 180 degrees apart on either side of me, intently watching everything I did. This was fortunate for me. Since the floor was a mottled tile, any small item dropped was difficult to see from directly above. The two ladies, being on a lower visibility angle, could easily see small items that dropped. What a help! They gleefully pointed out many items that were practically invisible to me. Later, a retired Baptist minister came over to inspect what I was doing. Apparently, he and the current Methodist minister in our local church attended the same seminary college. He was a fine gentleman, offered many good suggestions, and asked me to look up a friend of his in Westport, Washington, on the coast. Unfortunately I was unable to make contact with this friend, even with the help of local people.
On leaving the Seattle airport, I headed west across the Olympic Peninsula. After 2 1/2 days of riding, I was able to dip my bike wheels into the Pacific Ocean. In a second effort to find the minister’s friend, I stopped for information at the local Baptist church. The people were just sitting down to a business luncheon to plan their Vacation Bible School. Lucky for me, they invited me to join them. It was a great experience and a wonderful lunch. They were also helpful and gave me information regarding the gentleman I was trying to locate. However, he was away and could not be reached that day.
Returning to Seattle by a different route, I met with 12 other members of the group planning to ride from Seattle to Bar Harbor, Maine. The group ranged from college students and recent graduates, lawyers and tradesmen (between jobs) to retirees in their early to mid-sixties, plus little OLD me. The average age was 45 1/2. There were 5 females, 7 males, plus a male leader. The group included a housewife, students, lawyers, a policeman, an accountant, tradesmen, a therapist, an engineer, and some temporarily unemployed. It was a great group of personalities – and all wonderful people. We left Seattle on May 28, zigzagged along the coast north through Port Townsend to Route 20 and east from Anacortes.
The route from Seattle to Anacortes was rather trying. First, there was that animal instinct, for one-upmanship, to decide who were the best and fastest riders. Second, the local route maps had been set up by a Seattle bicycle club for weekend riders. They had selected roads that were great for short day rides, but not quite as flat and goal-oriented as normally chosen for touring. In this stretch, I got my reward for the weeks of training I missed with cellulites. During the ride across the Olympic Peninsula, my arthritic right knee became extremely irritated. Apparently, I was pushing myself too much; when, on the last day on the way back to Seattle, I was forced to put pressure on my left leg only; the right seemed to go around for the ride. I am thankful that one-leg pedaling had been part of my training, such that it wasn’t a complete shock.
Anyway, by end of May 30, I was seriously considering taking a bus back to Seattle before my return ticket to Philadelphia ran out! I called my wife Helen, and talked with our tour leader. They convinced me to keep trying. Someone suggested I take Ibuprofen to reduce the pain. It worked. Coupled with the arthritis was the subtle fact that my right eye had developed scar tissue. This distorted my vision a little and may have been at least partially responsible for a couple of misjudgments which resulted in two accidents that occurred when crossing a couple of narrow bridges. My front panniers caught the high curbing and threw me down. The first gave me only bruises; but, during the second, the epidermis was peeled back on a finger of my left hand, and I thought a passing car would run over my head. This last incident sent me to a clinic for treatment and shots. These accidents were very demoralizing, plus I felt I was holding other riders back. The leader and Helen encouraged me to continue. For this, I was not to be sorry.
East of Anacortes, scenic Route 20 gradually increased in elevation; and, by June 2, we started up the Cascades over Rainy Pass (4855 ft / 1480 m) and on up to Washington Pass (5477 ft / 1670 m). The elevation here was not as great as Logan Pass (6664 ft / 2032 m) at the Continental Divide; but it was the greatest one day climb, over 4200 ft (21280 m), of any other day for the entire trip. There were many days when we climbed 3000 ft (915 m), 2000 ft (610 m), and over 1500 ft (457 m) in that area west of the Rockies, but June 2 was the most for one day. To be honest, I hitched rides to the crests of the first couple of passes until my knee improved. Joy, the next younger in the group, a little wisp of a woman, 66 years old and mother of six, didn’t attempt to ride any of the passes.
