Sixty One Years Old? How did THAT happen?

It was my 61st Birthday. I didn’t feel 61. I haven’t felt my age for decades. But the calendar doesn’t lie, I was 61. This day. How did that happen?

It was nearing twilight as I approached “Tunnel Number Three” on the Elroy-Sparta bike trail in Wisconsin. My bike -- “Cassie” -- and I were 2000 miles into a 3200 mile Trans-Am solo adventure.

Creative name aside, “Tunnel Number Three,” was the first tunnel I would encounter on that trail. Clouds were rolling in, making the the sky darker yet. The woods were getting deeper. I hadn’t seen another human for many miles. I was wearing down, as I was over sixty miles for the day. A mile for every year, I thought, and now I’m over sixty. I felt like I was about to “bonk” (when a cyclist just runs out of energy). Regular snacking hadn’t helped. What was going on? Maybe I was more of a sixty-one-year-old than I wanted to admit.

The explanation was right under my nose, or beneath my pedals: the approach to the tunnel was uphill. Naturally, the designers of the railroad took the tracks as high as they could before having to dig a very expensive tunnel. Railroad inclines can’t really be seen, especially as it gets dark, but the legs can feel it.

I reached the tunnel nearly exhausted and in a gloomy mood. “Happy Fucking Birthday, indeed!” There was a sign saying bikes must be walked through. They weren’t kidding. The path was crowned in the middle, with a steady small stream of water on either side, created by the constantly dripping ceiling. I had a powerful flashlight, but it was still creepy inside. The dripping was like a light rain. Cassie wasn’t scared as I pushed her through the dark, but I was.




Because the three-quarter-mile long tunnel was a gentle arc, for 100 yards in the middle I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel (literally!) in either direction. Curiosity got the better of me and I briefly turned off my light.

It was absolutely pitch black.




Maybe I should have camped in the last town of Sparta instead of pushing on. I found myself singing simple arpeggios to take advantage of the amazing reverb. If I timed it just right, I could sing a chord! It was as close as I’ve ever come to literally whistling by the graveyard. Scary Tolkienesque scenarios played in my mind. Was that a noise I heard up ahead? Or was it behind?

My birthday started much better 60 miles earlier. I had stayed with my friend Patrick in Winona, Minnesota. He was already up and making pancakes when I came up from the basement guest room. His five kids, all under 10, and wife were still asleep. We chatted for a bit while he flipped the flap-jacks, then he insisted I sit and eat while the house was still calm. I filled up on pancakes and scrambled eggs, with plenty of coffee.

The kids were slow to rise, appearing one-by-one. I packed up Cassie, and asked to get them all together for a group shot. I won’t try to get them in order: Gwenevere, Camille, Vera, Nora, Marty, Patrick and Lindsay, and of course Finton the dog.

The morning was sunny but cool as I made my way through downtown Winona to the bridge over the Mississippi, and crossed into Wisconsin. I had followed the river 200 miles downstream from St. Cloud all the way to Winona. It’s a really big river. But it was time to head east, away from the Mississippi. After nearly 2000 miles of pedaling “Out West,” I was now officially “Back East.”

Twelve miles later, I picked up the Great River Trail in Trempealeau. There are four connected trails in Wisconsin, the Great River, The La Crosse River, the Elroy-Sparta, and the 400. They are all formerly the same railroad bed, and are unpaved, but mostly well-packed crushed limestone. I’m not sure why there are four names. I ended up following the entirety of them for 101 total miles.

River Trail Cycles is right by the trail as it passes though the town of Onalaska, and I decided to get yet another opinion on the squeak intermittently emanating from Cassie’s front wheel. Two prior bike shops could find nothing. It was beginning to drive me nuts. Emily, the owner, and manager Dan -- and shop dog Owen! -- were happy to help. Nothing could be found. The brake and hub were in good shape.

                                          

(The squeak stayed with me all the way to Ohio, and was finally fixed by my home-town bike mechanic JD at Kent Cycle.)

Dan very kindly gave me a brochure about the trails, complete with maps and details of various features. When I told I him I was headed for Sparta, he pointed out the campground near there, but said the next one down the trail in Norwalk was nicer.

Like so many others, they refused payment. Most people are nice.

As I approached Sparta around 6pm, the sky was getting darker, yet the forecast didn’t call for rain. Sparta claims to be “The Bicycling Capital of America,” but where the trail came through was not inviting. The former-Depot-converted-to-Visitor-Center was not open. Nor was anything else nearby. The campground was about half a mile beyond the town. I considered looking for a FBM (Flea Bag Motel) -- it was my birthday, after all. I felt I could justify splurging, but I had spent too much on FBM's already, and the campground was free.

