Jeffrey's Journey

(chain grinding) (birds chirping) (no audio) (gentle music) (frame cracking) (camera clicking) - [Jeffrey] These hands are mine.

(gentle music) (keys clicking) This disease is incredibly rare.

(gentle music) (keys clicking) And it's not just my hands that are failing me.

It's genetic.

And it's progressive.

So, I haven't always had these struggles.

(gentle music) Each year, walking becomes more difficult.

But when I'm on two wheels, well, that is a different story.

(gentle music) (rain pelting) (thunder booming) I'm an adventure cyclist.

I'm on the road for days or even months at a time.

It's a way for me to learn about my world and about myself.

I'm ready to roll.

Why don't you come along for the ride?

(gentle music) (birds chirping) (no audio) Pittsburgh, The Steel City.

The journey starts here.

Why?

Because this is where the river begins.

The Ohio River.

And I'm following it all the way to Cincinnati.

It will definitely be an adventure.

But I'd like to get one thing straight, right now.

For me, every adventure begins with an element of fear, irrational fear.

Anxiety.

I know, I'll see busy roads with no shoulders.

18-wheelers and life size Hot Wheels trucks.

Vicious dogs and lots of distracted drivers.

And I'll make a wrong turn for sure.

But that's the norm for bicycle touring, I'm prepared for those issues.

But what gets me in the beginning is the self-doubt.

It gets a hold on me.

A gnawing worry that I'm not really up to this challenge.

What am I doing out here?

Disabled on a bicycle.

Am I trying to prove something?

Am I just an idiot risking his life?

Probably a little of both.

(chain grinding) (birds chirping) Rolling north out of Pittsburgh, there's a restaurant I wanna see.

The interwebs say it's been used as a location in about a dozen movies and TV shows.

It's called Don's Diner.

Supposed to be unique.

One of a kind.

Okay, a little more "unique" than I was expecting.

I think of Pittsburgh as a tough town.

The kind of place that when push comes to shove, it doesn't pull any punches.

And this diner's attitude is spot-on.

It's clearly seen some hard times and still manages to stay open for business.

But not on a Sunday morning.

Once I'm a few miles out from the glass and steel towers of downtown, I find the industry that built Pittsburgh.

The industry still clings tight to the river.

(soft electronic music) And it bumps up against countless small river towns like Beaver, Pennsylvania.

These angled parking spaces are a red flag on the bicycle and I watch closely for reverse lights as the through traffic slips by.

I try to avoid this type of road if possible.

Whoohf!

But sometimes I'm just riding through an unfamiliar area.

I stop when I need to catch my breath and check out my surroundings.

And what is this?

What is this tangle of pipes across the river?

To Google I go.

Turns out, there's a controversy here.

This is a brand new Shell petrochemical plant.

Shell got more than $1.5 billion in Pennsylvania state subsidies to locate here.

Officials believed it would be a job creation bonanza.

But according to media reports, actual employment numbers are lower than advertised and clean air violations higher than promised.

Why even bring this up?

Because this seems to be the plight of Appalachia.

People need jobs, schools need funding.

And the water and air need protecting.

But we've turned that into a tug of war.

And it feels like everyone is losing.

The river rolls on.

A couple hours later and I'm almost in East Liverpool, Ohio.

Day one always goes quick as my nerves settle and I find my groove.

Soon, I'll cross over into West Virginia, on this.

This photo was taken soon after it was built in 1905.

The Newell Toll Bridge, now renamed the Wayne Six, was privately owned then and it still is today.

- Here you go!

- Thank you, have a good one now.

- [Worker] You too.

- Hey!

- [Worker] Hey, how you doin'?

- Good, how are you guys doin' today?

- [Worker] Good, how are you?

- I'm doing pretty good, yeah.

It's been crazy kinda ridin' the bike outta Pittsburgh, but glad to be here.

(laughs) (soft acoustic music) (chain grinding) I'm riding across the Ohio River on these wooden planks.