The two of us rode most of the downhills together, except at Logan Pass when Joy was not feeling well and she rode the bus both up and down over the Continental Divide. Although I was the last up through Logan Pass, I rode it all the way. In one area on the way up, we went through snow that was 30 to 40 ft (9 to 12 m) high on the down side and 20 to 30 ft (6 to 9 m) higher on the upside. Such areas had been tested and checked for potential avalanches, and all was felt to be quite safe. At the summit rest area, they were just starting to clear the 5 to 8 ft (1.5 to 2.5 m) of snow covering the parking lot at the rest stop. All facilities were still closed. It is a gorgeous scenic ride, but I enjoyed the western side more than the eastern. Maybe it’s because I stopped often on the way up and had time to enjoy the scenery, whereas, on the way down, I traveled right along with the cars and had to maintain continual vigilance in case they should decide to slow down and/or stop. This erratic traffic pattern caused me to completely miss seeing a large horned mountain goat standing high up on a snow bank right beside the road.
Climbing is entirely different, the cars whiz by the slowly moving bicyclists. Bicycles are not permitted to climb to Logan Pass between 11:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. (heavy traffic hours); however, there are no restrictions for going downhill. We therefore left camp before 5:30 a.m. to make the 22+ miles (35+ km) to the Pass so we would not have to wait 5 hours part way up. Anyway, I doubt they would have enforced the ruling on that first day the pass was officially opened. At least I can say I was the twelfth bicyclist to cross the pass in 1999. The thirteenth came up the eastern slope, loaded down with ski equipment. He was the first from that side. The ride down was delightful, and once below the snow line and was not nearly as cold. It was not as cold as most of the previous descents, where you had to stop at times to warm up. It was slightly unnerving on a couple of the first mountains, where they had big highway trucks traveling up and down watching for falling debris (huge rocks, logs, and tree trunks). Also, seeing gigantic snow blowers standing by caused one to wonder about avalanche hazards. This was all after the first of June – from Washington Pass till we crossed the Continental Divide on the fifteenth. We traveled over five passes in 165 miles (266 km). Then we were on that 2000 to 3000 ft (610 to 915 m) plateau between Ione, Washington, and West Glacier, Montana.
The various climates and terrains between ranges were most interesting. The Okanogan Valley along Route 20 was just the same as up in British Columbia (Kelowna area). Each valley seemed to have its own characteristics.
After St Mary, Montana, we followed the foothills along Chief Mountain International Highway north into Canada and Waterton Village. We were supposed to have a layover day here, but had to trade it for the day we waited at Lake McDonald, on the west side of Logan Pass. Leaving Waterton Village, a beautiful resort town, nestled beside a large lake and surrounded on three sides by snow capped mountains, we rode northeast to Magrath, Alberta, then south to Cut Bank, Montana. During the four days, while riding from St Mary, Montana, into Canada and back south of Magrath, Alberta, we could plainly see the Rockies and distinguish a specific mountain or two. It made one wonder what thoughts the early trappers and settlers experienced as they approached that forbidding barrier. To me, the ride thus far had been awe-inspiring, beautiful, and very spiritually moving.
It was this leading portion of the route which solidified my desire to revisit this incredible terrain the following summer (by car). I realized that anything so impressive, both visually and spiritually should be shared with my wife, Helen. This is not to imply that this portion was more beautiful than other areas of the route, but it was a most emotional experience for me. I just felt that I could have been even more fulfilled had Helen been there to enjoy it with me. Thus, our plans for the next summer would include most of this specific section of the bike tour route.
From Cut Bank, Montana, we followed Route 2 as far as Williston, North Dakota. It seemed to take forever to cross Montana! The road and railroad seem to go hand in hand or side by side across this state. The trainmen waved and tooted as they approached or passed bike riders. It was a great feeling to be greeted this way. It helped to dissipate that lonely feeling one experiences when other humans are out of sight. You see, we didn’t always ride in a group or with other individuals. This same feeling occurred when truckers and some car drivers gave a warm greeting or would go out of their way to give assistance. I was alone, but not alone, and sincerely moved by the friendliness of others. The towns along this portion of the route seemed to have come off the same architect’s drafting table. They were set up with one right or left hand pattern like row houses or development layouts of today. The towns are entered by means of an underpass under the railroad. At the exit, all the structures were identical. Apparently, the railroad supplied the town layout to encourage settlers, who, in return, would supply the company with business.
