“When
something becomes too much
fun, the
government will move swiftly
to tax
it.”
Disgruntled Taxpayer
Outside
Vicksburg,
Mississippi, on Route 80, my brother Howard
and I cranked east through the afternoon heat. Sweat dripped from our noses and splashed onto the top tubes. It ran down our spines in tiny rivulets. It burned our eyes from beads running down
our foreheads. Salt stained our black
riding tights like the colors of a Zebra.
Howard
and I pedaled through the last month of a coast-to-coast touring
adventure. Our legs glistened with sweat
as our muscles labored under the constant down-stroke on the pedals.
Up
ahead, heat waves rippled off the summer pavement, while a blazing sun baked
the weeds along the two-lane highway. Trees lined the road, and crows and sparrows scattered in all directions
as we passed. One crow struggled to
escape from three sparrows darting in on him. They pecked at his feathers—attempting to drive him away. After each attack, he spun wildly in mid air
to avoid them.
“Those
guys are giving that big fella’ a hard time,” Howard said, pointing.
“I never have figured out why they
attack a crow like that.”
“Sparrows drive
away crows because crows eat the young of smaller birds,” I said, remembering a
natural science class from school. “They’re protecting their nests.”
Howard,
dripping in a sweat-soaked T-shirt, cranked ahead of me, pulling his water
bottle and spitting as he took the lead. “We should make
Vicksburg
pretty soon. You want to stop at a salad
bar and clean ‘em out?"
“Good
idea!”
Riding
in the South during the heat of the summer months could be compared to pedaling
in a steam sauna. Heat cooked us and
sweat drenched our clothing.
Howard and I left
a trail of droplets from our perspiration-soaked bodies. No matter. We looked forward to seeing the Civil War monuments in
Vicksburg. We waved at passing cars. The
Deep South was laid back and moved at a snail’s
pace. People seemed to get a kick out of
our riding cross-country through their towns. They took pictures of
us--sometimes having family members gather around our bikes.
We
pedaled fully loaded mountain expedition bicycles. Condor, my bike, was named for an experience
I had while touring in South America where two curious condors swooped down
upon me while I crossed a 15,500-foot pass in the
Andes. With 12-foot wingspans, they soared 20 feet
off my handlebars, while they eyed me as either a piece of meat or as someone
who was invading their airspace. Howard’s bike, Bilbo, was his pride and joy. As always, our orange flags (one six-feet up
on a fiberglass rod and the other 2-feet into the traffic side) flapped in the
breeze. Those flags had saved our lives
numerous times.
With
so much attention, we had a lot to talk about after leaving a photo
session. People said the darnedest
things about long distance touring riders. They kept us laughing because they thought we were either courageous or
crazy.
We
were talking about the comments from a family that had stopped their car to
take our pictures when a black-and-white police cruiser passed us traveling
west. We waved at him. He waved back, but did not smile.
I routinely wave to police officers
out of respect or fear—I’m not sure
which. I know they
can give me a ticket for speeding. But,
on a bicycle, they
can’t, so I never give them much thought. I watched him go by in my rearview
mirror. A few seconds
later, he flipped his car around and turned on his flashing
red lights.
“That cop
turned around,” Howard said, sucking on his water bottle.
“ Maybe he
got a call for an emergency back down the road,” I said,
glancing back.
I expected
the cruiser to fly past us. But it
didn’t. The police officer pulled
in behind us. I
looked in my rear mirror to see him pointing his finger for us to
pull to the side.
“That cop is
pulling us over,” I said.
“Probably for
speeding,” Howard joked. “Maybe he’s
going to give us a
ticket for going too slow. Now wouldn’t that be a good one? No! I’ve got it.
He’s going to give us tickets for not having licenses to
drive bicycles.”
We pulled our
bikes to a stop. A rotund, middle-aged
officer in a blue
uniform got out of his cruiser. He sported a chin like a bullfrog’s during
mating
season. We stood
astride our bikes, looking back, not sure why he had
stopped us.