And looking through these gaps, I can't help but notice the river at least about 150 feet below.

Okay, I mean, none of this wood is from the original construction, right?

But as it pops and growls under my tires, I have to worry a little.

And the rolling sway of the bridge as cars pass makes me feel like I'm on a boat, riding the waves to shore.

The toll booth workers told me that while state-owned bridges are inspected every five to seven years, privately owned bridges like this are held to a higher standard.

They get inspected annually.

So I know I'm fine, but I'd cross my fingers if I could.

A couple miles to the west and I've found a place to camp.

It's really close to the river and I love it.

Setting up the tent is always a challenge for me.

I struggle with all the little clips and the zippers.

And getting up and down off the ground is difficult too, especially when my legs are already tired from riding all day.

I take my time and try not to get frustrated.

I like the idea of sleeping on the ground and then getting up and riding tens of miles again the very next day.

It helps to shape an image I keep in my mind of being resilient.

Just like the river, I want to keep moving, adapting to the world around me.

So I'll sleep here tonight and when I wake up, I'll do this all again.

(insects chirping) CMT, Charcot-Marie-Tooth is a peripheral neuropathy, and it affects the nerves through the myelin coating of my nerves.

The signals don't really get all the way through the way that they should.

So what happens is, starting at my fingertips and the tips of my toes, the muscles begin to atrophy, because they're not getting any kind of signal, and they're not firing is what's happening.

And so as those muscles no longer fire, they just weaken.

In a lot of respects, it's kind of like aging quickly.

You lose your strength, which leads to a loss of balance, which leads to where I am right now on this journey, with weak legs and suffering some balance issues.

(no audio) (gentle piano music) (birds chirping) I love setting out as early as I can.

The rising sun on my face and body, it warms my still cold hands after stuffing the wet, dew-covered tent into my pannier.

And mornings like this don't just fall into my lap.

I gotta get going and take advantage of this.

This road leads to Weirton, West Virginia.

There are ghosts here.

(gentle piano music) Here are some facts from the Weirton Museum.

In 1942, 13,000 people worked at Weirton Steel.

By 1950, Weirton produced half of the world's raw steel.

Half of it.

And immigrants played a major role here.

Laborers came from 40 countries to work in this town.

But that was then.

This is Main Street today.

(gentle piano music) (birds chirping) The old steel mill now sits empty.

Its metal faade rusting in the shadows of a well-rounded, more plastic future.

This is Form Energy, an American tech company.

They chose Weirton for their new iron air battery plant.

A battery focused on storing clean energy.

They said their decision was partly based on the workforce.

Locals had the skillsets and the ability to adapt them to this new process.

There it is, the ability to adapt.

Cruising further down Main Street, it's hard to tell where the industry ends and the city begins.

I wonder what it was like to grow up here, as the steel production slowly slipped away, and the commotion of trains faded into the silence of empty railyards.

Was noise from the mill now replaced by long haulers and their engine brakes?

Did the coal soot and the soil finally settle together, becoming one?

This could be any post-industrial landscape.

This river corridor brings one old steel town after another.

Proud of their past, I hope they can forge a sustainable future.

(upbeat acoustic music) An hour south of Weirton in Wellsburg, I find the Brooke-Pioneer Trail.

It gives me a little break from the road traffic and the heat as I glide beneath a canopy of green.

(upbeat music) But every now and then, I get a reminder of where I am.

This reminds me a little bit of Louisiana, along the Mississippi.

Strange and massive structures with old, corroding pipes connecting everything together with the river.

I enjoy the downtime off the road.

I listen for the birds in the treetops.

They keep me company as the trail leads me right into Wheeling, West Virginia.

I'm really loving these riverfront parks.

I can hear folks making music and smell the aroma of food trucks gearing up for the dinner crowd.

I pedal past artsy sculptures that make me feel like I'm among friends.

I can relax here and unwind for the night.

(wheels grinding) (soft music) They want to call it degenerative more than progressive, because it just slowly comes on, which is an interesting way to deal with something.