Some of us took time to tour various museums along the way. One unique tour I took was into the underground town at Havre. The town was destroyed by fire in 1908, and every home and business operated in the basements for several years until rebuilt with brick rather than the previous wood. A small Phillips County museum contained an amazing amount of dinosaur remains. All had been discovered locally. There was a fascinating Indian Museum in Chinook. In Glasgow, Montana, we stayed a day and visited Fort Peck and the earthen dam that stretches across the Missouri River valley. The dam is four miles long, and it took 20 years to build and get the hydroelectric power operating. Back in Glasgow, a local grocery store put on an appreciation luncheon for everyone in the town. The place was mobbed, and the luncheon was excellent. When you are on the road, you really can’t pass up any free-bees. What a variety of experiences! Not the least of which were the high winds, which we called the “Montana Express”. It was not unusual, when riding on flat terrain and standing high on the pedals, to be blown along at over 20 mph (32 kph).
On leaving Montana, half of the group made a detour to visit Fort Union Trading Post on the Missouri. I nearly ran over a rattlesnake just outside the fort. I sure kept my eyes open after that! It was interesting to see and learn how they kept mutually unfriendly tribes separate when they simultaneously came to trade at the fort. There was a sizeable exhibit on John Audubon and his wildlife painting when he visited the area. Apparently he was not as great a conservationist as one would expect. His models were all birds collected, killed by a group of employees, then mounted in the postures as seen in his paintings. Apparently, the society named in his honour is not too proud of this situation as they attempt to keep it a big, dark secret. I wonder if that is one of the reasons why Montana and North Dakota do not have Audubon Societies? Now that makes me recall something else which seemed strange. There was a noticeable lack of carrion to clean up road kill. Even crows were missing. Is it because of the lack of such habitat as trees?
The ride now followed closely the Lewis and Clark Trail. One of our campsites was in the Lewis and Clark State Park. It had great facilities beside Lake Sakakawea. Crossing North Dakota, we heard rumors about having its state status revised as there are so few people living there. Talking to three farmers in a restaurant one morning, we were advised that they were a part of the diminishing number of farmer-land owners left in their area. Most of the individual farms have been sold to out-of-state corporations, which each own and operate 20,000 to 24,000 acres (8,094 to 9,712 hectares) of land. The state seems almost desolate, with rotting houses and barns and no signs of animal life, just large areas of cash cropping. The town of Rugby was interesting. A large cairn on Route 2 indicates the “Geographical Center of North America, Rugby, ND”. We setup camp at an RV site just across the road. To the east of Rugby, another strange situation is occurring at Devil’s Lake. The former town of Minnewaukan is becoming a ghost town. Most of the stores and shops are closed. The lake used to be about 10 miles (13 km) east of town. In the last few years, the water has risen over twenty-four feet and is threatening their sewer system. The state plans to evacuate the rest of the town if the water level continues to rise. Traveling past the lake, we saw that the roads have been built up on dike-like understructure to remain above water.
Continuing on to West Fargo, we found our campsite was located in the former path of a tornado which had passed through just two days earlier. The devastation was considerable, but quite localized. Huge grain storage silos and trees, plus a few homes, were crumpled like paper toys. After crossing the Red River, we entered a new land, Minnesota! The Nordic influence was obvious, featuring small prosperous-looking farms with neat, well-manicured yards and nicely maintained and painted buildings, plus more and more trees. Traveling on towards Lake Itasca, we noted that the land seemed to become marshy, with a proliferation of small lakes. We were told this condition started about 8 years previously, and is getting worse. As we rode into a strong head wind under a heavily overcast sky with a low flying layer of purple black clouds, there were a few flashes of lightning followed by heavy rain. Then the wind began to shift, and the scudding clouds followed, similarly did the rain. Before it was over, the wind had rotated a full 360 degrees. In effect, we got wet fore and aft. I was concerned about a possible tornado, so stopped under some dense bushes near farm buildings while watching and waiting to see what might happen next. Fortunately, the storm passed over without any damage. It was a bit scary.
