Foreword by Bud Clark*

“WOW,” was my first reaction when Liza McQuade wrote to me about her book, Spontaneous Revolutions: Seeing America One Pedal at a Time. A spontaneous trip across America on a bike. Liza and her husband Clark had a huge idea, but to follow through and carry it out was an even bigger endeavor, a challenge, especially on bicycles.

Liza kept an audio journal of the 122-day trip from Portland, Oregon to Portland, Maine. They pedaled across America together – over 3,000 miles – a longer distance than Lewis and Clark traveled in 1805. With a keen eye, Liza gives the reader delightful descriptions of the interesting characters they meet across the continent, their dips in the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, their ups and downs, determination, the process of getting in shape, bicycle woes, where to stay (camp or motel) – all the things they did not plan for because … they did not plan. 

Liza also offers observations and sidebars of interesting historical descriptions of the geography, points of interest and towns they travel through. Hers is a travel book like no other since it is at the level and speed of bicycles that keeps you looking forward to “what’s next?” 

I think most of us have thoughts of adventures we would like to have. I know I do. I don’t have a Bucket List, but if I did, a bike ride adventure across the United States would be on it. I am too old to do it now, but low and behold; I did it vicariously via Liza’s wonderfully written book.

If I had taken Liza’s advice in 1948, when I was 18 years old, I might have made it over the Blue Mountains east of Pendleton to visit my Grandmother Edna. The plan was to bike from Portland, OR to see my grandmother in Boise, ID, but no, I gave up my trek at 200 miles from Portland and put my bike, a pre-WWII, two-speed bike, and myself, on a Greyhound in Pendleton to ride the last 200 miles to Boise by bus! So, I sort of know what it is like to bike across this beautiful country.

The course of the trip across the continent roughly follows the 45th parallel with north and south deviations, even a short northern visit into Canada. Too bad I did not get all the exercise and physical training that Liza and Clark did, but I enjoyed every minute of their trip from my comfortable chair. When the pair put their bike wheels into the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, as they had put those same wheels in the Pacific waters, and hugged, it brought tears to my eyes. 

Liza’s book is a gift to carry me on from 1948 and travel the 3,200 miles across America to Portland, Maine from my home in Portland, Oregon – one page at a time. Thanks, Liza.

I hope you enjoy the book as much as I did.

Whoop! Whoop!!

Book Excerpts

Excerpt #1

Killer Cowboy 

The temperature continued to spike for 20 empty miles or what seemed like eternity surrounded by nothingness. No shade, no water, no towns, nowhere to catch a break from the sun. We pedaled silently. There was nothing to say.

Frustration mounted as we started the climb up the Black Hills, slowly, very slowly. Heat rose off the cement road, shimmering in mirage-like waves. We were parched. Trying to work up saliva was impossible; the imaginary cotton balls were back and packed our throats. No amount of water could quench this thirst. 

An old cowboy in a beat-up blue truck drove past, then slowed considerably. We could see him squinting at us, deep wrinkles creating an angry scowl. He spit some chew out the window after he cleared our path. We imagined him thinking, “What the hell are they doing on my road?”

He studied us in the rearview mirror while driving only 10 feet ahead, his expression frozen in place. I watched the pick-up inch forward, making note of a gun rack in the back window. Several long hunting rifles perched in place, silently warning us to stay away. 

The brake lights blinked on. Then off again. Twice. 

Perhaps it was the heat, but we figured this was it. We’d had it, we were dead. Trapped, with nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide. The cowboy could catch us, no matter how fast we rode. So, we nervously pedaled on. 

When the summit came into view, the man pulled over and got out of his truck. Propped on the back of his rig, he watched us intently, one boot on the fender. Squinting and never cracking a smile, he chewed and spit, chewed and spit, chewed and spit. 

We were goners. Although, I held out hope we could talk our way out of trouble. Just in case we couldn’t, though, I told Clark I loved him. 

He said the same and added, “Whatever happens, at least we’re together.”

“He could have shot us at the bottom of the hill instead of making us do all this work first,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

We continued on, sweat pouring off our bodies, for more reasons than the heat. When we were almost to the cowboy, he made his move, opening the passenger door. We were sure he was reaching for a gun. We exchanged another round of I love you’s and held hands momentarily. 

I winced as the cowboy ducked back out of the cab, but fear turned to relief when we saw two Cokes in his hands.

“Y’all looked like you needed theeeese!” he said in a perfect cowboy drawl, baring his teeth in a friendly smile.

Excerpt #2

Is That a Bear Outside Our Tent?

After a brief recap of our exciting day, we fell asleep. But, not for long. 

Loud sounds of branches snapping in the bushes woke us with a start. 

“What’s that?” I asked, hoping Clark had a satisfying answer.

“It sounds like a big animal,” he whispered back.

“Think it’s a deer?” I asked hopefully.

The crashing got louder, as did the beating of my heart. 

“It’s closer,” I said, barely breathing.

Clark didn’t respond, but I could feel him tense up. We laid stone still, listening, when suddenly, we felt the ground shake. The animal let out a juicy snort right next to our heads. The only thing protecting us from certain death was the thin fabric of the tent wall. We remained frozen, awaiting our fate. 

Excerpt #3

Beige Edna

Edna, the Mrs., was beige. Beige hair, beige skin, beige clothes, beige personality. She almost disappeared into the beige recliner in the beige sitting room. She was nice, but the kind of person you might know for a lifetime, yet not know at all. 

We talked for a while; well, technically Clarence addressed most of the conversation to Clark which gave me time to take in the setting. The room was neat and tidy, simply furnished with one nondescript sofa, Edna’s recliner, a matching one for Clarence, and a boring coffee table. Nothing remarkable and nothing that offered the eye any respite from the beigeness.

Clarence announced he and Clark were going to the garage to look at some tools and, I suspect, get away from the girls. Alone with Edna, I beamed a toothy grin her way, stalling for time so I could think of something to say. She responded with a jumble-toothed smile. Edna sat there innocuous to the world, hands crossed modestly, wearing a light-brown shift, sensible shoes (beige, of course) and coiffed with what can only be described as helmet hair. Oh, how I longed for a breeze to see if it would move.

When I have nothing in common with a person, I talk about the immediate surroundings, something I learned from a girlhood book fabulously titled How to Get a Teen-Age Boy and What to Do with Him When You Get Him. So, I discussed the safe and generic topics of family photos (my, what beige grandchildren you have), the standard “where did you and your husband meet” (grade school), and the weather (yup, it’s hot out there). 

The guys reappeared just in time. I had run out of politely neutral questions and was at risk of inquiring about their sex life. Thankfully, it was time for Clarence to give us a ride back to the campground. 

Clarence and Clark talked about fishing, while I contemplated my encounter with Edna. She seemed comfortable with her orderly, beige life. And I was grateful to be on our bicycle journey. We were both content with our lives. Maybe we had something in common after all.