“Afternoon
boys,” he said, walking up to us.
“How are you,
sir?” I asked.
“I’m fine,”
he spoke in a raspy voice. “When I
passed you boys, I noticed
you were smiling and laughing.”
“Yes, sir,”
Howard said. “We’re having a great day. We love it here in
Louisiana. In fact, we’re hoping to meet Huckleberry
Finn when we cross the
Mississippi.”
“How far you
goin’?” the officer asked, brusquely.
“We’re on our
way from coast-to-coast,” I said. “Pacific to the
Atlantic.”
“You boys
ever had your heads examined for mental righteousness?”
“Beg your
pardon?” Howard said.
“You know,”
he said, “Common sense. Anyone in their
right mind
wouldn’t ride a bicycle across the country.”
“Our Mom told
us we were crazy to ride our bikes across
America,”
Howard said. “But, so
far, the craziness hasn’t killed us.”
The officer
looked over our packs as if he might be looking for drugs.
Right then, I
didn’t like this guy’s demeanor. My Dad
always told us to be
polite and keep smiling at a police officer. We should always say “Yes, sir” or
“No, sir,” to a man with a badge. This was one of those times to be extra
polite.
“Have you had
a good time in
Louisiana?”
he asked in a stern voice.
“Yes, sir,” I
said. “We’ve had a real fine time, and we’re looking forward to
Mississippi.”
“Right now,
you’re in my jurisdiction,” he said. “When I drove by you, it
looked like you were having a lot of fun.”
“Yes, sir,
you could say that,” Howard said, with a puzzled look sweeping
across his eyes.
“Would you
say you’re having TOO much fun?” the trooper asked, straight
faced.
“TOO much
fun?” I said. “Well, er, yes sir, we’re probably having too
much fun, right, Howard?”
“YES, SIR,
that’s right, we’re having too much fun.”
The officer
stepped closer. He looked serious. Maybe I had seen too
many movies depicting stereotypical redneck cops hassling
people. Nonetheless,
I was concerned. He
looked the part—thick neck, crew cut, short fat fingers,
belly hanging over his belt, and boots that hadn’t been
polished in a coon’s age.
“I hate to
say this boys, but there’s an ordinance in this county for having
too much fun. Because
I’m an officer of the law, I’m sworn to uphold that
ordinance. I’m gonna’
have to write ya’ll a citation. May I
see some form of
identification?”
“Sure,
officer,” we replied, giving him our driver’s licenses.
“A law
against having too much fun?” Howard said, with a hint of
indignation.
“That’s
right, boys,” he said. “I see you’re
brothers. You wait here while I
write you up.”
“Yes, sir,” I
said.
“I’ll be
right back in a few minutes,” he said, walking away.
“This is
crazy,” Howard said. “This guy is out to
lunch. He’s only got one
oar in the water. He’s 51 cards short of a full deck. This guy’s a lighthouse with
no light on!”
“Don’t say
that too loud,” I muttered. “He’s got a
badge and a gun.”
“He can’t
give us a ticket for having too much fun,” Howard complained.
“That does it! I’m
going right into the county courthouse and demand a jury trial
on this one. I mean,
this is nuts! We can’t take this lying
down. I’ll get the
ACLU if I have to. Too much fun, right!”
“I thought he
was kidding,” I said. “But, he’s not
kidding.”
While we
waited, I drank a quart of water and switched my bottles on the
down tube to have a full one ready. It was warm water, but quenched my
thirst.
Darned if I could figure out what we had done to get this
cop upset. But I had
learned never to argue with a police officer. They commanded absolute
authority. Minutes
later, he walked up to us with two tickets in hand.
“I know ya’ll
think this is out of line,” he said. “But I don’t make the
laws…I just enforce them. By the way, I like riding bicycles, too. How come you
boys are riding mountain bikes with drop bars?”