Lake Itasca, a beautiful lake, is the official source of the great Mississippi River. We had a layover here, staying in an International Youth Hostel, a large single-story log cabin with outstanding facilities. We utilized several hostels on our trip, but this was by far the best. The following day, we traveled about the park, taking a boat ride around the lake and just relaxing. The lake had tremendous wild rice fields along its shoreline. The Indians used to fight over the rights for those paddies. Eventually, the white man helped them arbitrate and share the crop – before driving them westward. The Indians still harvest most of the rice. The effluent stream is just a small creek with a flattened log spanning it so you may cross over and walk along the lakeshore. However, in just a few miles, after meandering northward through marshland and several lakes, this small stream grows rapidly; by the time it heads south on its way to the Gulf of Mexico, it takes on the characteristics of the mighty Mississippi.
The next day, we followed the river north to Lake Bemidji and had a pontoon boat ride on Cass Lake. This lake contains an island, which also contains a lake. Thus, some of the local summer homes have their front and back each facing onto a different lake. Rather unusual! The mosquitoes were anything but usual. They gang-up in hordes outside your tent, waiting for the slightest opening; and, if found, you are minus some blood. The following evening I wondered how the inside of my tent got spattered with blood, then realized I had rolled it up with well fed mosquitoes inside. No wonder I thinned down on the ride.
We followed the Mississippi to Aitkin, Minnesota, then headed south to the towns of Isle and Cambridge, then east to Osceola, Wisconsin, on the St. Croix River, then southwest through St. Paul to Minneapolis for another layover in another hostel. We followed a trail, which once was a trolley line, into St. Paul and part way to the hostel in Minneapolis. The hostel was near the University of Minnesota campus and across the street from the art museum. There were many good restaurants in the area. I thoroughly enjoyed the vine-covered garden beside the Black Forest Inn, where we had dinner both evenings. Leaving Minneapolis, we took bike paths along the river for several miles before heading cross country to Red Wing, Minnesota, back on the Mississippi again. Heading south from there, the route along the river and Lake Pepin into Iowa was terrific and a very delightful ride.
We passed through Wabasha and to Marquette, Iowa, then left the river and meandered south to Davenport. During this portion of the ride, the temperature began to rise dramatically. Several were having serious problems coping with the heat. To avoid extensive dispersal of the group during the day, the leader set up meeting points where all would meet. In this manner our terminal point for the day could be changed to accommodate conditions. On Friday July 23, the temperature climbed into the high 90s F (30s C); and at the assigned meeting place conditions appeared very bleak. Reports were received that all facilities near the proposed evening campsite and all motel facilities were zero (workers on a gas/oil pipeline from Alberta to Chicago had everything booked for weeks). What to do?
One in our group was talking with a local lady, asking if she was aware of any possible accommodations, such as an air-conditioned church or any place that she might know where we could get in out of the heat. She requested him to wait while she made some inquires, and came back with exciting news. After talking to the mayor, she reported we could use the senior citizen facilities. That was music to our ears! The building was air-conditioned, with an excellent kitchen, couches, tables, and plenty of space to spread our sleeping bags. They even opened the local museum for us and called a county newspaper reporter in to publicize the whole affair. That evening, we really appreciated being inside, away from a gigantic thunder and wind storm that swept through the area. The next day, riding into Davenport, Iowa, we frequently skirted around fallen branches and trees. We sure gave thanks to the senior citizens of Oxford Junction.
