The Mighty Mississippi
There is a beautiful bike path along the Mississippi River. The banks are high and you get a wonderful view of the shipping traffic from shore. Given my maritime background, this is something that I personally enjoyed a bit more than most folks. I rode North for a ways along the path and eventually decided it was time I crossed the running river to continue my westward journey. Thinking that all bridges were created equal, I picked one at random and began my climb. Little did I know, a few minutes later I would be just a few inches from a terrible death.
I began my climb of the bridge with an ultra-wide shoulder. There was a lot of debris on the road. With so much space, I was unbothered because I had ample room to maneuver around the foreign objects. Then, the shoulder began to narrow as I climbed higher and higher. I started with enough room to fit several cars. Then, without much warning, my wide safety cushion quickly reduced itself to the width of a single white line. I remember looking down at my front tire with all the focus I could muster. The line was only about as wide as a few of my tires put side by side. If I veered left, even just a few inches, I would be fully within the traffic lane where cars were passing at 50 mph. If I veered right, I would crash into the guardrail and run the risk of falling a few hundred feet into the frigid water below. It was too late to turn around, as backward progression against traffic in these circumstances felt even more suicidal. I kept my head down, stared at that solid white line, and tried to ignore the blaring car horns as they passed by inches to my left. The drivers were probably cursing at me and calling me every name in the book that described an individual lacking intelligence. I don’t blame them one bit. What I was doing was downright stupid.
To make matters worse, the debris that I noticed on the shoulder as I started my climb up the bridge, remained consistent even as the shoulder narrowed and vanished. I was doing what I could to dodge the broken glass, car parts, and god knows what else without getting myself killed in the process. As I crested the bridge, and began my descent, I remembered that my rear brake pad was worn down to near nothing at this point. The added weight of my gear requires additional braking friction to stop. Thus, the brake pads need to be replaced more frequently than you otherwise would expect. I had a spare pad but kept putting off the five-minute fix as I never really encountered many steep descents until now. Anticipating my increased braking distance, I immediately began feathering my front brake to control my speed on the way down. If I allowed myself to gain too much speed, I might not be able to stop in time without crashing into something solid.
Slowly, the lane widened as I neared the edge of the bridge. I finally made it to the bountiful shoulder that mirrored the one I saw as I started climbing on the opposite side of the river. Once I had enough room, I pulled over, dismounted my bike, and leaned it against the guardrail. I needed a moment to allow my vision to widen and to come down from my adrenaline high. I was so focused on that white line, that I didn’t realize how hard I was gripping the handlebars. I looked down at my hands after I became aware of their throbbing ache in time to see the color slowly returning to my fingers. Never again would I blindly cross a bridge like that. Sometimes, you just have to learn the hard way.
I continued my push to the West. Then, as Murphy’s law would have it, I broke a spoke about 15 minutes later on my rear tire. A broken spoke means my wheel goes untrue, and the risk of breaking another goes up as the remaining spokes must account for the additional tension. I needed to get it replaced. Otherwise, my wheel would become so warped that I would no longer be able to ride. I hopped off my bike, screamed all sorts of profanities at an innocent car as it passed (it helped me alleviate some of my anger), and began scanning the internet for the nearest bike shop. Just as I feared, the nearest bike shop was on the other side of the river. My only alternative would be to ride 200 or so miles to Beaumont, Texas. I knew I would never make it. Do I cross the evil bridge again? Ha. Not a chance. I decided that I would ride 15 miles to the North along the river, and take a car ferry back across. The added mileage was well worth it.
I got my bike patched up in town and actually took a bit of constructive criticism. “I don’t have a rim here for you,” said the bike mechanic, “but I would highly recommend you call that store in Beaumont, and have them order at least a rear wheel for you so that it’s there by the time you arrive.”
“You don’t think this rim will make it to San Diego? I countered. He looked at me in disbelief, his face expressionless but tense. I waited for him to break eye contact. He didn’t. Sometimes, saying less can make you far more convincing. “I’ll call ahead for that wheel.” I finally said. He nodded with approval, handed me back my bike, and wished me good luck. Now, all I needed to do was make it to that bike shop in Beaumont. Time to cross the river… again.
