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Historic Detour As I rode my bicycle around the United States, I learned more about history than I had known before. On almost every highway, there are signs and markers of historical interest. At 10 miles per hour, I could read them all. And I could follow them to find the small museums that have always interested me. Mapping out my cross-country bike ride, I kept this lesson firmly in mind. The last thing I needed was to break down on a road that only saw three cars a day. But one day I saw a sign that said “Museum—5 miles.” It was the first museum sign I’d seen. A second sign said, “Bake sale today.” Since I was needing about 4,000 calories a day, this was really good news. Then a third sign announced, “Free Admission.” That convinced me. When I got to the last sign which read, “Museum—1 mile,” with an arrow pointing to a side road, I wasn’t deterred. No longer on a real schedule, I could take whatever time I wanted. My limit was how much money I had with me, not a calendar.When I got to the museum, it appeared to be a turn of the century schoolhouse. I leaned my bike against a tree in front of the old stone building, and headed inside, An older woman walked up to me and said, “You must be the bicyclist.” I glanced around. Everyone else there was over 50, so I guess I was logical assumption. “I’m Mrs. Argo,” she went on. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” She wondered where I would be staying that night. I said it would be the campground nearest El Dorado, depending on how long it took me to get there. Mrs. Argo had a better idea: Her boys were avid bicyclists, and would love to meet me. Would I like to stay at their home, in El Dorado? Now I had my first encounter with localisms. While most of the rest of the world would say “el duh-rah-do,” here it was “el duh-RAY-do.” The Spanish had sought this place out, calling it “a place of fabulous wealth or inordinately great opportunity.” For me, this would take on a special meaning. When I got to town, I tried to call their home, but just kept getting a busy signal. I remembered Mrs. Argo’s directions. She had told me they were right off the main highway, just a few blocks. So I rode over there, and knocked on the door. Mrs. Argo smiled and invited me in. It turned out to be her 50th birthday. She was taking the two kids who still lived at home to see their older brother at college. And I was invited to go along, as their guest. Nancy was my age, 20, and Don was a senior in high school. We set off on an hour’s drive. I was fascinated the whole time, seeing the road I’d spent a day riding on fly past me in a matter of minutes. We went to a nice steak house and had a wonderful dinner. I spent an extra day with them, riding around with Don, talking about bicycle touring, and the world. I sent postcards to the Argo family during my ride, and kept in touch for many years afterwards. Don came to Colorado one summer, and we went backpacking. We also took a bicycle ride from Longmont to Estes Park and back. This chance encounter, a mile off my intended route, turned into a friendship of many years. Wanting to learn more history resulted in a wonderful twist to my great adventure.
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