3036 Miles

(I apologize for the profusion of destination points; God forbid one travel a route that follows mainly backroads yet does cover a few stretches of interstate and expressway as well. Just don't get the impression I stayed at the Ritz-Carlton in Philadelphia.)

• TX-LA
• LA-KY
• KY1*
• KY2*
• KY-OH
• OH-MD
• MD-DE
• DE-NJ
• NJ-MA
• MA1
• MA-NH
• NH-ME
• ME1
• ME2
• ME-MA
• MA2

*Hitchhiked; not included in total mileage.

As fate would have it, the tri-millenium was clinched on the very last day, right about here. This wasn't at all part of my original plan, as I'd intended to bus home from Bangor, but at the last minute decided to ride back to Massachusetts and retrieve the cache of superfluous belongings I'd abandoned a week earlier. (I'd since bought a new, much sturdier rack.) Unfortunately on final approach I missed the spot completely, and by the time I realized it, only a few miles beyond, I was too tired to give a fuck. Instead I just continued on to Westfield, where at last I solemnly surrendered my bicycle to UPS. When it turned out there was no local Greyhound service, I called a friend who kindly picked me up and deposited me at the terminal in Springfield. She was clearly a bit confused as to why I'd bothered doubling back all that distance, but of course so was I. It was indeed a rather bizarre, unceremonious ending.

Now, however, I see the true purpose of that mission.

Correction

(Yes, already.)

Ok, turns out, after all that pedalling, I did not in fact make it to the easternmost tip of the USA, nor, perhaps, anywhere close.

Absurd as it may seem, according to the U.S. Geological Survey the formal designation belongs to Pochnoi Point on Semisopochnoi, one of the outer Aleutian Islands of Alaska, which at 179°46' east longitude is indeed considered to lie 246 degrees east of West Quoddy Head (66°57'W), not 114 degrees west. By the same criterion, the western extremity of the USA is located not on Peaked Island, the outermost of the Aleutians, but rather on Amatignak, a mere 60 miles to the southeast of Semisopochnoi just opposite the 180th meridian.

(Those limey bastards in Greenwich are of course spared any such headscratching.)

Even by the more intuitive standard of position relative to the geographic center of the nation (44°59'N, 103°38'W; near Castle Rock, SD), Sail Rock, a tiny pinnacle just a few hundred yards off Quoddy, is the true eastermost landform, as it does rise slightly above the high tide mark. Naturally this presents a far more bitter pill—to have come practically within pissing distance only to turn back without tagging the damn thing. I mean, granted I'm not much of a swimmer, again we're only talking a few hundred yards. Surely a quick lap through the "swift", "icy" current in the Bay of Fundy wouldn't have killed me.

(God I feel robbed.)

Prologue

Much as I myself hate being subjected to any tale of a long past athletic exploit—especially one from a brief, bygone youth, soon after cut short by a sudden disinclination ever to move again (which of course you'll be spared)—here goes:

One saturday morning in early fall, 1996, I took off on my new road bike for what I planned would be a lengthy day trip. I had no specific route or destination in mind; I only knew I wanted to head north for a change, as previously I'd always ridden south or west. (East is flat and boring.) Long story short, I ended up pedalling 14 hours nonstop across the hill country north of the Highland Lakes, covering a total distance of 160 miles; it was, without a doubt, the single most agonizing thing I've ever put myself through. And though far from a singular feat—there being plenty of non-competitive ultra-distance junkies who routinely dispose of a double-century or more in a day—it is worth noting this was only the second century-plus ride I had ever done. Not to mention that upon purchasing the bike only a few weeks prior, I'd been long out of shape, even smoking a pack a day.

Afterward, perhaps not surprisingly, the bike simply hung there, untouched, on a pair of hooks in my kitchen, until eventually I stored it away in my parents' garage. Rather than risk a sequel, I timidly returned to the safe haven of my running shoes, where for ten years I remained, free of any wistful thoughts of cycling.

Turns out of course, unbeknownst to me, I was merely biding my time, waiting until I felt ready—ready to properly finish what I started that day. Last winter, the moment finally came.

Addendum 21.7.07: "Hell on the Highlands '96" → 1 2 3 4

Intro

On June 21, 2007, I completed my first ever multi-day cross-country bicycle journey: A two-month, unaccompanied stealth camping tour from Austin, Texas, across 17 states, to West Quoddy Head, Maine—the easternmost tip of the USA. What follows will be a piecemeal, perhaps circuitous account of that experience, often digressing onto remote conscious trajectories travelled in the midst of seemingly endless pedalling, as well as a chronicle of my preparations for a far more ambitious endeavor inspired along the way. I'd also like to include an occasional grim or colorful anecdote from another adventure cyclist, so if you have one to share, please contact me.

Here I should also mention I returned home without a single photograph. Nearly all my original gear, camera included, I left on the roadside In Massachusetts after my wheel rack broke. And to be honest, I really don't care, because the pictures in my head are far more vivid.

Enjoy!