“They’re more
durable, and we don’t get many flat tires,” I said. “They
give a smoother ride. Plus, we have three positions for our hands with drop
bars. Straight bars
fatigue our hands by keeping them in one position.”
“I’ll have to
remember that,” he said. “By the way, I
live in
Vicksburg.
Are you boys hungry?”
“Yes, sir,”
we replied, not understanding why he was so friendly when he
had just given us tickets.
“There’s a
nice restaurant called ‘Aunt Dorothy’s’ with an all-you-can-eat
salad right after you cross the
Mississippi
River. You can’t miss it,”
he said,
walking back to his car.
He drove
toward
Vicksburg.
I stood there looking at Howard who was
just as incredulous as I was.
“What in the
hell just happened to us?” I asked.
Howard looked
down at his ticket and started laughing.
“What’s so
funny?” I asked.
“Read it,”
Howard said, chuckling and slapping his thigh.
On the ticket
in long hand, it read, “This is a citation to the Wooldridge
brothers for having too much fun on their bicycle trip
across
America. You can
either pay a large fine down at the county courthouse, or
you can come over to
my house (directions below) and take showers plus eat my
wife’s great cooking.
You’re welcome to stay overnight. My kids would love to hear about some of
your experiences. It
would be an honor and a pleasure to have you visit us.”
“I’ll be hanged,”
I muttered.
After riding
into town that evening, we followed Officer Buford Jackson’s
directions to his house. We leaned our touring bikes against the white railing on
the front porch of a traditional Southern home where a
couple of rockers awaited
the evening sunset and friendly conversation.
I knocked.
When the door
opened, I had never seen a wider smile, a bigger grin, a
larger heart, nor a face so full of mirth and mischief as I
saw on Buford Jackson
at that moment. Behind him, two girls and a boy must have been told that Ricky
Martin and Tom Cruise were coming to dinner, because their
faces displayed a
youthful expectation that something special was about to
happen in their lives.
Buford showed
us the guest bedroom and hot showers. “Give me all your
dirty clothes,” he said. “Adeline will have them washed and dried by morning.”
“Ask the boys if they like summer
squash, green beans and garden
tomatoes?” Adeline called from the kitchen.
“We like everything,” Howard said.
Buford smiled, “These boys can eat
a whole hog and a bucket of mashed
potatoes with coleslaw.”
“Don’t forget the pumpkin pie,”
Howard said, laughing.
“She just made fresh blueberry pie
for tonight,” Buford said.
“Break my heart,” I said, my mouth
already watering at the thought of my
favorite pie.
Before we
could protest about his washing our clothes, Buford gathered
our sweaty shorts, shirts and other dirty clothes and walked
off to the laundry
room.
That evening,
we ate a dinner fit for kings. Adeline
Jackson, in a long
cotton dress and just a touch of make-up, couldn’t have been
kinder.
At the table,
she sat Howard between the two girls and Zac next to me. I
hate to admit this but my brother is good looking which left
the two girls giddy
with excitement.
Buford
grasped his son’s and daughter’s hands. Howard and I completed
the circle when Buford spoke, “Dear Lord, bless this food….”
After grace,
we plowed into the food dishes being passed around the
table. Howard struck
up the conversation with our starting and finishing point of
the ride.
Shirley,
nearly 14 with a blond ponytail, asked the first question, “What
does
San Francisco
look like?” Later, Paula, 12 with
pigtails, asked, “How many
miles do you ride in one day?” Zac, all of eight years old with a crewcut,
asked,
“Where do you go number ‘2’ if you live in a tent?”
Once they
heard about the basics of bicycle adventure, they asked about
our favorite moments on the tour. Howard described crossing the
Golden Gate
Bridge with the sparkling blue waters below and watching the
two-masted
sailboats plying the waters of the bay. He spoke about our ride into
Yosemite
where we watched a ‘moonbow’ (rainbow caused by moonlight) at the base of
Bridal Veil Falls. I talked about our ride through
Death Valley with 116 degrees
heat that felt like riding inside an oven. Later, we pedaled our way to the rim of
the Grand Canyon and looked down a mile below to the
Colorado River.
