No more miles

Aug. 18-Oct. 6, North Dakota-Texas, 1901 miles—After seeing Sweetwater on Saturday, on Sunday morning I woke up sick for the first time all trip, so sick I could do little but lie in my Motel 6 bed and watch TV. Looking back, I believe I was sick the day I rode here from Knox City, when I didn't feel my usual strength.

By Wednesday I still couldn't ride, and I didn't feel like I'd be ready for some time. I went to the Rolling Plains clinic, where a doctor ordered blood tests that showed my white blood cell count was 2,400 on a scale from 7,500 to 10,000. That probably indicated I was fighting an unknown virus. Dr. Clayton said I would risk my health if I continued riding.

I was five days from my final destination—Eagle Pass on the Rio Grande—but it was obvious she was right. Just leaving my motel room was hard enough. Hauling 45 pounds on my bike down the highway seemed like something I'd done only in another life.

I can't make many grand conclusions now. I was fortunate to have near-perfect health for six weeks, but disappointed I couldn't cross the finish line. My trip had been even better than I expected, but I felt cheated out of the satisfaction of reaching the Mexican border and celebrating.

Once I realized it was over, I wanted to be home as soon as possible. I walked to the library, checked transportation options on the Internet, made phone calls. If I could find a way to the Abilene airport, an hour away, Hertz would let me drive a rental car back to Columbia.

I went to Larry's liquor store and told him the situation, asking whether he knew anyone who commuted to Abilene or had to go there. Bob, a retired friend sitting in an easy chair behind the counter, didn't have anything scheduled after he took his grandkids to school the next day. I had my ride.

Some people have asked about Hannah and her ashes, which I've carried on my bike since Lexington, Neb. I wasn't able to do much. Late on my last night I walked outside and away from the motel. I found a nice tree with a spreading crown (a Texas live oak, I think) and put some ashes in the crook of the limbs. Since I won't make it to the Rio Grande, I decided the rest of the ashes can travel to the Gulf of Mexico by another route, the Missouri River near my home in Missouri. When I'm well I'll do that.

At 9 the next morning Bob arrived outside my room, possibly to the second, with his pickup. Gracious and friendly, he wore a white cowboy hat. He took me to the airport in Abilene, to my relief a tiny place where we parked next to the terminal door. I leaned my bike against the wall and walked 50 steps to the Hertz counter inside. Ahead was a 12-hour drive into the trees of eastern Oklahoma and the Ozarks. When he got back to Sweetwater, Bob called me to make sure I was on my way. I think of that kindness as a good finish.