Because a lot of my youth was not spent like this, and it's been slowly coming on and slowly getting worse.

I lost my feet early.

Obviously, they're the furthest thing from my spine and my brain.

With my hands, I used to be able to play guitar and piano, and I've slowly lost those things.

I've lost the dexterity to do it in my hands.

So my hands were a much bigger deal than my feet.

(soft acoustic music) The trail took me into Wheeling and this morning I'm riding it out.

Here, it's called the Wheeling Heritage Trail.

The trail ends and I have a short blast of busy highway shoulder before the next old steel town, Benwood, West Virginia.

There's a memorial site here.

In 1924, a mine explosion took the lives of 119 Benwood men.

Most were recent Polish, Italian and Greek immigrants.

It makes me think about the dangerous work that went on in these towns.

On this quiet morning, I can imagine the smattering of languages, the sound of steam whistles and a foreman barking out commands.

I'm riding on West Virginia 2, toward Moundsville.

I've spent a lot of time touring on roads just like this.

I have a well-defined shoulder with almost no debris and lots of room for traffic to pass me.

I listen to music and take it easy, turning my feet effortlessly.

I call this soft pedaling and it's one of the reasons I like to tour.

It's tranquil under the Moundsville bridge.

Up here, it's a different story.

Like most bridges, there's an uphill grade until you reach the apex, and pedaling hard uphill causes the bike to weave.

I know.

It's impossible for me to keep it totally straight.

Plus, I'm trying to avoid the drainage grates every 25 feet.

If I hit one of those, I'm definitely going down.

Fast traffic merging towards a highway entrance, paired with tight spaces, obstacles and my wonky climbing skills all come together like some dangerous real life video game.

And I've only got this one quarter.

Give me some space.

No music here.

I wanna focus and ride smart.

Trust me, people, I want to get out of your way.

I'm super happy to make it to the top where it flattens a bit and turns downhill.

I can regain control and get some speed here, easily dodging the grates while even staying inside the white line.

Much better.

And just like that, I'm back in Ohio.

Hello, Powhatan Point!

(vehicles whooshing) (chain grinding) Not a fan of these concrete barriers.

'Cause there's nowhere for me to go.

But, as long as everyone plays by the rules, we're good.

(truck whooshing) People are givin' me space.

It's awesome.

16 miles south of Powhatan Point and I'm at my potential rogue camping spot, a grove of trees at the far end of a park near The Hannibal Locks and Dam.

In Europe, they call this wild camping.

And here in the States, we call it stealth camping.

I've taken to calling it rogue, because it seems to be becoming more and more illegal across the country, especially here in the East.

Between Pittsburgh and Cincinnati, there are 11 locks and dams.

The dams were not built for flood control.

They're meant to keep the river open for commerce.

According to Google AI, which I've taken to blindly accepting a bit too easy already, the Ohio River system carries more than 150 million tons of cargo each year.

The most common cargo?

Coal.

And because of the quantities moved, it's considered one of the greenest modes of commercial transportation today.

For the first time, as night begins to fall, I really miss my home.

(insects chirping) (gentle acoustic music) I met Tracy in high school, ninth grade.

With the disease, she's always been there for me.

Supportive?

I mean, unquestioning.

- [Tracy] All right, you ready?

(birds chirping) (clippers snapping) How you doin'?

- I'm doin' alright.

Thank you, awesome.

And then the bike touring, does she like that I do it?

No, absolutely not.

Does she want me to be home every single day and not have to worry about this or that happening to me?

Of course.

(phone ringing) But she understands.

She straight up told me that she's not going to stand in the way of my dream, that she understands that what is important to me is also important to her.

And that's the kind of relationship that we have, which is like, I mean, that's golden, right?

We do a lot of hilarious things around the house together.

I think probably the funniest thing that we're doing right now is during COVID, I got a portable karaoke kit.

And it is just the cream of the crop awesome.

(gentle acoustic music) (gentle acoustic music continues) It's just terrific knowing that I have someone that is always going to be there.

