Pedaling Pilgrim Blog Home

As Christin and I journey homeward on the Amtrak, I am compelled to offer typical details of our final day riding into Newport and the subsequent celebration. This post promises to be fairly lengthy with photos over a few days, but this won’t be the last. I still want to provide some final thoughts after a few days reflection; look for something final tomorrow or Wednesday.

I often noted on the weather conditions we faced each day: our final day of riding showed zero clouds, 60 degrees, and for the first time in recent memory, a tailwind of 10MPH. The planned ride was a short 45 miles from Providence to Newport, three hours pedaling at a typical pace on relatively flat ground. Our welcoming party was due to land in Providence at 2:30, so we planned for a meeting at Bailey’s Beach around 4:00. For the first time, we slept in and got a leisurely start around 10:30. Even with this delayed departure, we had hours to kill on our journey south.

After an hour and our first 15 miles behind us, we stopped for a long latte break. We checked in on our other partners’ travel progress to find they were at O’Hare. The most anxious part of their journey was history as they were through TSA screening and awaiting the boarding (possibly with cocktails).

We rode on another 15 miles; breaking the journey into thirds seemed to best way to allow ourselves to feel we were doing some appreciable riding, but also forcing ourselves to take some time. On this stretch we crossed from Rhode Island back into Massachusetts then back into Rhode Island again; the bayside paths mostly gave way to small city roads which were at times congested. We were honked at once – a final jerk that couldn’t tolerate our slowing him for 30 seconds in his important commute, but his ire could not affect our mood as we rolled on to our next stop; though neither of us was hungry, we strolled into Tremblay’s for lunch around 12:30.

We both had clam chowder, which was reportedly an award winner of some sort somewhere; Geeto followed with a burger and fries and me with “clam cakes”. I’ve had crab cakes and fish cakes, but the waitress Jen didn’t seem aware of these food items as she tried to describe the clam cakes. “Oh, you’re from the Midwest, you probably know these as clam fritters.” Intrigued by the description and Jen’s rave reviews, I committed and twice regretted this order: What came up to the table were 6 fried balls of dough about the size of my grandson’s fists, what we in the Midwest might call a hush puppy; what came up 5 miles into our ensuing ride were 2 small but relieving regurgitations that expedited the clam cakes out of my being, what we in the Midwest might call the pukelear option. Exercise and fried fishy dough don’t mix, no matter how easy the ride.

10 miles after lunch, we were entering Newport. We passed the sign signaling the town limits, and we knew we had achieved our goal; either of us could perish at this point and still see Newport-to-Newport cyclist in our obituary. This was the first real moment of uncontrollable joy and relief.

Two miles later, we were coasting through Colonial houses to our home for the next two nights: the Admiral Farragut Inn. It was just past 2:30, so we had time to check in before our scheduled rendezvous at the beach a few miles away. We were greeted by the jovial proprietor Rick, who had been looking forward to our arrival. When we booked our rooms weeks before, Rick asked whether we were parking a car with him; when I told him we just need parking for two bikes our conversation went toward our Pacific Coast origin and the 3,900 mile pilgrimage; Rick paused for some time in stunned silence. He then expressed his excitement, informed me of newspapers to contact, and followed up with various detailed questions about our journey. Geeto received the same enthusiasm and congeniality when booking his room, and we were not surprised when Rick greeted us similarly upon our arrival at the inn. He offered us free beers; judging by the limited island of misfit beers in the fridge these were of the left-behind variety from previous guests; I chose the only matching pair – two Budweiser tall boys.

We checked into our rooms and chatted a bit with Rick before we enjoyed our celebratory beers in the small alleyway between houses. Then, we unloaded our tents and bags at the Admiral Farragut, and just like we did in Oregon on August 7, we took Al Roker to the beach in Newport.

Rick advised a rendezvous at Easton’s Beach instead of Bailey’s as it was closer with better parking options. Checking Christin’s location at 3:25, I discovered they were already there! We quickly mounted and “dashed” off (when I thought I’d seen the last of the granny gear, we had to start the short 1.5 miles to the beach with a climb that reached 9% incline). A mile later, the beach was nearly in sight, when suddenly a car passed me, slowed down, and without signaling made a sharp right turn in front of me and stopped in the intersection. I gripped both brakes tightly and skidded to a halt less than a foot from the rear passenger side door that was now parked in front of me. I gave a little holler and the driver looked back, obviously shocked to see me in such close proximity. I merely shook my head, pushed around the back bumper, and remounted to catch up with Geeto who steered clear in his previously trailing position. Less than 1/4 miles to go and the first real close call I had; it was comically ironic.

