When we were in our early 20s, my boyfriend and I managed several modest bicycling trips. Eric and I lived on the East End of Long Island and had ridden its quiet and level country roads many times. Our first off-Island journey took us to Connecticut. We cycled to the ferry and sailed across Long Island Sound.
The New England back roads took us over hills and through picturesque villages built by hearty settlers during the 17th century. Each day’s end found us comfortably in a bed-and-breakfast or historic inn.
Years later, married and steering beyond raising children and heading toward middle age, we started to dream of cycling across America — from California to eastern Long Island. With this new chapter in our lives before us, we longed for adventure. The country was vastly bigger than we had considered. We envisioned crossing it as simply a ride home, albeit a very long one.
But our two daughters, still in their 20s, beat us to it. Years of hearing us talk about our two-wheeled travel dreams had encouraged them to do the same. One night at dinner, Emma and Lucy announced their cross-country trip from east to west. Although somewhat gobsmacked, we stayed calm since the idea had been ours in the first place. Their agenda was to take a southern route, ending in San Diego, home of my brother and his family.
We encouraged them to contact the Adventure Cycling Association, based in Missoula, Mont. It is a noteworthy source for information and maps for extended bicycle travel. Our only clear directive to Emma and Lucy was that they must get in touch with us at the end of each day to assure us that they were safe.
We joined them for a week of cycling through the hilly state of Missouri. On the hottest days with the biggest hills, I renamed the state “Misery.”
A year later, inspired by the girls, Eric and I completed our own cross-country bicycle ride, following Adventure Cycling’s northern route. We flew to Northern California, where we prepared ourselves and our bicycles for the long journey across the continent from Anacortes, Wash., to Southampton.
Biking on flat Long Island never prepared us for the unending hills of Montana. After which, the treeless prairies of North Dakota felt like a sauna as we cycled, with no shade trees to rest under. Most evenings, we found a campground where we could lay our heads, and occasionally we set up our tent in a field on the side of the road. Better yet, and with a little bit of luck, toward the end of the day we would find a small-town motel with clean sheets and a shower.
Life on a bicycle in a huge state like Montana offered challenges all day every day. We pushed our way up massive hills and then flew down them, holding our bodies and brakes steady. Those long hills and 90-degree days taught me the patience to take a slower pace during eight hours of consistent peddling. I would go on to declare that Montana had “tamed” me, a very strong cyclist and tough woman.
As we approached the North Dakota state line, I glimpsed a huge shade tree ahead. Eric was far enough behind me so that when he entered the state, he found me totally relaxed under a tree, smiling in the shade of its spreading branches. After North Dakota’s nickname, I had truly entered “the Peace Garden” state of mind.
Our northern route eventually took us to Niagara Falls. Finally, we were back East! We peddled on, soon finding our route down the Connecticut River Valley and south to familiar ground, where the Cross Sound Ferry would ship us to Long Island and our final cycling stop, home. Our mood: joyful and proud.
Our cycling life later took us to England, where Eric had a cousin; Denmark, where I’d lived for a year during college; northern Germany, and Lacoste, France. We were a bit older and wiser then, and instead of camping we eagerly found a good bed to sleep in each night at small inns and welcoming bed-and-breakfasts.
Four years ago, everything changed. I was doing my daily ride on the quiet country roads around our neighborhood, and the next thing I knew I was coming to in my bed, my two daughters and Eric nearby. They explained to me that I had been found on the road, my helmet and bike broken, as well as my brain. I had been in the hospital for several days and was sent home with directions for care of a severe head injury and concussion. I have no memory of the accident. My memory, both short and long term, was gone.
It has taken more than four years for my brain to return to some degree of normal. Every day I have struggled with no memory. In writing about bicycling in my earlier years, it has taken a huge amount of patience to recall the details of those wonderful rides.
Lately, I have been thinking about getting back on my bicycle and enjoying the outdoors on two wheels like I used to. Recently, a good friend and I rode to the beach, just a couple of miles away. This is the only way I will ride for now, having someone always by my side. Especially Eric, patient as he has always been, whether on the bike or on the ground.
Hilary Woodward is a teacher who was born and raised in Southampton, part of the Herrick family, which dates to the 17th century there. She takes part in a memoir-writing class led by Andrew Visconti.