The Mick's adventure ended, just as mine was beginning.
Twenty years ago, I lived in Ohio and the state to the north lived almost only in my imagination. I had been to Ann Arbor in 1983, but that was the only time that I had ever set foot in Michigan. I had heard that the northern part of the lower peninsula was very scenic, and since I had some vacation time to use, I decided to try something different; to explore a part of the country that I had never seen before, doing something I had never done before; a self supported bicycling tour. I quickly decided that this would not be your rugged outdoorsman camping out while hauling 50 pounds of stuff tour, but a semi-roughing it tour; hauling 12 pounds in a pack on top of a rear rack, while riding from motel to motel, each reservation made in advance. Exercise and exploration during the day, followed by a nice dinner and a restful sleep at night. Baby steps, Rick, baby steps.
So, on Saturday, August 12, 1995, I drove from the suburbs of Columbus to Alpena to see what would happen next. What happened next was rain, something that I was able to observe after opening the drapes of my motel room the following morning. I turned on the Weather Channel to see the extent of this particular non-conducive-towards-cycling weather phenomenon. The entire 48 contiguous states were green blob free, except for a patch of green in the western part of the upper peninsula and a patch of green centered on Alpena. I ate breakfast while watching the rain and waited it out, finally starting my tour at about 9:00 A.M.
An hour later on Long Rapids Road, the sky began to turn an unhealthy shade of black (as opposed to a healthy shade of black), punctuated by lightning bolts and thunder. I began looking for shelter, and since there was none to be had, I opted for the drainage ditch conveniently located by the side of the road. With my steel framed bicycle placed a prudent distance away, I spent 20 minutes crouched in the ditch, pelted by rain. I wanted adventure and adventure was what I was getting. Then, I began riding again, but not before commemorating this event by taking a picture of the spot where I crouched. I'm looking at this picture now, although technically, I'm not looking at it while typing, because if I were, this sentence would look domryhinh likr yhid.
Then, while riding on M-32 an hour later, the sky turned black again and I began thinking about paying a visit to my buddy the drainage ditch that was still conveniently located nearby. However, I was spared my second crouch of the day, by the fortuitous appearance of a convenience store that I reached less than a minute prior to more pouring rain, lightning, and thunder.
Without any other thunderstorms to deal with, I rode to Gaylord, found my motel, checked in, and turned on the TV. It was there that I found out that Mickey Mantle had died. Now, unlike certain members of my age cohort, those of the New York persuasion, such as Bob Costas and Billy Crystal, I had no love for Mickey Mantle and even less love for the New York Yankees, a team that monotonously won the American League pennant almost every year during my baseball formative years in suburban Chicago. Derek Jeter's tragic flaw is that he played for the wrong team. Still, I had to respect what Mantle had done on the field, if not what he had done off the field. Years of hard living had taken its toll, and while he had lived to regret those things that he had done, it was not enough to allow him to actually live to a ripe old age. So, I didn't think too much about this news, and I proceeded to revel in the alpine heritage of Gaylord by eating at a Mexican restaurant, and I still wonder why Taco Bell doesn't serve bratwurst.
The next day, I began the ride by snapping a shifting cable in the parking lot of the motel. Then, after another delayed start in order to get the cable replaced at a local bike shop; I took a circuitous route from Gaylord to Petoskey by way of Boyne City, East Jordan, and Charlevoix, where I missed riding down DALMAC's infamous The Wall by a few miles. If I had actually ridden down that hill, it is likely that I would still have white knuckles to this day. I didn't get my kicks on M-66 between East Jordan and Charlevoix, a busy road with little shoulder, but riding between Charlevoix and Petoskey, I found that US-31 was also busy, as US highways usually are, but not as shoulder-challenged. I spent the night in the yellow-hued Stafford-Perry Inn and was also treated by a yellow-hued sunset that evening, also commemorated via photograph.
The third day, the motel that awaited me was in Mackinaw City, and I rode there by way of Conway, Harbor Springs, and The Tunnel of Trees, which would have lived up to its scenic reputation, if I had ever heard of it before. I stopped at Cross Village to take a picture of the cross, but, unfortunately, not to take a picture of the legs on the top of Legs Inn. Once in Mackinaw City, I ate some forgettable pizza, while soaking in the honky-tonk atmosphere, which made me look forward to taking my bicycle over to Mackinac Island the next day.
My day on Mackinac Island was spent riding on almost every road that the island had to offer and taking pictures, pictures that I wouldn't be looking at now, if I hadn't retrieved my camera after inadvertently leaving it (as opposed to leaving it on purpose) on a railing at the Mackinac Island Airport. Soon after arriving on the island, I began to suspect that fudge was being sold there, and I was able to track some down after my ride; the post ride nutritional replenishment of choice for serious cyclists everywhere. Then it was time to get back on the ferry to return to the touristy delights of Mackinaw City.
The fifth and final day of my tour was dominated by an all day rain. Riding in the rain to a pancake place for breakfast. Riding back to my motel in the rain. Leaving the motel in the rain to ride back to Alpena and to my car. I did much of my riding on US-23, hugging Lake Huron, which would have been more scenic had it not been for the ________ (fill in the word here), although I did take a side trip to the Presque Isle Lighthouse, where the weather cooperated. I only had to put up with a drizzle while exploring the lighthouse grounds. The last 20 miles to Alpena were the fastest 20 miles of my tour, as I just wanted to be done with it, and 15 minutes after I finished, it stopped raining. Since we lived in a less self-aggrandizing age back then (or maybe it's just the nostalgia talking), where the concept of a "selfie" was unheard of, the only picture of me that I took during my tour was at the finish; a picture from the thighs down, preserving for posterity a lovely display of my grime covered legs and bicycle. After cleaning both of us up, I rewarded myself with dinner at a steakhouse that night, got a good night's sleep, and drove back to Ohio on Friday.
The next day, I opened up the newspaper and read a small article in the business section announcing that a merger between Upjohn and Pharmacia was imminent. I had heard rumors about this merger, but I had heard rumors about other mergers, so I paid it little mind. However, this time the rumor was true, as I found out, when I came to work on Monday. I immediately knew that our facility would eventually be closed and that if I wanted to keep my job, I would be moving to Kalamazoo. Had I known about this earlier, I might have made a detour through Kalamazoo before heading home, just to make sure that the place wasn't some sort of a hellhole. But I was eventually able to determine that it wasn't, and 10 months later, I moved to the state where I had just been for the second time in my life.
I think it's reasonable to say that I've given Mickey Mantle very little thought during the past 20 years and I haven't thought a lot about that bike tour, either. But round numbered anniversaries being what they are, I've given both of these items more thought lately. Coming from a family of men who had died young, Mantle used to say that if he had known that he was going to live this long, he would have taken a lot better care of himself. The transition from a small town in Oklahoma where he grew up to New York City and all its temptations couldn't have helped. As for me, the opportunities for carousing adventures weren't as great in Kalamazoo as they were in New York City (although I'm open to arguments to the contrary) or Columbus, for that matter, and I'm not the carousing sort, anyway. Also, unlike Mickey Mantle, the only weakness that I have for strong drink involves the consumption of Mountain Dew. (And it includes orange juice, so it's good for you!)
I'm now the same age as Mantle was when he died, and I like to think that I've taken good care of myself, except for my knees. So, I also like to think that there are more than a few bicycle adventures in my future. Ones without thunderstorms, steady rains, and mediocre pizza, but even those have been key parts of my cycling adventures.
Rick Whaley, KBC Newsletter Editor
