Amy

Prior to the ride, the League of American Wheelmen sent out a list of all of the participants. There was a woman named Amy Lefler who was living in Westchester, NY, just across the Hudson River from Monsey, so I gave her a call. We met at a pub in Nyack and hit it off immediately.

Amy was a few years older than me, and if ever there was a person that marched to the beat of her own drum, it was Amy. She was about 4’10,” muscular, with a mop of brown hair that I don’t think ever met a comb or a brush. I think she’d rather wrestle with a rabid porcupine than put on make-up. She was the poster girl for Tom Boy Magazine.

The first time we met at the pub in Nyack Amy told me that she was determined to accomplish two things on our ride. #1 and to the chagrin of her mother, she was NOT going to meet a nice Jewish boy and settle down; and #2 she was GOING to make it to Liberal, Kansas!

Liberal, Kansas? Not exactly your typical bucket list destination.

Liberal, Kansas is the home of Dorothy, as in the Wizard of Oz, and Amy was a self-proclaimed Wizard of Oz obsessive fan. She had a literal shrine in her home to Dorothy and the rest of the Yellow Brick Road crew. She went to conventions, she bought movie paraphernalia, she never missed a chance to watch the movie on TV. She was almost 35 years old, and her bed sheets were Wizard of Oz! She was a nut about the Wizard of Oz, and as nutty as she was about the Wizard of Oz, she was an even stronger rider.

It was pretty smooth pedaling through the California dessert and into the Arizona high country. Our first day off from cycling was in Flagstaff, Arizona, and we visited the Grand Canyon.

The next day we rode into New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment.

But not that week. That week New Mexico sucked in a really big way. Enchanting would be the last damn word I’d use to describe New Mexico that week. A massive storm traveled with us across the entire state, and a persistent headwind sought to drive us back into Arizona.

Our second day off was spent in Sante Fe, New Mexico. Ironically, it didn’t rain on our day off, so we were able to enjoy sight-seeing in Santa Fe.

After a long and wet week, New Mexico finally yielded to the Texas panhandle, and for me that’s when the trip went from interesting and challenging to surreal and nearly impossible.

We pedaled across the New Mexico/Texas border and were staying at the Nursanickel Motel at the intersection of Highways 87 and 54 in Dalhart, Texas, which is north of Amarillo. There was a sign posted near the motel that said “Welcome to Dalhart. Human Population 5,000; Cattle Population 500,000.” All 60 riders went to sleep, happy to have New Mexico behind us. The damn rain storm, though, decided to stay with us for at least one more day of riding.

And that day was the second longest day of riding for the entire trip – 113 miles from Dalhart, Texas to Liberal, Kansas, home of Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz.

Each evening, all of the riders would gather in the lobby of the hotel/motel and the leaders would give us the cue sheets for the next day of riding. The cue sheets included the directions to the next hotel/motel; would point out the rest stops; highlight interesting sites we could expect to see along the way, and provide a sense of the elevation, etc. The information included in the daily cue sheets was indispensable. You didn’t want to pedal without the cue sheet tucked safely into your jersey pocket. That day’s cue sheet to Liberal, Kansas wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. It essentially said the following: “Make a right turn out of the hotel at Dalhart. Pedal 113 miles on Route 54. Make a right turn into the parking lot of the Gateway Inn on Highway 54 in Liberal, Kansas.”

Sometimes you just have to put your head down and pedal.

There was a cold and driving rain in the morning; sharp drops of rain that hurt when they hit your skin. I was already freezing my ass off, and I was still drinking hot coffee and standing in the cafeteria. There was a communal mumble amongst the riders, almost like a chant from a mindless cult following. “113 miles, 113 miles, 113 miles.” And gray sky all around. Nothing but gray. Well, nothing but gray, except the colored trucks.

Route 54 is the only road from Dalhart, Texas to Liberal, Kansas. Below is a screen shot of Google Maps. It’s just a damn straight line, diagonal from 8 to 2 on the clock face. It’s a two-lane road, with a shoulder on each side as wide as a lane of traffic, and I remember there being rumble strips every 500′ or so. Rumble strips are annoying when you’re exiting the turnpike in your Lexus. Try biking over them every 500′ for 113 miles! It is a literal pain in the ass!

The 60 of us pedaled out that morning. Everyone agreed that we should stay together in large groups to protect us from the weather, and to make sure the truck drivers didn’t doze off and take all of us out in a heap of twisted metal.

But no one was volunteering to be camp counselor that day.

Within minutes of leaving the warmth of the cafeteria, we were all soaked through and through. Not a stitch of clothing remained dry, and the only thing lower than the visibility was our morale. This day was going to suck for a whole long time. Did I mention the headwind?

After about 70-80 miserable miles, I ended up in a group of about 10 riders, Amy amongst them. We found a Love Cafe, which is Oklahoma’s version of a 7-11, in a town called Hooker (I’m not making this up). I headed straight for the bathroom, locked the door, took off all my clothes and stood under the electric hand dryer until I shorted out the circuit and the manager banged on the door and insisted I put my clothes back on.

