OKLAHOMA ~ 250 Miles – The Hard Way

There can be no finer guide to Oklahoma back roads than my brother Will, who’s spent decades tromping its wetlands looking for ducks to shoot or fishing its lakes for flathead catfish and smallmouth bass.  I wasn't sure I could get him on a bike:  he and his hunting dog Buddy seemed happy spending hours roaming the 80 acres Will recently bought near Weatherford, together ruminating on plans to dig, build, clear, mow, garden, weed, prune, plant, level, and buttress, as swooning hawks circled over them.

 

We’d wanted to bike across Oklahoma ever since we’d read there were a group of athletic young folks who do it annually, riding south to north with the wind at their backs.   

There are bike treks across other states – the granddaddy RAGBRAE across Iowa, a rolling party of 10,000 people; GBABAAWR along the Wisconsin River; Ride the Rockies across Colorado; and a hundred others.  Oklahoma Freewheel, in its 36th year, used to attract 1,000 riders but now is down to 600.  Apparently other across-state rides have been suffering decreasing ridership, and one of the board members, a young woman in her 30’s who we met the first evening, said, “We don’t really know why.”

Well, about four hills into the ride, I knew why.  Who on earth wants, as a VACATION, to work this damn hard, sweating, throwing your chain as you switch gears too fast, and having big semis blow past at 60 miles an hour, as you struggle not to pitch off the steep drop off?  What VACATION requires you to pedal in your hometown for 300-400 training miles?  What kind of VACATION makes you leave your (wise) wife and small kids at home, though we did meet some father-daughter, mother-son combinations.  And what kind of VACATION attracts campgrounds full of skinny, muscular seniors who think 500 miles of tar and grit comprise a good time?  Eighty-eight year old Hubie had done Oklahoma Freewheel 29 times, and had plenty of other gray haired geezers keeping him company.

Will and I spent three and a half days on the road, going from small town to smaller town – starting in Paul’s Valley, not far from Oklahoma City, and passing through McLoud, Chandler, Agra, Ripley, Stillwater (big), Perry, Tonkawa, Blackwell, and finally a 20-mile stretch of flat wheat fields near the border that ended at Caldwell, Kansas.  I knew I’d survive when I saw noticed that an 18-stall shower truck was traveling with us, a converted semi that sported little individual changing rooms, hot water, and free towels.  They hooked up to the city water supply each night.  No less civilized was a charging truck, with hundreds of outlets for cell phones, i-pods, and GPS apps.  These people were hardy, but they were hardly covered wagon pioneers.  No less critical was the semi that carried everyone’s gear, three bike mechanic vans, a couple sag wagons, and an ever-present Oklahoma Highway Patrol car, with flashing strobes, which, as someone quipped, “kept the red necks well behaved.” 

The ride was fabulously organized, two fruit stops in the mornings, lunch at the half way point, two fruit stops in the afternoons, and sometimes a few polite people clapping as we rode into town, 600 sweaty, sore, dazed cyclists.  We did 60, 71, 72, and 46 miles respectively on the four days, Will’s daughter , i.e., my niece Rachel, joining us on the last leg to ride-in the old folks.  She had fresh legs and all that youth, zooming ahead as if four dozen miles were a mere jaunt in the fresh morning air.

The best part were all the community groups that hosted the overnights and rest stops -- 4-H clubs, libraries, historical societies, American Indian youth groups and churches. Truly friendly people, honored to be chosen as a 2014 Oklahoma Freewheel site.  Believe me, you have to be a miniscule town to get excited about watching a four-hour long straggle of weary, wind-blown cyclists pass down main street.   

Many towns seemed much poorer than Wisconsin’s small ones.  There were plenty of hours to reflect on the economy of the USA, how young people had long since left these aging streets. Sagging porches buckled under the weight of broken down baby buggies, tricycles, red wagons, box springs, flower pots, and lawn chairs.  Sad yards resembled used car lots, specializing in vehicles that no longer moved forward – rusted motorcycles, trucks, jeeps, school buses, often all in the same lot.
 