I'm not alone.

(gentle acoustic music) Day four and I've got wall to wall sunshine and a wide shoulder.

I love it out here.

(gentle music) Heading toward Marietta, I took a little detour to find some shade and take a break.

(gentle music) (birds chirping) And because across the river is the town of Sistersville, West Virginia.

They have something very cool over there I wanted to see.

This, the Sistersville Ferry.

According to the town's website, they started the ferry service here in 1817.

And get this, most of the early boats were paddle wheelers powered by horses on treadmills.

Seriously, that's what it says.

Man, I wanna ride this ferry.

Maybe they still have an old treadmill I can put the bike on and pedal us across.

But, according to my maps, I need to keep the river on my left today.

Maybe next time.

Back on the Ohio 7, everything is smooth.

Until I get pulled over for speeding.

Yeah, right.

Some roadways don't allow non-motorized traffic.

But the sheriff just wanted to make sure I was doin' okay.

And he even offered me a water and wished me safe travels.

Back on the road, I bend with the river.

The 7 hugs the water close enough that many areas keep a barrier up for protection.

The green hills tumble into it anyways in full view of the noon sun.

I feel that sense of peace I find so often out here.

I'm getting more at home on the bike each day and scenery like this keeps me excited to ride.

I roll into Marietta late that afternoon.

(gentle upbeat music) Those last couple miles getting into the city were a bit tense with some heavy suburban traffic.

I'm happy to be here.

(gentle upbeat music) Marietta is Ohio's oldest city.

It's clearly a popular and vibrant town with free public wifi and a great bench in the shade for me to research my next stop, ice cream.

(no audio) Dealing with bike maintenance is something, I will do it if I can.

Ah, whew!

I'm tryin' to drive one of these pins out of the chain, so that the chain links will separate.

This has a master link on it, but I don't have the right tools to use to do it.

It's a little more time-consuming.

Sometimes these are really hard.

And this thing is really painful on my hands.

But this one feels, not too bad.

Yeah!

I only need to remove one link from the new chain.

(page whooshing) I should YouTube whether or not I can just leave it.

Like, how detrimental is a centimeter?

Probably just enough to where when I'm riding, my chain keeps constantly slipping off.

Sometimes I am working on a bicycle and I do hit a wall.

Okay Tracy, can you come help me for a sec?

We're a great team, so that's something that she doesn't mind doing.

She's got the dexterity, so that helps.

She doesn't like getting dirty.

She doesn't like the grease, but she understands the end goal and is compassionate enough.

If I just get myself into a bind, I'll just pack everything up and then take it to the bike shop and say, "Hey, maybe it'll be a little bit cheaper, because I've already gotten to this point."

(gentle acoustic music) (chain grinding) Day five and I'm burning last night's sweet treats under another clear blue sky.

Glorious.

To get back on Ohio 7, I have to wind my way through the streets of Marietta.

Hello, river.

There's some morning commuter traffic, some highway on ramps to climb, more commuters.

And more climbing, this time with a thick line of rumble strips to make things interesting.

And then those damn concrete barriers.

And just when I start to get in my groove, I remember I have to stop.

It's laundry day.

Bicycle touring tip, never sleep in the same clothes you ride in.

Clean clothes are critical.

And while I'm opening up, I'd like to tell you that if I drop one of these quarters, I'm going to be super bummed.

I've nearly lost the fine motor skills of handling cash.

And picking a coin up of the flat ground is really tough for me.

Phew, a clean execution today.

Alright, fresh clothes and I'm on the road again.

This little gem is Hockingsport, where the Hocking River empties into the Ohio.

It's beautiful country and the traffic is mellow.

But, there are hills.

My bike is a classic Trek 520 that I've named Fanchon the Cricket after the old Mary Pickford silent film.

Fanchon turns 30 years old this year.

Built for touring, it has a heavy steel frame and weighs almost 31 pounds all by itself.

Add my gear and some food, and it's up around 65 pounds.