Back in the store, one of the other riders bought every box of Hefty garbage bags. We called this Poortex, a poor person’s version of Goretex. Several of the riders pocked holes in the bags for their heads and arms, and wore them as rain ponchos. Garbage bags don’t breathe, though; the plastic membranes are not permeable. When you sweat inside a garbage bag, all of the moisture and heat stays inside the bag. You end up just as wet as if you were standing naked in the rain, and it’s easy to overheat and get dehydrated as well. But I guess there is some psychological benefit to thinking you’re protected from the rain. I put my wet bike clothes back on, but wrapped my feet in plastic bags because my feet were already numb and swollen.

Next door was a coin-operated laundromat, and some of the riders raided the Lost And Found for dry clothes. But eventually, we all had to get back on our bikes. Whatever method of getting warm and dry we had undertaken, the end result was that we were all soaking wet again within minutes of resuming our day of biking misery.

There are many advantages to riding in a group, especially in bad weather. The most important is that in a group, everyone can take turns riding in the back of the pack, blocked from the wind by the rest of the pack. You can save 25- 50% of your energy riding like this. And the bigger the pack, the less time any one person has to spend taking their turn at the front, getting the rain and the wind head-on. In professional cycling, this pack is called the peleton.

Mile after mile passed by, and still it was raining and cold and windy. Massive trucks passed within inches of us, spraying waves of road water on us as if we were riding surfboards instead of bicycles.

We were still somewhere in Oklahoma when I said I needed to stop, and it was only then that I realized Amy and I were alone. The Hefty bag that I had wrapped around my left shoe was twisted around the pedal, and as a result I twisted my ankle and my knee. But I was too damn cold to feel any pain at the time, and too miserable to care.

In a pack, it’s best to settle in behind someone large, because a big body can block out more of the elements than a small body. Obviously. Did I mention that Amy was about 4’10” and weighed about 120 pounds? She was a very strong rider, but she was useless for blocking out wind and rain. I may as well have tucked in behind a human sieve, perhaps a pasta colander, or a screen door. And so for the last 30-40 miles, I was her weather shield. I took the rain and the wind head on, and she stayed tucked behind me, glued to my back wheel. As I’ve said, sometimes you just have to put your head down and pedal.

Eventually, we crossed the Oklahoma state line and made it to Liberal, Kansas. We had pedaled 113 rainy miles into a headwind, and as the cue sheet had stated, we made a right turn into the parking lot of the hotel. I was happy to help Amy get to her beloved Liberal, Kansas. I hoped that it was worth the ride.

In the parking lot, my roommate Crazy Joe from Herkimer, NY helped me off of my bike. My fingers were swollen around the handlebars, and I was unable to squeeze the brake levers. He literally caught my bike as I coasted into the parking lot, and he had to pry my hands off of the handlebars. He found a pair of scissors and cut off my bike gloves, and used the scissors to also cut what remained of those Hefty bags from my shoes and pedals. Somehow I made it into the shower, and then, finally, into dry clothes.

Crazy Joe was a good guy. He was just a little crazy. He waited for me to finish showering and dressed into warm clothes, and then ushered me to the hotel banquet room. He opened the doors for me. Everyone from the ride turned, saw me, and started applauding. I looked over my shoulder to see if Oz was standing behind me, or perhaps Toto was performing some dog tricks. But no one was standing behind me.

“Everyone else got on the bus, you crazy bastard!” Crazy Joe explained. “You, Amy and a few other riders are the only ones that rode all the way from Dalhart. 113 miles in that rain! You’re crazy!” And that was coming from Crazy Joe.

“Bus?” I asked. “What bus? Where was the damn bus? I didn’t know there was a bus.”

To Amy, I was a hero. I pulled her through mile after mile of some of the worst weather I have ever had the displeasure of biking in, just so she could get to Liberal, Kansas. This was not like pedaling to Paris, France, or Rome, Italy. This was Liberal, Kansas. Only a crazy person would put biking to Liberal, Kansas on their bucket list, but it was on the top of Amy’s list.

Trust me when I tell you, I wasn’t trying to be a hero. If a bus had pulled up next to us somewhere along that 113 mile miserable route, I would have bound and gagged Amy and thrown her onto the bus!

After the ride, Amy and I stayed in touch until her passing, several years ago. I had spoken with her just a few weeks prior. We were both lamenting being somewhat out of shape, and agreed that we would increase our weekly bike mileage immediately. She was out for her normal 20 mile pre-work training ride. It was a hilly and windy route near her home in Westchester, NY. She knew the route well, but it had rained heavily the night before. A large branch lay across the road, around a blind bend, and Amy didn’t see it in time. She flew over the handlebars and suffered a fatal head injury. The coroner’s report stated she died instantly. The police report stated she was not wearing a helmet.

It has been several years since her passing, and I still find it impossible to believe that she would go for a ride without a helmet. In a world of alternative facts, I chose to believe that she was in fact wearing a helmet. She left behind a boyfriend and a daughter, about 10 years old. Heartbreaking. If I live another 50 years, I doubt that I will ever meet another person like Amy. She was a one-of-a-kind.