Bike Touring and the Kindness of Strangers

By Stan Purdum

In my response last week to a question about the possibility of self-supported touring by ebike, I mentioned in passing that “many of the unexpected problems that happen while touring are, in fact, solved through the kindness of strangers.” You can read my full response here.

Here, I want to give some examples of spontaneous kindness shown to me by strangers while touring. I know from talking with other touring cyclists that these examples are typical of the help riders have received from passersby and others who happened to be in the location where the cyclist’s trouble or problem occurred.

Here are some acts of kindness I received while touring:

In Oregon, while touring self-supported with my brother, we decided at the last minute to deviate from the mapped route we were on to visit a relative, so we selected a route from a highway map that showed only the primary roads. Big mistake. We soon found ourselves on a narrow, heavily traveled thoroughfare, the shoulder, such as it was, was littered with gravel and assorted trash — enough of it that for the most part, we had to ride in the traffic lane itself, mere inches from frenzied-paced vehicles streaming by. One of the passing cars soon pulled into a wide spot just off the road and the driver waved us over. When we stopped, he said, “Welcome to the worst road for bikes in America.” He then introduced himself as Skip, and added “When I saw your gear,” he said, “I figured you weren’t from around here and didn’t know about the back road.” He pointed southward. “There’s a quiet country road just about a mile that way. It parallels this road.” He then told us about an upcoming crossroad that would take us to it. He may, in fact, have saved our lives!

While touring with my daughter on a tandem in the mountains of Virginia, we developed a shifting problem. Several teeth of the granny chainring had bent about 20-degrees inward, causing it to keep dropping the chain. Having no way to straighten the teeth and little hope that a repair would last anyway, I knew we needed a bike shop. We were reduced to walking the bike up the next several grades. We finally arrived at the next town where, in the local diner, I offered to hire someone to drive us to a bike shop. The owner of the establishment, a man in his 30s, agreed to help us. He drove us in his pickup to the nearest bike shop and upon arrival he stuck around until I ascertained that the shop had the parts we needed. When I pulled out my wallet, he refused any payment. He just wished us well and went on his way.

Touring in the wide-open spaces of the Texas panhandle, I got caught in the worst storm I’d ever experienced (I learned later that the storm had included some tornadoes, which, thankfully, were not directly where I was). I hunkered down beside a bush and waited it out, but it was frightening. Because more storms were forecast for the next day, and I was on a tight schedule, I asked in the motel where I stayed that night to dry out my stuff if anyone was driving the next day to a town out of the storm area but in the direction I needed to go. The motel owner’s daughter told me she and a coworker would be driving that way, enroute to their jobs, and that she had an SUV that would accommodate my bike. So in the morning, they picked me up. Later, when they dropped me off, I offered some cash for the gas. “No, we don’t want it,” she said. “We were coming here anyway.” “Then use it to have lunch on me,” I said. “No way,” she said, and her coworker joined in the refusal. “We enjoyed your company. Have a good ride.” As they pulled away, I thought about how many times people had helped me in tight spots on my two long trips across America. Not once had anyone accepted money for doing so. I wouldn’t have thought less of the women if they had accepted it, but it made me feel good to witness their spontaneous generosity.

While touring in Ohio, I stopped for the night in a small town where I received permission to set up my tent behind a church. The pastor later stopped by and offered to leave the church unlocked so I would have access to the bathroom. Touring in Virginia with my daughter, we were forced to change routes because a bridge was out, so another pastor let us sleep in his church.

Sometimes people just helped without being asked. Sloughing up hill in Missouri in a dreary rain as daylight was fading, an older man stopped in his pickup and offered me a ride. Gratefully, I accepted. Once in the truck, he asked where I was headed for the night. It turned out that was not where he was headed, but then he generously took me there anyway, driving 18 miles out his way.

On tour in Arkansas, I stopped in a bike shop for a minor repair. When I told the shop owner where I was headed, he told me that because of road work, the traffic was limited to one narrow lane and bikes were not allowed. So he called his father who drove me through the construction area.

Touring south on U.S. Route 62 from Oklahoma City, I stopped for supper in a local eatery, and while there, a couple who were dining at the next table struck up a conversation. They ended up paying for my supper, putting me up overnight and driving me around a problem area the next morning.

While cycling over the continental divide via Hoosier Pass (11,542 feet high) in Colorado on my cross-nation ride, I began feeling sick. I camped in the first town I came to after topping the pass. I assumed I was feeling the effects of the altitude, and when I felt a little better in the morning, I decided to keep riding, believing that my condition would improve as I got to lower elevations. I rode the next two days but never felt quite right. Finally, later the second day, as I neared Pueblo, I realized that I was really sick and needed help. At a nearby residence, I saw some people working on trucks in a garage. I hobbled over and asked if they could direct me to an emergency room.

“What’s wrong?” asked the older man, immediately concerned.

“I’m not sure. I’m biking through, but I’ve gotten sick.”

With no more explanation from me than that, the man, who I later learned was named Randy, took charge. He said, “Leave your bike here. We live right next door, and we’ll take care of it. My son will drive you to the hospital. It’s still several miles away.” His grown son, Aaron, pulled up in a car, and I crawled in. Randy handed me his business card inscribed with his home phone number. “Call me when you’re released, and we’ll come and get you.” Aaron floored it and drove me rapidly to the hospital.

The emergency room modeled efficiency. A nurse interviewed me within two minutes of my entry, a doctor checked me over three minutes later, and five minutes after that the first of three liters of intravenous fluid pulsed into my arm. “Chronic dehydration,” the doctor diagnosed. “It happens easily at high, dry altitudes. There’s not enough air pressure to keep the moisture in your body. You need to drink lots more water than usual when you’re working as hard as you were at that height.”

Later, after seeing my blood test results, she added, “You’re severely dehydrated. Your enzymes and blood sugar are all out of whack, and your muscles were even starting to break down.”

Five hours later, after finally squeezing out enough urine to prove that my functions were returning, I was released.

I phoned Randy. “You’re not planning to go on tonight, I hope,” he said.

“No. I should probably go to a motel.”

“No need. You can stay with us as long as you need to. I’ll be over to pick you up in a few minutes.”

At Randy’s home, I met his wife Shelly, who seemed not at all rattled that a stranger would be spending the night in her house. I’d be sleeping in their youngest son’s bedroom. Jesse, their 4-year-old, usually ended up in his parents’ bed anyway, Shelly explained. I also met Adam, their teenage son, who had thoughtfully moved my bike inside the house because there had been a possibility of rain. After a hot shower, I dropped gratefully into bed.

A good feeling permeated this household — a strong sense that the people who lived there cared about being a family. Randy told me that Shelly home-schooled their children, “not for religious reasons, but because of the gangs in the public schools.”

Later, when I noticed Randy alone in the kitchen, I walked in and laid several bills on the counter. “I’d like you to take this. I really appreciate what you did for me. You may even have saved my life,” I said without exaggeration.

“No,” he replied. “I don’t want it. I appreciate that you offered it, but I believe people have to take care of each other. We were glad to do it.”

As the recipient of this generous philosophy, I was profoundly grateful. 

I was able to resume my journey later that morning.

All of the above is not a full list of all the kindness of strangers from which I benefitted while touring — there were additional generous acts from people I didn’t know — but together they made my journeys trips of gladness.

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Stan Purdum has ridden several long-distance bike trips, including an across-America ride recounted in his book Roll Around Heaven All Day, and a trek on U.S. 62, from Niagara Falls, New York, to El Paso, Texas, the subject of his book Playing in Traffic. Stan, a freelance writer and editor, lives in Ohio. See more at www.StanPurdum.com.