I stood and debated for several moments, and decided to try the campground.

Satan couldn’t have fashioned a more hellish campsite; right next to the freeway; the restroom was a latrine; no shower; just a spigot for water; four understandably empty campsites; no picnic table; loads of mosquitoes. I wouldn’t be any worse off if I stealth camped. I knew from Dan at the cycle shop that the next campground -- in Norwalk, 12 miles away -- was better, but I didn’t know in what way. It certainly couldn't be worse.

Again, I stood and debated, wracked with indecision, getting eaten by bugs.

It was nearly 6:30. I needed to either camp or start pedaling.

I rode on. Worst case, I could stealth camp somewhere along the trail.

Tunnel Number Three along the Elroy-Sparta trail, was built from 1870-73 at a cost of 1.5 million dollars at the time ($31.5 million in today’s dollars). Tunnel numbers two and one are much shorter.

As I progressed through the scary, black tunnel, the other end slowly became visible. The steady “rainfall” continued, but the streams on either side of the trail were running away from me; I had crossed the apogee. It felt like an hour, but was only about 15 minutes before I emerged. The sky on the other side was much lighter than before, and the temperature felt warmer (which was probably just the contrast from the chilly damp tunnel). For the same reason the trail was ascending on the other side, it now descended a couple more miles to Norwalk. Cassie and I flew through the woods and down the hill. I was happy to be out of the tunnel; happy to be warm and dry; happy for easy, downhill pedaling; happy to be sixty-one years old.

WARNING: Pointless though Poignant Birthday Digression follows:

Like many kids in the sixties, I closely followed the U.S. Space Program. From John Glenn’s historic flight through all the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo missions, I eagerly followed along, devouring all the magazine and newspaper articles. Imagine my excitement when the paper reported the moon-landing itinerary and the Big Event -- the first man on the moon -- was due to happen on my twelfth birthday!

However, the itinerary also inexplicably called for the Astronauts to take a nap after landing on July 20th (the day before my birthday).

I can hear Armstrong’s pep-talk to Buzz Aldrin, “Well, Buzz, we are the first men to land on the moon, about to embark on the biggest event in all recorded history, how about we get some shut-eye first?”

Not surprisingly, they decided to forsake the official itinerary and Neil Armstrong walked on the moon late on my birthday eve, while the entire world, including my family, all watched on our new color TV’s.

For many of the ensuing years, I was vaguely disappointed that the event hadn’t happened on my birthday. If the subject came up at social gatherings, I would snort, “Moon-landing? It was supposed to happen on my birthday.” Then I’d launch into detail about the itinerary napping nonsense, and drive my hapless listeners to join discussions in another room.

Such is the future of a disappointed twelve-year-old birthday-boy.

Decades later, for a reason long forgotten, I looked up “First Moon Landing” on Wikipedia. What measure can history use to record date and time of an event not on earth? The only way is Greenwich Mean Time. Never mind what time it was at Birthday Boy’s house; late in the evening in Ohio is early the next morning according to GMT. Neil Armstrong DID first walk on the moon on my twelfth birthday, 2:56 GMT, July 21, 1969.

I am vindicated. But now it’s not as good of a cocktail party story.

Back on Earth, nearly 50 years later:

Norwalk is a bike friendly town. The first thing I saw after rolling down the mountain from the the frightful “Tunnel Number Three” was a still-open ice-cream/sandwich shop called “Lisa T’s.” Across a well-tended lawn from the shop was a community park that had many other campers. There were picnic tables! A playground (complete with “munchkins”)! And a public restroom -- with showers! I felt like Dorothy, filled with wonder after a terrifying trip to Oz. Lisa T herself -- my personal Glinda the Good Witch -- was at the take-out window and kindly furnished my dinner, along with change for the coin-operated showers.

I was jubilant that I had pedaled past Sparta, “Bicycling Capital of America!” There was just enough light left for me to set up camp, eat my meal, and grab a shower.

Happy Birthday to me! I had avoided the mosquito infested campground, endured the near-bonking before the tunnel, and survived the dread inside the passage to arrive at the haven of Norwalk, Wisconsin. If you’re ever there, say hi to Lisa T.

“Tunnel Number Two” and “Tunnel Number One” awaited me the next day, But this 61-year-old Birthday Boy had a bit of life left in him.