AS AMERICAN AS ...

No, we didn’t have apple pie, but we did sit on the curb and watch a parade.  Granted it was a very short parade, maybe 10 floats and no bands; but it was enthusiastic and it was competitive. 

Most of the floats were celebrating the 100^th anniversary of Arizona’s statehood, and a good majority of them included squirting water.  No, not squirting.  That implies the cute little spray of water from an old-fashioned water pistol.  This was more spraying water, even gushing water.  Especially when it came from the fire trucks.  It was amusing to watch the adults step back from the curb while all the kids ran into the street begging to be soaked. 

But this wasn’t the slice of Americana that most touched me.  It was what happened after the parade when the entire town – along with the more intrepid tourists – threw a party.  And what a party it was! 

A double tent had been raised in the field behind the reviewing stand and the sounds of a rockin’ band blasted from it the minute the parade ended.  We wandered around the field trying to choose our lunch from an array of stands selling Navajo tacos, hot dogs, and, of course, that Southwestern staple, barbeque.

In the meantime, the kids knocked down cans with balls, threw beanbags into the holes in a handmade target, and each won a heat of the sack race.  I knew the woman running the race was a mom when she turned to me during the third run and said, “The other two have trophies already, right?”  Each time I look at the three cheap thumbs-up trophies now residing in my front seat cup holders, I send her a little thought of gratitude for her sensitivity in understanding how sibling rivalry that can intensify when you’re living in a minivan for two months. 

Probably the best part, though – aside from the delectable authentic barbeque – was the equally authentic auction where everyone knew everyone else and we heard exchanges like:

Auctioneer:  Forty, forty, do I hear fifty?  Fifty, fifty, I have fifty.  Karen is bidding against you, Darla, but her husband doesn’t look so happy about it.

Darla’s husband:  Keep bidding, Karen.

Auctioneer:  You heard him, Karen.

Once the auction and all its friendly outbidding ended, the band kicked it up and we rocked out while everyone shared the dripping slices left over from the watermelon eating contest.

It wasn’t the picture perfect Norman Rockwell's New England bunting-draped parade and fireworks we're used to on the Fourth of July.  In fact, the fire danger in this part of the country is extreme so fireworks are banned all over the southwest.

Instead it was the open heart of America celebrating itself and taking in the strangers in its midst in much the same way it has for generations.  And I’m so glad my children got to experience it.


For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056

I’M THE THIRD WHEEL ON THE BICYCLE

I’m feeling superfluous.

Today was probably the day we were most worried about.  Only three days out and Gene would be riding through some of the most barren, arid, sun-beaten desert we’ll pass through on our whole trip.  And even more distressing, there was that forty-five mile stretch between Brawley and Palo Verde with absolutely nothing, not even a rest stop, for him to get water.

He had the bladder, which holds a liter, filled with ice and three large water bottles.  But the way he’d been sucking down water on the first two days, we knew they’d never last the whole stretch.

We carefully planned.

He rose early to beat the desert heat and was on the road by 5:45am.  We were to follow at 7:15am so we could catch up with him around the thirty mile mark, after about two hours on the road, with three gallons of water and a cooler full of ice.

Imagine my panic when we awoke at 7:45am, a full half hour after we were already supposed to have left!  The kids ate breakfast while I loaded the van, but it still took me 45 minutes to get us all out of the hotel and driving down Route 78.

My stress level built with each mile of deserted sand dunes and each hour of unrelenting sun that had passed since he left.  The only thing we went by was a Border Patrol checkpoint, where the guards held back their contraband sniffing dog and assured us that my husband hadn’t looked dehydrated when he’d gone through there forty-five minutes earlier.

I breathed a sigh of relief but raced onward nonetheless, picturing him hallucinating and heading out into the desert on his bicycle to wander aimlessly until finally succumbing to the heat and leaving us to find his bleached bones months later.

I’m very good at creating vivid doom-filled fantasies.

When he finally appeared in our windshield view, there was much cheering and gathering of cold water bottles.

We jumped out of the car expecting an exhausted and water-craving man.  Instead we were met by good spirits and the information that he had plenty of water because he’d found a small place to refill his bottles, and his bladder was still contained half its icy water.

I was both relieved and disappointed at the same time.

I mean, if he didn’t need us today on this most grueling of rides where hydration could really mean the difference between life and death, why were we here?  We were supposed to be his support team, his link to water and sustenance, his spirit lifter when it all seemed too much for him.  Instead he was well equipped for all the obstacles that had come his way so far – mountains, desert, long distances, heat.  I’m very proud of him for how prepared he is for this journey.

Now I need to find my purpose and reason to be here.

AN UPHILL BATTLE

After they rode the first four miles with Daddy, I packed the kids into the car and took off for our much looked forward to first day.

After an uneventful and relatively level first half, we met Gene in the parking lot of a 7-11 to refill his water and give him encouragement.  To be honest, I was thinking to myself that this was pretty much like every other ride he’s done on many weekends; and after waiting an hour for him to arrive I was wondering if we should change our plans to meet halfway each day and the kids and I would just head directly to each new hotel.  Especially after he told us that he’d stopped at another 7-11 to get water and didn’t need our supply.

“He normally rides 40 or 50 miles without me bringing him provisions,” I thought.  “Why does he need us all there now when he can take care of himself?”  We headed off for the second half of the drive to our pleasant little motel in Pine Valley with thoughts of change in my head.
In each small town we passed through, I pictured him stopping to use bathrooms or replenish his water supply.  I was fairly certain our strategy would be altered by tomorrow.

Then we hit the mountains.

Twenty miles of hot arid climbing with no place to turn when in need of water or support.  Every time I had to pump the gas pedal to put the car into overdrive and listened to its struggling engine, I thought of my husband on a bicycle trying to make it up the same climb.  My husband who hadn’t been on a really grueling ride in months.  My husband who had just spent the past seven days sitting in a car for ten hours a day.  My husband who was 49 years old and not necessarily in the best shape of his life.

By the time we got to our motel, I was convinced he was sitting on the side of the road dehydrated and despairing because the mountain had beaten him on his first day.  I gave the kids lunch, filled up the water bottles with ice and cold water, and we jumped back into the car to retrace our steps on a mission of mercy.
By the time we’d driven twenty miles back, I was nearly frantic with worry.  Why hadn’t we seen him?  Had he been hit by a car and knocked into the brush at the side of the road?  Had he been overcome by water loss and rushed to some strange hospital?

The return drive was tense as I tried to hide my concern from the children, but I could sense that Sarah had many of the same thoughts.

As we passed the “Pine Valley 5 Miles” sign we caught sight of a familiar jersey up ahead.

“Daddy!” yelled all three kids simultaneously.

We stopped to offer our now not-so-needed water and support, and to hear a few quick tales of his first day’s journey- including the conversation he was having with some fellow riders as we drove past on our outward-bound search.  By the time the kids and I had gotten back to the motel and settled in he was there.  But my thoughts about changing our planned daily routine had vanished.  I’ll be meeting him halfway every day – at least until we’re out of the 100+ degree temperatures and the 4000 foot climbs.  And I’ll have lots of water with me.