“Delivered under the similitude of a dream, wherein is discovered the manner of his setting out, his dangerous journey, and safe arrival at the desired country.”
John Bunyan
“The Pilgrims Progress”
When I first started thinking about touring the United States by bicycle, nothing captured my imagination quite like the thought of visiting the Grand Canyon on my bicycle. Looking back at previous visits, my memories seemed blurred, as if the speed of traveling there by car, along with the general lack of sensory input provided by physically climbing each hill along the way, for example, or breathing the air along the way, or feeling the sun on my skin, had somehow diminished the experience.
For most of us, our national parks are truly dreamlike, most often viewed through the windshield of a car at breakneck speed without any real physical contact. This is a travel experience which is akin to turning the pages of a travel book without actually visiting. One of the great joys of visiting these magnificent places by bicycle is to be able to replace these dreamlike memories with something more tangible.
Now, after visiting the Grand Canyon by bicycle, I treasure the memory of camping just feet from the canyon rim surrounded by hundreds of small, beautiful pieces of petrified wood scattered about on the ground. On a subsequent visit, a tail wind swirled early snow flurries past me as I bicycled along, giving me a strange feeling of vertigo. Looking into the canyon as the snow fell, sun beams fell on distant canyon walls while other parts were obscured by mist and snow. At the same time, all these memories are joined with the memory of feeling cold and damp.
As I descended away from the canyon towards the town of Cameron, a Native American woman and her teenage daughter stopped in their battered old pickup to see if I needed a lift due to the snow and cold. I assured them that I was fine and thanked them for checking on me. They seemed unconvinced, but allowed me to go my way. I have found most Americans I have met on my journey to be very interested in my journey, concerned for my comfort and safety, and incredibly helpful in times of need!
The Grand Canyon is just one of the spectacular destinations along my route. I have labeled these areas of great scenic beauty the “American Dreamscape.” In the list below, I include a brief descriptive phrase and a piece of music which help capture the spirit of each place. My hope is that this list will provide inspiration for your journey. The destinations are listed in the order they are visited on my route.
Natchez Trace Parkway, most historic, Robert Johnson, “From Four Until Late”
Blue Ridge Parkway, most shades of blue, Ralph Stanley, “Lift Him Up, That’s All”
Nebraska Sand Hills, most tranquil, Charles Mingus, “Myself When I Am Real”
Glacier National Park, most majestic, Mozart, Symphony 40
Olympic National Park, Hoh Rain Forest, most mysterious, Phillip Glass, String Quartet 5
Avenue of the Giants, giant redwood trees, most sacred, Bach, Mass in B minor
Yosemite National Park, most photogenic, Woodie Guthrie, “California Stars” (Billie Bragg & Wilco)
Joshua Tree National Park, most childlike, Gram Parsons, “I Am A Pilgrim” (The Byrds, “Sweetheart of the Rodeo”)
Grand Canyon National Park, most grand, Bob Dylan, “Every Grain of Sand”
Big Bend National Park, most vast, Butch Hancock, “Long Sunsets”
These scenic wonders and my experiences bicycling through them will be revisited in greater detail in later chapters which focus on each section of the route.
Music, in my opinion, is an essential companion for the purpose of bringing the American Dreamscape to life. Chapter 9 focuses on the music of certain important American artists and Appendix 7 documents the complete playlist for my journey, including all the music mentioned in this book.
As I spin down the highways of America, I find that the music in my ears begins to mirror the world passing by. Of course this doesn’t happen in perfect harmony, instead there is a jagged symphony of uneven beats and melodies. This musical symphony is sometimes transcendent, sometimes disturbing, and most definitely never boring.
Despite some safety concerns, such as keeping the volume set low enough to still be aware of traffic noises, I listen to music while riding almost everyday. Listening to music, particularly American music, has greatly enriched my bicycle journey.
America’s Place Names
“It was precisely in the sounding of the names of the country’s distant places, in its spaciousness, in the dialects and the landscapes that were at once so American yet so unlike my own that a youngster with my susceptibilities found the most potent lyrical appeal.”
Philip Roth
“I Have Fallen In Love With American Names”
One of the particular joys of long distance cycling is the opportunity it provides for letting your mind wander. A bridge takes me across Sandy Creek, for example, and I look down to see if the creek really is sandy. Yes, there is plenty of sand. This, in turn, gets me thinking about the names of places.
