Bicyclist reaches the end of the island and recaps the path down

Editor's note: Matt Wittmer is a Cape Girardeau native and an avid cyclist. He is helping plot a bike route from Canada to Key West, Fla., as part of the East Coast Greenway. Wittmer's portion of the ride started in September in Washington, D.C., and will end in Key West this month. This is his last column for the ride.

The ride is over. There's no more land. But I feel fresh. Cuba's closer to Key West than mainland Florida is, so I've proposed a Blueway to the Greenway. What do you think? Turn the Bianchi into a paddle wheel bicycle and hit the high seas? I'm ready to go.

All told, I rolled more than 2,500 miles on this trip. I crashed twice. One was nasty. It destroyed my custom-built front rim and caused a purple hematoma on my right quadriceps that stayed with me for well over a month.

I wore a hole clear through one back tire and sheared my initial backrack off at the screw. That's an important piece of equipment. It carries my panniers, which hold all my gear.

I had four flats and replaced three broken spokes. My bike seat is dying. My helmet's on its last legs. The grip tape on my handlebars is cut and frayed. My hands are calloused. I feel just a twinge of tendinitis under the cap of my right knee.

The Macintosh the Greenway loaned me to complete its maps had some "vibration issues" and went home early, and I had a close encounter with an RV.

I knew I'd lose weight, but I'm a touch ashamed to admit I've lost several other things: a lock, my gloves, my rear light, some sandals and a sweat shirt.

I've had to fight out here, but I won. What's a battle without some scars, some loss, some moments of frailty and worry and woe? I've read that if an ass goes traveling it doesn't come home a horse. I understand that sentiment. A trip is not an automatic transformation. Going doesn't equal becoming. But I disagree to some degree. I'm a man, and I'm moving forward a better one.

Just when you think you've done something, though, just when your head gets a little swollen, along comes greater awareness, a story, a person, to put you in your place.

I saw Andy right as I pulled into Smathers Beach on Key West's southern shore. He was a 48-year-old handyman with no previous long-distance experience more than 60 miles. Before, that is, he threw a leg over his bike and pedaled 4,000 miles here from Los Angeles.

He endured scorching days and chilling nights across the deserts and mountains of Arizona and New Mexico. He outrode a band of wild hogs in West Texas, said it was freezing cold in Louisiana, and made his way through the Hurricane Katrina-torn Gulf Coast. Somewhere along the way he met a man who was riding from Anchorage, Alaska, to Argentina.

I can't stress it enough. A journey like this is an everyday encounter with humility. It may be the weather. It may be the roads. It may be the traffic. Often it's your own body. It's certain to surface when you suddenly feel alone in an unfamiliar place. Always when you need help, and boy, have I needed a lot of that. The list would eat up this column.

I asked Andy why he did it. He said a friend had ridden cross-country and sparked something inside him. Even if I hadn't gotten the sweet gig with the Greenway, I'd have done this on my own dime, too.

Why? For all the reasons I've written about: the sheer joy of the road unrolling beneath my wheels, the new sights and sounds daily, the thrill of arriving someplace under your own power, the people, the people, the people.

There was a young soldier from Dallas-Fort Worth named Matt. He was in the Keys on leave and had run out of gas. He had the 23rd Psalm tattooed down his right forearm, the yellow rose of Texas on his left shoulder. He had just signed on for another five-year tour. Already, he'd taken shrapnel and had seven confirmed kills. That's commitment. That's perspective.

He didn't believe in the war, but the money they were giving him was lure enough. He gave me his bank card, and I rode to get him a gallon. There but for the grace of God ... .