Then, from atop the hill on Memorial Boulevard, we could see the beach. As we coasted down, the first break of small ocean waves came into view. Then, things got a little blurry as tears rolled from my eyes. Talking to Geeto later, I learned we both cried at this point. We were literally coasting to the finish line that was a nearly vacant beach with a clear blue sky and the sun starting to descend. Sadly, neither of us captured any video or photo of this viewpoint, but this was the second and more uncontrolled of our emotional outlets. We smiled widely, shook our heads in disbelief, raised our fists in victory, and yelled to no one and everyone. Any conclusion but successful completion of our journey was impossible at this point, and we felt it fully.

We saw our three-person welcoming party on the east side of the beach; air horns blasted when they saw our approach. Jubilant cries from riders and revelers joined as we rode past them towards the incoming surf. It was a happy scene for us all, and strangely we seemed to have this broad expanse of sand to ourselves; there were no curious onlookers to share our joy or scoff at our jubilation – it was five people, two bikes, a shared but distinct experience, and the gently lapping waves.

As possibly seen in my previous post, Lecy had a 12-pack of recovery drinks on ice for our immediate celebration. He also had Miller High Life t-shirts for all, claiming the Miller Family were late joining sponsors of our quest. Geeto and I had long and loving embraces with our wives, and then long and grateful embraces with Lecy. We were so glad for this five-person party; it was exactly as it should have been and we couldn’t have been happier.

After the beach celebration act, we took a quick ride back up the hill, while Christin nearly lost the Admiral Farragut room keys I left with her (thankfully my departing tire tracks led the way back to the spot where she set them on the sand when I kissed her goodbye). We quickly showered and relaxed for a few moments before we headed out for our night of celebration. Nothing says “I’ve ridden 3,900 miles from Pacific to Atlantic and am due a celebration” like a cocktail and a 3-pound steamed lobster.

That night we bar hopped around the Newport wharf area. We listened to some nearly mediocre live music, drank White Russians and High Life, shared favorite and horrific stories from the adventure and finally landed in a quiet Irish pub around midnight. The Reillys returned to the Captain’s Quarters while Lecy, Christin and I caught up on details of our blessings. The pub scene brought back memories of our time in Ireland with our youngest daughter Caroline, and we were telling Lecy about her latest updates from Oregon when she magically called me. I took her outside on FaceTime as she congratulated me on my adventure and we spoke a little while about how we both were doing and feeling. I was elated that she thought to call me, though it was after midnight at this point. I only cry when I’m happy, and even then it’s not common. Though I shed some tears when we approached the beach on the bikes, it was nothing like the full on sob as I returned to my barstool after talking with Caroline; I buried my face in my hat and wept for some time. I suppose it was the culmination of lots of things: reunion with my wife, gratefulness for good friends, satisfaction with completion of the challenging adventure… and thankfulness for the gift of our children who seem to be at the happiest points of their young adult lives. When I finally dried my eyes with the chapeau that I inherited from my dad after he died a year ago, we gave a “slainte”, though this was more in thankfulness for what we’ve been given than a blessing for future well-being. It was a joyous ending to our glorious day.

The next day, we saw a full day of rain. It seemed appropriate as we weren’t getting on the bikes. After so many days of sunshine with little gray weather while we biked, now the sky could turn somber as our bike-riding halo had expired. We did some soggy sightseeing; we continued our celebration at the oldest operating tavern in the US (the White Horse has been serving ales and rum drinks since 1673); Geeto picked up the rental car that would carry our steeds home; and we reveled in the fact that was now sinking in: no further biking is planned.

I won’t bore you with too much more of our post-adventure celebration. We stayed in Newport two nights, then Geeto and Julie went on to vacation in New Hampshire while me and Christin returned to Providence for one night and then took the Amtrak to Chicago (with a 4-hour stopover in New York City).

After leaving NYC, we boarded the Lake Shore Limited for the final 19-hour train ride to Chicago. We were plenty comfortable in our “roomette” sleeping car, but the Amtrak staff generally made us feel like a burden rather than paying customers who were supporting their livelihood. After months of experiencing all sorts of people in all sorts of environments, this was a reminder of what attitude can be imposed upon you if you allow it.

As I said at the start, this is my penultimate pedaling pilgrims post. I will return a final time with some final reflections.

Before signing off, how about some Pedaling Pilgrims! playlist addition?!?! I’ve got a few things to add today.

First, in recognition that the ride has come to an end, here’s one from the Greenhornes that is appropriate: There Is An End

Next, in reference to our 5-person celebration, here’s a catchy little number from the Flat Fives: This Is Your Night

Third, my mom commented on my previous post that she was sobbing reading about our achievement; I was sobbing to end our evening on Thursday; this Pretenders cover of the Kinks classic seems appropriate advice: Stop Your Sobbing

Lastly, I have to include the Supertramp song after the title of this post and the VERY long journey home: Take the Long Way Home

That’s all for now.