In Davenport, we stayed in a private air-conditioned home where we enjoyed a rest day. The hosts permitted us to sleep anywhere we could find space for our sleeping bags. Their neighbours invited us all to use their pool. What a delight that we avoided riding in temperatures well up over 105°F (41°C) the next day! From Davenport, we left the Ole Miss and headed across Illinois, through Kewanee, Cornell, to Iroquois. Here, my son-in-law, Dick Pring, and his daughters Sharon and Susan met me at our campsite. It was July 28, and Dick brought me a treat, the first tomato from his garden. What a pleasure to see someone I know (not to mention a fresh tomato to eat)! Wow! Carol Anne (our daughter, Dicks wife) was in Michigan on a business trip, and planned to meet me in a couple of days. However, she arrived home earlier than expected and surprised me the next evening in a little hamlet called Fletcher, Illinois. The following morning we left camp very early in a dense fog in order to put in as many miles as possible while it was still cool.
The next town was Huntington, Indiana, then Monroeville, also in Indiana. Each year, the town fathers and many citizens of Monroeville make a big effort to accommodate cross-country bikers. They opened up their large air-conditioned pavilion and provided fruits and treats. They even brought in the local newspaper reporter, who wrote a big spread in their paper, with pictures and the whole bit. This was very nice and one appreciated their kind welcome and good wishes, plus the great accommodations. The next morning, we were riding along in a group when a rider in front of me suddenly stopped to pick something up off the road. I was not watching, and, in my effort to avoid a big collision, crashed on the road shoulder. I may have cracked a rib since it hurt to take a deep breathe even after the end of the trip. Oh well, one must learn to look always where one is going. No more accidents after that for me!
We headed east through Grand Rapids, Ohio, and on to Bowling Green, a nice college town, for a day layover. Traveling more northeast via Avery, we stopped in Lakewood, adjacent to Cleveland. It sure was pretty riding along Lake Erie, through Erie, Pennsylvania, and on to Dunkirk, New York. We continued through Tonawanda into Buffalo, taking poorly marked bike paths to the Peace Bridge. Crossing the border into Fort Erie, Ontario, we followed the bike path in the park along the river into Niagara Falls. This was August 9; and the area was so crowded with tourists, we couldn’t push our way up to the stone wall to get a clear view of the falls and the boats beneath. I felt sorry for those in our group, who had never seen the area previously.
We stayed at a hostel located within a block of the old car/railroad bridge. Helen’s nephew and his wife drove over from Toronto to treat me to a delightful Sushi (Japanese) dinner. The restaurant was located in a remodeled warehouse on a hill above the falls, near the former Seagram’s Tower. The next day, we took a bus tour to numerous highlighted locations in Niagara Falls and Niagara-on-the-Lake, including a hike down into the river gorge and the shoreline of the Whirlpool Rapids.
The next day, Aug 11, we headed for the historical Erie Canal at Lockport, New York. We followed the canal east and through Rochester to Palmyra before going north to Lake Ontario. By August 13, we reached the eastern end of the lake in the Port Ontario / Pulaski area. Here we stayed at the summer home of a friend from South Carolina. He and his wife have a great cottage right on the lake shore. It rained most of that afternoon, so we were extremely happy to be in out of the weather. I had met the couple in 1998 when five of us rode from Chalfont, Pennsylvania, to Alfred, New York, to a big reunion at one of the universities there. He, Russ, and Elliott, another friend and fellow biker, are alumni of Alfred University. That was another interesting ride.
Continuing east, our next challenges were the Adirondacks, the Allegheny and Appalachian Mountains of eastern New York, through Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. The hills were not as long or as high as encountered in Washington and Idaho, but the grades were steeper. It was not uncommon to have 11 and 13 degree climbs compared with a maximum of 7 out west. There were several places where I had to push the bike up a sudden steep incline. Coming across the plains apparently softened up the muscles. The scenery was well worth the hard work. There were numerous lakes and streams with lots of shade to protect us from the hot sun.
After we crossed Vermont, a previous member of our group who had left us to drive home when we were in Davenport, Iowa, met us at a campsite. She and her husband prepared a complete dinner with all the extra trimmings for everyone, and brought it all to our camp. It sure was a great treat, plus we enjoyed the reunion. In New Hampshire, the wife of a member joined her husband for a couple of days. They stayed at a bed and breakfast near our campsite. The next morning, for our layover day, they prepared a delicious pancake breakfast for all. That evening, one of our members had a serious accident when he lost control riding down a hill. He had broken his collarbone, but refused to stay in the hospital or accept a ride in a vehicle. We helped him as best we could, but he was adamant about completing the ride to Bar Harbor, no matter how much pain he suffered.
