Two-Legged Glenn

The next day we woke to no rain, but it was still damp and cold. I was suffering from hypothermia. I was literally chilled to the bone; I didn’t warm up all day. My left knee was stiff and swollen so I took Advil. We pedaled that day to Dodge City, Kansas (Yes, there really is a Dodge City, Kansas), and finally the sun came out.

We made our way through Kansas, and each day my left knee became more and more painful. I didn’t realize how bad I must have twisted it with that damn Poortex Hefty bag, but by the time we got to Topeka, I was taking as much Advil and Tylenol as the ride doctor would allow. When I wasn’t riding, I was icing my knee. I was barely able to put any weight on my left leg; it hurt when I bent it, it hurt when I pedaled, and it hurt when I walked. The only time it didn’t hurt was when I kept it still and relatively straight. With over 1,500 miles to pedal to Boston, I was screwed.

“You most likely tore your meniscus.” Dr. Dave Edelson was the ride doctor. We were in Chillicothe, Missouri now. He was from Brooklyn, rode a Kestrel, was about 5 years older than me, and was a very strong rider. “I called ahead, and we have you scheduled for an MRI this afternoon in Kirksville, Missouri.”

In 1992, I didn’t know what the hell a meniscus was, but I knew it hurt like hell to tear one. Dr. Dave explained the situation to the folks at the MRI center, and they arranged for the radiologist and orthopedist to read the MRI while we waited in the lobby after the test.

“Yup, you’ve got a pretty good tear of your medial meniscus,” the radiologist confirmed.

“It will probably get better on it’s own in about 4-6 weeks if you stay off of it and don’t ride any more,” the orthopedist stated.

Dr. Dave drove me back to the hotel. As ride doctor, he had the authority and responsibility to prevent anyone from riding if they were not physically capable of riding.

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Dave said. “I’m not going to stop you if you want to keep on riding. But you can’t take any more Advil or Tylenol. I’ll get you something stronger tonight. Worse case scenario, you’ll decide for yourself that you can’t finish the ride, and you’ll be looking at surgery when you get back to New York.”

It was 76 miles back to Chillicothe. I stared out the window and took in the terrain. We would be biking this exact route the next day.

We got back to the hotel and Dr. Dave headed to dinner.

Dr. Dave was correct about one thing. I was not going to stop riding. The thought of stopping hadn’t even entered my mind. My mother wasn’t given an option of whether she wanted to have breast cancer or not. I just didn’t see quitting as an option. Not riding my bicycle all the way to Boston was not an option.

I was 26 years old. I really didn’t care what condition my left knee would be in if I continued riding for another 1,500 miles.

Additionally, there were other riders that were suffering. Some physically – butt sores to strained necks; others emotionally – separation from family or crumbling marriages back home; others psychologically – ‘What the hell was I thinking about when I signed up for this ride?’

Other riders were already persevering beyond expectations. There were a number of cancer survivors on the trip. There was an 82 year old blind man that was riding tandem with his grand-nephew, and it was his 3^rd time biking across the country! He didn’t even start biking until he was 65 years old! No, there was no damn way I was quitting.

But the fact remained that my left knee was killing me. Simply put, it was impossible to pedal another 1,500 miles on my left knee.

A plan had come to me earlier that day, about 25 miles outside of Chillicothe. Since I was riding so damn slowly because of the pain, I was often riding alone. My left knee was screaming. Behind me, I heard a loud “Moooo,” as if 200 cows were barreling down the road. But it wasn’t a heard of cows. It was a Chrysler minivan, and Glenn Streeter was at the PA System. I stopped pedaling and waited for him to pull up alongside me.

Glenn Streeter was the bike mechanic for the ride. He was about my age. He was the New Hampshire Downhill Mountain Biking Champion that year, and we became fast friends.

He was wearing a leather cowboy hat, which he had found on the side of the road somewhere in Arizona. He called it his Stevie Ray Vaughn hat. The musician Stevie Ray Vaughn had died tragically in a helicopter crash a few years earlier, and Glenn pretended that SRV had lost the hat in the helicopter crash. He rolled down the passenger side window, and had the video camera rolling.

“What’s up, my one-legged brother?” he asked.

Prior to flying to California to start the bike ride, I bought an 8 mm video camera. I had it in my bike pannier every day, and took it out intermittently to video people on the ride. However, after I injured my knee the last thing I needed was to lug an extra 10 pounds of camera equipment around, so I left it with Glenn to use during his bike mechanic adventures. After the ride, Amy Lefler’s boyfriend made a professional video of all of the outtakes. It is on YouTube titled “Pedal For Power 1992.”

“Glenn. My two-legged brother,” I said. “I want you to take my left crank off. I can’t bend my left knee anymore today, but I think it you take the crank and pedal off, I can hold my left leg straight in front of me and pedal the rest of the way with just my right leg.”

“You’re a crazy son of a bitch, my one-legged friend.” Within a minute, Two-Legged Glenn had taken my left crank off. He gave me the left crank with the pedal still attached, and the crank tool as well. “In case you decide this is a really bad idea and you want to put the crank and pedal back on,” he said, handing me the crank tool.

I held on to the side of the van as he pulled away. He had the video camera rolling, because he wanted to get video of me trying to ride my bike with only one leg. Before he pulled away, though, I swore him to secrecy, and asked him to make a few phone calls for me as soon as he got to the hotel that afternoon.

I had been riding across most of Kansas and Missouri alone because I was riding very slowly. Some days I was able to ride a complete 85 miles or more on both legs, but the next day I was only able to ride 40-50 miles. Then I had to dangle my left leg off the pedal, and try to find a place to prop it up and out of the way without falling off the bike. This is like trying to get comfortable while sitting on a fence post. There simply is no other way to sit on a bicycle other than with your ass on the seat, and one foot on either pedal.

There were some miles where I just couldn’t pedal another inch. It was with great disappointment that I eventually had to throw my bike on the rack of Two-Legged Glenn’s minivan and get a lift to the next hotel. To this day, I have some unfinished business in Missouri.

Back at the hotel, I asked Two-Legged Glenn,” Any luck?’

“The only kind of luck you need right now, One-Legged Glenn. I can’t believe how lucky you are. There’s a shop 3 blocks away! They’re open until 9 p.m tonight. Your idea might even work!”

“Awesome!” I said. “And mum is still the word, right?”

“Until my dying day,” Two-Legged Glenn replied.