This week’s column continues with more adventures that took place during my cross-country bicycle trip back in 1980.

There were many groups and individuals following the same ‘Bikecentennial’ route as our little group. But we were a bit different from most groups. The disciplined cyclists that we met on the road would follow the logical method of getting up at the crack of dawn and hitting the road long before the heat of the day set in. Very often we would sleep late. Clarke was especially difficult to wake from his deep slumber. Rick would use his mornings writing in his journal and plotting out our day’s destination with the official ‘Bikecentennial’ maps.

Sometimes it would be 11:00 a.m. and we would still be packing up and getting ready to go as the heat of the day was just beginning. We my not have been the most logical group of cyclists, but we were the happiest.

As a matter of fact, we were so happy that cyclists that belonged to other organized groups quit their disciplined group and joined our more laid-back group. Although we never shanghaied anyone, (they came to us voluntarily) we were dubbed: “The Pirates”. I believe the leader of the organized group coined that term. With our unhurried group, we allowed ourselves to sleep late, go to bars, and stay with people we met along the way. But somehow, all these side ventures never put us behind schedule. We also picked up individual riders, who were alone on the trail.

One such individual was Greg.

We called him “Mr. Natural” because he was a strict vegetarian. He got his protein from beans and peanut butter. As vegetarian as he was, he was quick to mock himself and all garden gobblers in a squeaky whiney voice with such comments as: “ Don’t kill the animals, man. They never hurt you.”

Greg had a weathered complexion, a scraggily beard, and hair to his waist. He was a real vagabond as he toured the country on his bicycle in the warm months and considered himself a ski bum in the cold months. He was able to hold a job for a few months at a ski resort in Canada. He would earn a load of cash, trade it in for traveler’s checks, and then hit the road again in the spring.

Out west, we would often find dead rattlesnakes in the middle of the road. At night the snakes would seek the heat of the pavement that had been absorbed during the day. Nighttime traffic would run over the snakes. Sometimes I would cut the rattles from the snakes and tie them to my bike helmet. The rattles would be added to a collection of large feathers we had found along the way. The further we traveled west, the more motley our crew came to be.

We would attract attention whenever we would enter a small restaurant or a bar, with our grizzly beards, fingerless bicycle gloves, and rattlesnake rattle-ridden helmets. We may have looked rough and bedraggled, but we were always super friendly and the local population always returned the friendliness. After all, we were a bicycle gang, not a motorcycle gang.

As rough and ready as we appeared, we attracted the rough and ready characters. We made friends with a group of young locals at the Hoof and Horn Saloon in Kremmling, Colorado. We exchanged adventure stories over a few beers. Not to be out-adventured, the local boys invited us to an adventure that night that we would never forget. Our goal was to find a herd of wild elk that hangs out on the outskirts of town.

It was a moonless night, which made it super dark. The local boys knew where they were going. We just stumbled along on foot behind them. At one point, we traversed a high fence and then made our way out of town into a dark deserted field. As we were in total darkness, we heard the sound of mighty hooves coming toward us. It suddenly dawned on me that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

Our guides whispered to us not to move or make any noise. We could tell by sound, not by sight, that the elk had surrounded us. It was so dark that only a slight silhouette of the huge animals were visible to the human eye. This was an incredible audio experience set in surround-sound. The elk had better eye sight than us humans and they were just interested in who was trespassing on their turf. We could hear their breathing and feel their body heat.

I thought for a minute that this was our final adventure, but soon the herd scattered and we made it safely back to camp. The Pirates hit the road the next morning looking for new adventures. If anyone has any comments about this column, please drop me a note. I will add it to my notes. John Halley, jhalley@athensmessenger.com

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