I met the first person I’ve ever known who just about lives on a bike. I saw a shape moving on the road in front of me, and I thought it was a motorcycle. Then, seeing how slow it was moving, I wondered if it could actually be a bicyclist. I laughed as the figure came into sight: a shirtless man, weathered dark skin, scrawny but muscular, floppy brimmed hat with an “I Love Jesus” hatband, jeans and boots on, all kinds of stuff hanging off his belt, keys jingling, a knife, a flashlight, and a big grin. His bike was loaded like a truck. He rode over to me, his bike wobbling under the weight as he turned.

His name was Mike, and he’s been all over. He has been up and down the east coast, across the south, across the middle of the country, and all over the west. He’s had three major heart attacks, and he said he’s just going to keep traveling until he has his “final major”. He had a long scar on his left bicep from the time he got hit by a truck in the Midwest.

His bike was a trip in itself. He had picked up an old hippie amp from some guy that ran on eight D batteries, and then talked another guy into selling him a Gibson to go with it. He carries the amp on the front of his bike and straps the guitar to the back, its neck sticking out like a rear fender. He pulls it out and plays songs to God in the night. He carries a baseball bat for dogs and crazy people. He sleeps in towns a lot, so he has more trouble with people than I do. There is a radio strapped to his handlebars. His front end is stacked all the way to his elbow rests, which are a foot higher than my handlebars, and his rear end is loaded just as high.

He was a little on the crazy side. He said demons chase him from time to time, and he sends them away in God’s name.

“In God’s name I say, get thee hence!

“It’s the end of the world, man, and the devil knows his time is short. He’s angry and scared, and he’s getting nasty coming after all of us. But that means we’re closer to God, too.”

When I first asked him where he was headed he held up the cross on his neck and said, “Hopefully heaven.” He said the demons were telling him, “We’re going to take the children, we’re going to kill you,” and when he invoked God’s name they just said, “We’re going to kill God, too.”

I asked him if it was people actually saying this to him.

“No, it’s the bad spirits, man!” he said seriously, waving his arms to the open air.

When I told him how far I’d come, he welcomed me to the 10,000-mile club. I’m at 9400 miles for this trip, but I have almost 20,000 bicycling miles under me now.

He said I was the nicest bicyclist he’s met. He said most bicyclists are a little arrogant to him, all serious on their thin tires and light frames. He tells them to get thicker wheels, or they’re going to become real tight with their spoke wrenches. We are different, though, from most cross-country bicyclists. For us, bicycle travel is a lifestyle. For them, it is a trip. I am happy to be in good company.

We finally turned our separate ways, and I watched him disappear slowly in my mirror.