There’s nothing like losing a sibling to make you treasure family time together, and our missing brother Dave seemed to be riding along, in spirit, appreciating the tough, tender landscape. Wild turkeys, turtles, rabbits, deer, prairie dogs, and even guinea hens lined up to watch the cycle parade, while meadowlarks, and swallows swooped above us.  Green fields cradled small ponds that beckoned, “Come swim, Madeline!”  Will was disappointed that a recent rain seemed to be delaying the wheat harvest, while I was worried that all the hills of Oklahoma seemed to be aggressively lining up on our route.  On our first day I counted 17 “significant hills” before the lunch stop, then after lunch we did 10 straight miles of undulations that dwarfed the morning’s challenge.  Will and I had strong legs and fought our way up one after another and hung on with white knuckles for the wild rides down.

The next days, our legs and rear ends complained loudly.  We started out of Stillwater on gorgeous, winding, shady roads, and I was actually smiling before I hit a seven-mile section called Bronco Road.  Smile faded.  Those hills were short but sharp and the bronco didn’t know when to quit.  He threw me.

Panting, I walked a couple, enabling a hundred cyclists who inched by in their quiet granny gears to feel younger and more superior.  Buzzards eyed me from overhead. 

 

There are lots of things you don’t see on Wisconsin bike rides – dead armadillos and lizards on the road, scissor tailed fly catchers on fences, all shapes of old and modern oil wells, or jarring, ancient pot-holes, left unpatched since the 1889 Land Run.  Wisconsin doesn't have Chickasaw sand plums or flowers called Indian blankets.  We don’t have muddy red rivers like the the Cimarron, Chikaskia or North Canadian, tribal lands labeled Ponca, Kiowa or Kaw or Fox-and-Sac smoke shops.  Our sky is not quite so open nor clouds so dizzying.  Wisconsin winds are more like cool breezes and less like hot, ferocious tornadoes.

 

We had great luck to miss the first three days of the trip, which were by all accounts grueling, long distances against mean headwinds.  The others endured consecutive nights of storming, tent-pole breaking rain.  Will and I pitched our tent on our first night in McLoud, but when still-soggy campers began taking theirs down, after hearing yet-another forecast for 65 mph winds and half-inch diameter hail, we followed them into a nearby church.  A doozey of a storm hit about 3:00 am, but seventy of us were cozy on the very altar of the church, atop cushy carpet, beneath a cross-shaped, stained glass window.  

   

I wish I had a photo of my mom’s expression as she saw us off – something like, “Did I raise complete idiots?”  My sister Susan’s worries and text messages followed us along our route – she had bought us a pile of bike equipment, but seemed to get in touch with her inner Wise Woman who advised her to stay behind.  My sister- in-law Becky likewise chose to be our Support Crew, and cheerfully drove us to Paul’s Valley – a couple hours from Weatherford, but had to drive clear to Kansas, miles across the state, to pick us up.  We did a great job at the end of piling three bikes on the bike rack that Susan had purchased, only to have them come crashing off as we crossed a bridge.  No major damage, just the kind of accident you hate to have with 600 bikers witness.  I adored my niece Rachel for accompanying us – she is a beautiful biker.  Will and I made lots of new friends, people who regarded this as a completely reasonable way to spend a summer’s week, and they welcomed us back.

Mildly limping, sunburned, mosquito-bitten, with sore, if more muscular butts, Will and I got gingerly into Becky’s car, feeling just fine about riding, not biking, the couple hundred miles back to Weatherford, ecstatic at the thought of sleeping on a mattress, not a tent or church floor.  But we had shared four of Oklahoma’s loveliest days, greeted inhabitants of its historical towns, and we’d actually sung, “And the land we belong to is grand” as we rolled together down back roads.

	Finishers!  Four days, 250 miles, and new appreciation for the hills and back roads of our beautiful home state.
	Will’s wife, Becky, joined us for a celebration dinner in Tonkawa.  She ferried Will, me, and my niece Rachel, plus bikes, sleeping bags and tent to the start and the finish in Paul’s Valley, Oklahoma, and Caldwell, Kansas.
	Sister Susan loaded our bikes in Weatherford, Oklahoma, followed us by text messaging, and fretted about the quality and quantity of our equipment and training. Reflections Madeline Uraneck (globalmaddy@gmail.com) Biking partner Will Uraneck (wupossom@gmail.com) Posted on:  http://globalmaddy.blogspot.com/