Zac’s eyes
grew wide with wonder as Howard described the Painted
Desert and the
Petrified Forest. Paula and Shirley could hardly contain
themselves before asking the next question.
“You know,”
Howard said, after answering the last question. “It’s not the
adventures that count as much as it is the friends we’ve
made along the way.
Your daddy and mama are the best story of this trip and you
kids are the best,
ever! My brother and
I are so thankful we ran into your dad.”
Howard
glanced with a sly smile over at Buford. I added my own ‘look’.
We weren’t THAT amused when he had given us the tickets for
having ‘too much
fun’.
Buford shrugged innocently. Then he asked with a grin, “What’d you
fellers think after I handed you those tickets?”
“Would ‘bewildered’
seem to fit?” Howard said. “At first,
you were so
serious, we didn’t know what to think. After you walked back to your cruiser, I
was ready to….”
“You don’t
want to hear Howard’s words,” I said. “Needless to say, we
thought we might be in a Hitchcock movie.”
“Just thought
I’d put a little humor into your day,” Buford said.
“He’s a good
cop,” Adeline said, “but he’s a practical joker, too, and he
has a heart of gold. We’re real glad you boys came over for dinner. Aren’t we
children?”
At that
moment, Shirley, Paula and Zac’s faces lit up. They nodded.
“What made
you think up giving us tickets?” I asked.
“You know,”
he said, “it came out of the blue. I
guess I wanted my kids
to see a bit of the world through some strangers’ eyes.”
“We have more
stories,” Howard said.
“They’ve
heard enough. It’s time for bed.”
“No, daddy,
please…” they pleaded.
“You heard
me,” Buford said.
“This dinner conversation has been
great for our kids,” Adeline said. “You
boys have given them an appreciation for geography,
highways, mountains,
camping, and most of all, a sense of what’s out there.”
“Have any of you read ‘THE
HOBBIT’?” Howard asked Shirley.
She nodded and said her teacher had
read it to the class.
“Well,” Howard spoke. “Bilbo
Baggins said, ‘There’s a whole lot of
adventure outside your door. That’s why I named my bike after him.’”
“That’s right,” I said. “It’s out there waiting for you when you
choose to
travel.”
Shirley
gleamed and followed her siblings to the bathroom to brush her
teeth. Who knows what
kind of adventure path her life would take? It might be
on a bicycle.
The next morning, as we pedaled
onto the highway, I was reminded
again, as I had been hundreds of times in the past, that people
are full of
surprises.
In the case of Buford and Adeline,
my world became richer thanks to their
unexpected hospitality. Shirley, Paula and Zac bring a smile to my heart and
mind whenever I think back on the magic of that evening.
Bless the
Jackson’s for their love, generosity, sense
of humor, and their
children with big, bright eyes filled with expectation. I am thankful that most of
the world is filled with Buford’s and Adeline’s, and because
it is, we are all
blessed with joy at surprising moments in our lives.
In my
lifetime, I hope to get arrested many more times for having too
much fun.
The End
Excerpt from: Bicycling Around the World: Tire Tracks for
Your Imagination, copies available 1 888 280 7715
Frosty
Wooldridge, Michigan State University, has bicycled across six continents –
from the Arctic to the South Pole – as well as six times across the USA, coast
to coast and border to border. In 2005, he bicycled from the Arctic
Circle, Norway to Athens, Greece. He presents “The Coming Population
Crisis in America: and what you can do about it” to civic clubs, church groups,
high schools and colleges. He works to bring about sensible world
population balance at www.frostywooldridge.com He is the author of: America on the Brink: The Next Added 100
Million Americans.