(sandals tapping) Going up these hills, I mentally go through each and every item that I'm carrying.

And whether I'll still need it at the top.

(soft acoustic music) (chain grinding) A few miles before my campsite, I come across Reed's Country Store.

This is a place where I don't have to lock the bike up to go inside.

They have pretty much everything I would need including groceries for tonight's campsite.

They even have a little deli where I can get a sandwich.

Food!

I'm always happy to find a locally owned store that isn't a chain.

Not that I don't shop where I need to, but this is nice.

I'm stocked up.

I have clean clothes and dinner, and in a couple miles, I'm at Forked Run State Park.

Sitting quietly as the darkness falls, the fire takes a primitive hold on me.

I know that somewhere out there, people are laughing and dancing, calling out to company, "Don't go yet, the night is young!"

No one ever wants the good times to end and we all grasp at the richness of our time together, wishing it could go on forever.

(gentle music) (insects chirping) Gathering tonight, old friends under this bright moon in my solitude.

According to my doctors, there's nothing that I can do to reverse the damage that's already been done.

That just is what it is.

So did I have any type of anger issues?

No, I really didn't.

Even from the get-go, I knew that got me nowhere.

My frustrations were much more shallow.

My frustrations were when I wanted to use a flathead screwdriver to start a screw and I couldn't get it, and I would find myself just really blowing up at the work I was unable to accomplish.

If anything hit me deeper regarding the disability, it was the shame of not being able to do things.

It wasn't the, "Oh, woe is me."

It was like, "I wish I could."

Hot coffee from my tiny camp stove helps my hands work again on a cold morning.

Afterwards, I pack up quick.

And it's a fun downhill ride out of the park, back to the Ohio River Scenic Byway.

Today's destination: Gallipolis, Ohio.

An easy 40 miles.

And the Ohio 124, this is a great vibe.

I feel safe and comfortable, like I belong out here.

In these scattered rural communities, I always see a lot of old churches.

They can be a great resource for the bicycle tourists if you need a spot to camp for the night.

I am loving this road!

You know, I used to think there was something out here.

Something that I was searching for.

Some path to equanimity that I was missing in my daily life.

I'd pedal into it on a peaceful stretch of road, a place just like this.

And suddenly, I'd feel the space around me open up, like I cracked one of life's cheat codes or something.

Slowly, I realized it wasn't something necessarily out here.

It was a peace of mind that I carried with me all the time.

And once I found it within me, I learned I could access it almost anywhere.

Bicycle touring, and confronting my disability head on, had taught me to treat myself with kindness, to begin adapting to my world through compassion.

And after trying so hard to be who I wasn't, after pretending for so long that my disability wasn't me, it couldn't be me, I was finally finding myself again.

Buried under the hurt, and reaching for acceptance to be who I truly am.

After two hours of riding and some spotty showers, I make it to Pomeroy, Ohio.

This old river town is the county seat.

And the past is on full display here with antique shops dotted along the main drag.

Today, the river and sky share the same somber gray.

Autumn is coming.

The industry I'd seen closer to Pittsburgh has mostly faded.

But you do see a fair amount of this.

This is what energy production looks like along the Ohio River.

(gentle music) The story of Cheshire, Ohio, is a cautionary tale.

In 2001, toxic releases from the Gavin coal-fired power plant were affecting the health of Cheshire's residents.

The situation got so bad, the owners of the plant bought the town.

They spent $20 million to buy out the residents and then just bulldoze it all away.

The town that was founded in 1811, has largely disappeared.

Just a couple miles down the road is another power plant.

This plant was part of the First Energy bribery scandal and the biggest public corruption scheme in Ohio history.

Kyger Creek Plant.

According to Energy consultant, RunnerStone, it's estimated that each day, Ohio taxpayers are still paying a half million dollars for the bailout.

I didn't learn this until later.

When I rode by, I was just looking at those incredibly tall stacks and trying not to breathe too deeply.

I must have passed during a shift change.

And being Friday, everyone was chasing the weekend.