Continuing on, we arrived at the pretty seaside town of Camden, Maine. We splurged on a delicious Maine lobster dinner. Oh, was that goo-ood! The ride along the seacoast and on to Bar Harbor was picturesque and delightful. On August 27, we gathered at the outskirts of Bar Harbor, and all rode together down to the harbor. Here we had a joyful celebration, dunking our wheels into the Atlantic Ocean. Several literally threw themselves into the water (but not their bikes). Many had friends and family meet them. All joined in the celebration. There was much excitement and happiness that the tour was officially completed. It sure was nice to meet many of the families. Joy, the 66-year-old mother, met her daughter from Boston, whom she had not seen for a couple of years. She was so excited during that final days ride we could hardly keep up with her. A couple from Chalfont, with whom I bicycle, were on a trip to Cape Cod and went out of their way to meet me here in Maine. How thoughtful of them! They stayed overnight, so we toured the area by car and had dinner and breakfast together.
Bar Harbor is located on an island. The island is not very large, and it attracts many tourists. To reduce traffic in the area, they have five different bus routes on which you may tour all over for free. Terrific! So, on my rest day before starting my solitary ride for Chalfont and home, I capitalized on this opportunity to sightsee. I also spent time in the library trying to write cards. It was interesting there as they were having a clearance sale on extra books, old books, and other items. There were books everywhere; only a couple of tables were available for use. If I had been traveling by car, I might have bought a few. During the tour I was surprised to see surplus book sales in several towns. Maybe this summer Helen and I will be able to stop and browse through more of them.
On Sunday, August 29, I arose before daylight, quietly packed my gear, and left the hostel after whispering a brief farewell to two remaining tour members. I rode back over the route, we had taken into Bar Harbor then west to a little town, Monroe, Maine. Here I visited the daughter of an old college friend and her family. Monday, I made a beeline south to follow the east coast. It was a great adventure being on my own again, enjoying the scenery and the quaint, early to mid-seventeenth century towns. It was a pleasure to be without regard for a fixed schedule. Along the way, it was unexpected to have so many people, including motorists, stop me to ask where I was going and where I had been. While riding past one church, the minister ran out and stopped me. He wanted to ask how and where to obtain information regarding maps and trip planning. He was interested in preparing a long and interesting tour for members of his church. It is amazing to find, that when touring on a bicycle, you may be alone, but you never feel isolated. The vast majority of people you encounter do not feel threatened by bicyclists, and for the most part they are very friendly.
In Lowell, Massachusetts, the road meandered through streets where the route numbers were unmarked. I stopped several times to ask directions and received enthusiastic assistance. One cheerful young man accompanied me on his bicycle for short time; but after nearly 15 miles, when I arrived at the same intersection for the third time, I stopped at a service station and obtained proper directions. The humour of my ride through Lowell struck me finally on my way out of town. There was a long hill having a couple of very steep sections. I was forced to walk these short sections. I arrived at the top, where staring me in the face was a large beautifully maintained sign. The inscription read “DEAD HORSE HILL”.
That evening, in Enfield, Connecticut, when I was talking with Tom (our son) and Helen, they emphatically informed me, to stay at the motel as they were coming to meet me and would pick me up Saturday. There was a big hurricane heading up the coast, and they were anxious that I avoid having to ride through the heavy rains associated therewith. Helen said, “You’ve been away long enough, we’re going to pick you up, and that’s it!” I was easily convinced! They kept their word, and I was back in my own bed on Saturday, Sept 4th, after being away since May 20th. It was disappointing to miss riding all the way to Chalfont, but I was more than happy to relax and enjoy what had been accomplished.
In summary, I rode 274 mi (441 km) across the Olympic Peninsula and back, 4580 mi (7370 km) from Seattle to Bar Harbor, and 370 mi (595 km) from Bar Harbor to Enfield, Connecticut – a total of 5224 mi (8407 km). Not bad for an old codger!