I have never had an opportunity to name a place. The only significant naming task I’ve been responsible for was the naming of my children. I always feel a bit surprised when I see road signs with names that derive from the family that apparently still lives down a particular road. Robinson Road leads to the Robinson Ranch, for example. Surely, the Robinsons would seem to know their place in the world!
The thought occurs to me that we assign names to the features of the landscape to make it easier to refer to things. “I saw a bear on Rabbit Ear Mountain” is much more precise than saying “I saw a bear over that way.” Perhaps we also assign names to things in order to gain power over them. To wander in a landscape whose features lack names strikes me as much scarier than wandering in a landscape whose features have names.
What might happen in a world without names? In Lewis Carroll’s “Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There,” Alice comes upon a woods where things do not have names. Suddenly, she doesn’t know what to call herself or anything around her. She is joined by a fawn that walks by her side through the woods. The fawn is contented and unafraid. Walking together they come upon a clearing where name recognition suddenly returns. The fawn bounds away and Alice is left alone and terribly sad. This parable suggests that human language separates us from the natural world.
A compelling name, however, can serve to strengthen our emotional attachment to the landscape. The person who named “Enchanted Rock,” a beloved feature of the Texas Hill Country near Fredericksburg, was a marketing genius! Texans simply adore “Enchanted Rock!” Would they feel the same had it been named “Big Rock?”
An even better example is the “Going To The Sun Road” in Glacier National Park. Apparently, just about everyone who visits Glacier National Park wants to travel on the “Going To The Sun Road,” including me. Traffic on this beautiful mountain road is extremely heavy. It even has a rush hour on certain sections when bicycles are not allowed in order to help accommodate all the traffic. Obviously, a name can be a very powerful influence!
I am pedaling across east Texas as I write this essay and I decide to visit Carthage, Texas. Virtually every state has an Athens, a Carthage, a Rome, and a Troy. Such grand names suggest that the founders of these American cities hoped some of the luster of these ancient cities might rub off on their city. Oftentimes, however, as is the case with Carthage, Texas, the namesake city is small, economically challenged, and nondescript. The incongruity of its name is just one more burden for it to carry.
Entering the nearby town of Reklaw, Texas, I am greeted by a sign which announces the name of the town as follows, “Reklaw, Walker spelled backward, stop and ask.” I would have stopped and asked why the town was named Reklaw, which is Walker spelled backward, but there was not a single person in sight and not a single business in the tiny town. Again, my mind starts to wander. Perhaps the citizens resented the local sheriff whose name was Walker. Maybe they selected the subversive sounding “Reklaw” as in “wreck the law” to not so subtly express their opinion of Mr. Walker!
In year seven of my journey, I finally had an opportunity to ask a local resident of Reklaw why the town’s name is Walker spelled backward. The answer was straightforward. In a time before zip codes, postal regulations did not allow two towns to have the same name within the same state. There was already another Walker, Texas. By spelling Walker backward to produce the name Reklaw, the person registering the town name hoped to avoid any further issues, since it was unlikely that there would be another Reklaw. The same thing happened with another nearby town. The name Lucas was already being used. Lucas spelled backwards produced the rather strange Sacul. If you follow my route, you will see a sign for Sacul as you are leaving Reklaw. If you ever have a problem registering an email address or domain name because someone else is using the name, try submitting the name spelled backward!
Not too far from Reklaw, I stop in the town of Timpson. I use the side of the Dollar General building in Timpson as a wind break in order to cook my lunch. A local gentleman stops to admire my stove and chat. He tells me there is a country and western song by the great Tex Ritter which includes the names of local towns in the song lyrics, “Timpson, Bobo, and Tenaha.” I repeat the names. “Bobo” certainly has a jaunty air about it! If you follow my route, you will pass through all three of these towns.
Apparently, few things in life are more satisfying than hearing the name of your town in a song! The gentleman told me that he almost fell over the first time he heard the song played on the radio! His story reminded me of John Prine’s song, “Paradise.” This song is about John Prine’s parents’ hometown which is named Paradise. I have read that Prine was thrilled beyond words when his parents heard his song played on the radio.
While pedaling across the foothills of the Judith Mountains approaching Lewistown, Montana, I read that a proud pioneer father named the mountains after his daughter. I can’t help but wonder if the daughter was as beautiful as these mountains! Lyrical, charming, mysterious, and sometimes humorous, America’s place names embellish my journey. I smile when passing through the town of Bug Scuffle, I wonder who named Lost Mule, and I marvel at Native American names like Oconaluftee.