Lots of pickup trucks that hammer the gas pedal to pass me.

That roaring engine noise, it used to scare me.

But now I appreciate the heads up before they pass.

I follow their taillights all the way to Gallipolis.

(doctor murmuring) So what do you recommend?

- This particular exam-- - My doctors gave me two recommendations.

They said, "Exercise and do not get hurt."

That exercise has become a very important part of my life, and that's something where I can directly confront my physical limitations.

As far as slowing down the effects, I can still build muscle in certain parts of my body.

My core is strong, and that helps everything.

Maintenance involves getting up every single day and meditating and then doing some type of exercise.

Riding the bike.

(laughs) I mean, that is where the bicycle came from.

(gentle upbeat music) I was able to get my heart rate up and keep it up, which can be difficult to do when you cannot walk fast or run.

There's a certain freedom that I find when I'm out there on the bicycle, not just from my physical disability, but just from the world.

Like it's a way to shake it off.

It's a way to escape modern society for a little while.

There's a unknown to being out there on the bicycle that I love.

I hope you can hear the geese.

(geese honking) There's a sense of anything could happen.

(water splashing) (animals croaking) (gentle suspenseful music) A wide shoulder straight as an arrow.

No traffic.

And best of all, no wind.

So began the best laid plans of day seven.

Destination, Ashland, Kentucky.

Wait, Ashland?

Why is the river over there?

Crap, I'm goin' the wrong way.

There we go.

Good grief, Jeffrey.

And then the hills are back.

I don't know, maybe I shouldn't have turned around.

Oh, it stinks.

But it's too late now.

I'm mashing these pedals with everything I've got.

My heart is in my throat and my lungs are burning for more oxygen.

There's a big debate in the cycling community over which is worse, climbing or headwinds.

I suck at hills so you might think I'd be in that camp.

But nope.

A good headwind knows how to pick a fight and it tends to land those sucker punches just at the most inopportune time.

No thanks.

At least the hills have two sides and what goes up must come down, usually.

Eventually the road flattened out.

But out here, I never go too long without something interesting.

I like a town with a bit of flair.

Gives the old-timers something to talk about.

I crossed over into Huntington, West Virginia and headed west.

Places like the Camden Park are rare to find nowadays and have a definite nostalgia.

That giant creepy clown, though, nope!

The sky begins to swell with clouds.

They form two layers above me and move against each other as I roll into a rainy Kentucky.

Like lots of other Ohio River towns, Catlettsburg, Kentucky has a fun set of floodwall murals.

They were neat to look at and it's always interesting to see what the artist chooses to depict.

I like to dress for the beach when I'm on the bike.

Swimming trunks and tank tops dry quickly and are loose and comfy.

My last piece of all weather gear is a pair of sandals.

They have clips on the bottom that allow me to attach my feet to the pedals.

This helps me know where my feet are, because I've lost most sensation and a lot of spatial awareness.

And slipping my pedals in wet conditions is very dangerous.

Sometimes I feel like one of these coal barges.

I imagine they are tough to get going and have lots of trouble changing directions quickly.

But when we do get moving, we can still find our place in the world, and for now, it works.

The weather finally eases up, and Ashland is just a bit down the road, maybe 6 or 7 miles.

I just need to slip into the stream of things and get moving again.

(soft acoustic music) Route planning is definitely something that I enjoy, which is probably odd for some people, because it is so tedious.

It's very tedious.

Why am I taking this bridge?

I'm literally going street by street sometimes and just making sure that I can get through where I need to get through.

So I am shrinking the map, enlarging the map.

I'll zoom in on a street view and follow it and then realize that I've gone the completely wrong direction.

(gentle music) (Jeffrey sighs) I like to keep it as flat as possible.

(laughs) Come on.

I understand why I plotted it to go this way, but it just keeps going uphill.

If I can plan a route that is both under 2,000 feet in elevation and 40 miles, that generally guarantees me a good day.

Sometimes the mapping will show you bike lanes and bike paths, but it can be difficult to tell what that means, what a bike lane really is.

Is it just a painted shoulder?

The shoulder just totally disappears here.

And I'm in the road.

It doesn't matter how well I plan.

There's always going to be things that come up.

- [Worker] Through there.

- I'm gonna sneak by on the inside.

- [Worker] That's fine.

- You have to be adaptable for.

You have to decide on the spot what you're going to do about getting through an area.

(gentle music) Day eight.

I had to fight to get onto these backroads.

By my standards, the route I planned out of Ashland should be considered unrideable.

But here I am, thankfully.

(gentle music) (gentle music continues) People ask me how my disability affects my riding.

I've made a couple modifications, like the sandals, and I've changed my shifters to make it easier to grip them with my hands.

My biggest challenge though, is stopping and starting.

The real change is in my riding style.

Speed is not my focus.

I'm not competitive.

I'm in no rush.

I don't have to be first, I just have to get there.

This bridge is named for Ulysses S. Grant, the general that led the Union to victory over the Confederacy, and the 18th president.

The original US Grant Bridge was opened in 1927.

It was replaced by this bridge in 2006.

I'd seen photos of this bridge and I'm really excited to ride on it.

(laughs) This is awesome.

(upbeat music) It's only a two-lane bridge, but with this wide striped shoulder, I feel very safe up here.

And it's pretty flat.

Ohio River.

Portsmouth.

(upbeat music) (upbeat music continues) The symmetry above is mesmerizing and I keep trying to look up without crashing.

Steady, buddy.

(gentle upbeat music) (gentle upbeat music continues) In Portsmouth, I visit another series of floodwall murals.

They're really well done and definitely my favorite so far.

The artist is internationally known muralist Robert Dafford of Lafayette, Louisiana.

His work here is a timeline of the river valley's rich history.

The murals are beautiful and intimate.

They take me to a different world, a different time.

I can feel the seasons and the tensions.

Very cool.

(gentle music) (birds chirping) I like to book my campground reservation at the last possible minute.

Not really.

I'm just never sure how far I'll get on some days.

(gentle music) (birds chirping) Over a week into this ride and I'm at Shawnee State Park.

I've got the full routine down now.

Setting up the tent is still tough, but I've figured out some little tricks to help.

And everything has its place.

I can find items easier without digging so much.

And best of all, that initial anxiety has been fully dismantled by the ride.

I'm relaxed.

It's a cool night and I can already tell I'll sleep well, if I can stop smiling long enough to drift off.

(insects chirping) (birds chirping) I meditate every morning.

It's one of the more important things in my life.

The first thing that it did for me was take that chip off of my shoulder.

The questions that I had been avoiding about my life would rise to the surface and I would be able to deal with them in a way that was softer, a softer approach.

I was kinder with myself.

I would let myself go down a dark avenue in my meditation and kind of find forgiveness, but that's a little bit too much for what my meditation is.

I subscribe to a theory of just sitting.

So my meditation is not expected to produce any results.

It just is what it is, it kind of follows its own way.

(birds chirping) (upbeat music) I'm not taking these gorgeous days for granted, trust me.

The sun is high and it's hot for sure, but my goodness, this is beautiful.

I'm getting closer to Cincinnati and it's hard not to feel the pull of its gravity.

I see a mileage sign like this and I can't help considering just riding straight through.

But, I'm glad I don't.

You see, I'm excited to visit Ripley, Ohio.

I want to take my time and investigate this little river town.

(soft music) (vehicles whooshing) I've read about Ripley, but being here made those stories more vivid.

Ripley was an important stop on the Underground Railroad.

Riding along the Ohio River, I've come to realize it means many things to many people.

I get it.

But when I think of it as a boundary between freedom and slavery, it's hard for me to comprehend.

Desperate people, pursued by violent men.

Crossing this river under the cover of darkness.

Former slave, John Parker, often risked his own life traveling into Kentucky to help others make the crossing into Ohio.

Reverend John Rankin was another conductor on the Underground Railroad in Ripley.

Rankin's house sat high on a bluff.

An oil lamp in the window meant his station was open and safe, for now.

Looking up from the river below, that light must have been a beacon of hope to so many.

John Rankin had a bounty on his head.

So did John Parker.

These were heroic men, standing strong against a cruel and unjust system.

As I pedal towards Higginsport, I can't help but think about the racism and bigotry that can still be found in America.

There's much work to be done.

(birds chirping) (chain grinding) This year, I was gone for a really long time.

And that was difficult for both me and Tracy.

So what I'm hoping to do next is to hit some of the rail trails in America and take Tracy with me.

She's not gonna ride on the roads, but rail trails I'm hoping that she will ride.

The ride that I'm really looking forward to this year personally, is I wanna ride into New York City.

You can ride right down to the point in Manhattan.

I see people ride their bikes there and it looks wild.

(laughs) It looks lawless.

Thinking about my next ride, is thinking about my disability.

What can I do, what can I not do?

There's no roadmap with my disability.

I imagine that I will feel the weakness coming up, I already do a little bit in my wrists.

So as that gets worse, I'll have to adapt and find new ways to do old things.

What comes next with the disability?

Who knows?

I don't know.

I don't have any idea.

(gentle acoustic music) (birds chirping) (chain grinding) My last day would start with another wonderful morning.

And, after nine days of pedaling alongside the Ohio, I was finally going to get to ride on the river.

The Augusta Ferry shuttles passengers between Higginsport, Ohio and Augusta, Kentucky.

It's one of just three ferry operations left between Pittsburgh and Cincinnati.

There used to be dozens.

Yes, I'm on the ferry and it only costs me a dollar.

I like these rides across the open water.

Even though the ferry stays on a set course, it's still a bit different every time.

The waters change with the seasons, rising and falling, making the shore a living boundary.

But this hill, well, some things never change.

(upbeat music) (birds chirping) Augusta is definitely charming and has a quaint feel to it.

Life seems a little slower here.

(upbeat music) (birds chirping) It's a great place to take a break so I can time my entry into Cincinnati when the traffic is lighter.

And when I was ready to go, I even got an escort out of town from a local rider.

A couple days ago, I crossed into Ohio on the US Grant Bridge.

Ohio 52 takes me past Point Pleasant, the birthplace of that Civil War general and President.

(gentle acoustic music) Back on the road, I get lost in my thoughts about this ride.

I've had near perfect weather and no mechanical issues.

Not even a flat tire.

I've had no close calls with vehicles and only two dog chases, one where I got to blast my horn and one near here, where a pack of farm dogs came bounding out only to stop at the edge of their electric fence.

Tough luck, doggie dogs!

I tried to savor this last stretch of rural riding.

But I was also excited to be in the city again.

Those last two hours just flew by.

And there I was.

I've had lots of practice riding around city traffic.

Confidence is key.

I keep my senses sharp and ride slow, ready to stop at any moment.

I try to be very deliberate in my moves and use lane filtering in the stop and go traffic.

I don't want drivers guessing what I'm going to do or rear-ending me accidentally.

(upbeat orchestral music) (chain grinding) (upbeat orchestral music) (chain grinding) Fountain Square, my destination.

I feel great making it here.

Beginning 10 days ago in a different city, at a different fountain, is surreal.

Riding my bike along the Ohio River as it winds and twists through those Appalachian valleys, almost a dream.

A little trip through time and space.

Another chapter coming to a close.

(water splashing) (soft music) (shoes tapping) Suzuki Roshi says that, "Life is like stepping onto a boat which is about to sail out to sea and sink."

I've stuck close to shore, keeping the land in sight, for much of my life.

But on these journeys, I can head for the open water.

Find my place in the unknowable.

I can celebrate my mobility and find joy in the further adventure.

(gentle music) (gentle music continues) (gentle music continues) (gentle music continues) (gentle music continues) (gentle music continues) (gentle music continues) (chain grinding) (birds chirping)