Pale Pink Roads by Joe Tarantino
As a teenager, Joe Tarantino set out on a naïve but ambitious quest: to ride 100 miles on a bicycle. It did not go well. He counted every click of the odometer, battled flat tires, ran out of food, and hit the proverbial wall. He ultimately had to call his dad for a ride home.
But a year later, his brother and cousin convinced him to try again—this time, a 120-mile ride. Armed with a better bike and a bit more experience, Joe fell in love with the open road.
Over the years, long-distance cycling became a way to navigate life’s hills and valleys. As he juggled raising a family, caring for aging parents, and pursuing a career as an aerospace engineer, Joe found clarity, peace, and purpose from the saddle of his bike.
In these seventeen epic rides, told with humor and heart, Pale Pink Roads reveals how miles on unfamiliar pavement led to insights on resilience, faith, and self-discovery. More than just a ride across America, this is the story of a man who pedaled through fear and found something far greater on the other side.
So hop on for the ride—laugh, reflect, and feel the wind in your face. You just might discover your own path along these pale pink roads.
Excerpt from the Book
My life was approaching an inflection point, and without anything more compelling to do that Saturday, I wanted to see if I could ride my bike 100 miles. I had a rare day off from a part-time job in a chemistry lab near my high school, where I would graduate in a few weeks. A bicycle touring book I recently read described a proper long-distance bicyclist as someone who could ride 100 miles in one day, a century ride. I had one constraint: I would need to be home by midafternoon to pick up my younger brother, Chuck, from his part-time job at a grocery store.
There was a deeper reason for attempting the century ride. The previous year, I had met a girl at a church camp in Mansfield, Ohio, while staying with my family in our cabin. We became friends and exchanged a few letters but had had minimal contact since then and none for the last several months. Her house was in Massillon, about halfway from my house in Canfield to our family cabin near Mansfield; round trip would make it my first century ride. I didn’t know if she would be home, and I was nervous about her reaction to my surprise visit.
Without enough long-distance riding to know any better, I wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a light jacket to start the chilly, early-morning ride to Massillon. A set of bungee cords would secure my jacket to a heavy stainless-steel rear carrier when I no longer needed it. To ensure I could keep my bike operating in case of mechanical issues, I put a bulky set of tools, a patch kit, and an unnecessarily large chain and lock into my front bag. A down-tube bottle carrier provided only twenty-four ounces of fluids. I tucked my handwritten directions and maps into my jeans pocket for quick reference.
None of my family was awake as I prepared to leave without telling anyone my intentions. Promptly at 6 a.m., I quietly closed the back door as I exited, opened the garage, and rolled a used 26-inch orange ten-speed down the driveway. I quickly settled into a familiar route into Canfield, accompanied by sparse Saturday traffic. Route 224 West entered the town’s center, then after passing the lab where I worked on the west side of Canfield, I monitored signs for Knauf Road. A few miles later, a left turn transformed the ride from the known to the unknown. For the next twenty miles, I alternated right and left turns every couple of miles. With each turn and new riding conditions, I became more excited about the adventure I was on.
It was a typical Northeast Ohio spring morning with the smell of the first cut of fresh grass lingering in the air. Baby robins chirped incessantly, impatiently waiting for their mothers to return with breakfast worms. I passed old farmhouses surrounded by newly leaved spring trees and white picket fences marking the boundary of lush green lawns. Well-used tractors waited for their owners in front of faded red barns, emitting unpleasant odors of the livestock they housed. Only a few cars and pickup trucks passed me on the quiet rural route. My legs felt strong, but the road surfaces ranged from bumpy to less bumpy. I kept stopping to check my directions, and travel was slower than I wanted.
With each front wheel rotation, the striker attached to a spoke clicked the odometer fastened to the hub, recording and updating the distance I traveled. Occasionally, I monitored the second hand on my wristwatch to see how long it took to ride each mile. As best as I could mentally calculate, I was riding a 10- to 12-mile per hour pace. If I keep this pace, it’s going to be about nine hours of riding. I’ll add another hour for breaks and lunch. Oh, man! This is going to take longer than I thought. Suddenly, the reality of a more challenging return ride hit me. Despite my uncertainty, I continued, like a naive moth, into the flame of a 100-mile bike ride.
I exited the farm roads and connected with Route 62 toward Alliance. A truck pulled uncomfortably close to me at the city’s first traffic stop. Perched on a bicycle seat, I was aware the idling diesel sounded different than from inside a protective car. The light turned green, and the driver pressed the accelerator. The motor rumbled increasingly louder as the behemoth moved reluctantly forward, creating strange sounds and exhaust smells in a city I had never visited. Commingling with traffic on a busy state highway increased the feeling that although I was far from home, I had powered myself here by bicycle so I also had a sense of accomplishment. I was motivated to continue without realizing what a mess I was getting into.
After each light turned green, I competed with the bustling city traffic for my narrow strip of shoulder pavement. I worried the drivers wouldn’t give me enough space to pedal safely, but I wanted to demonstrate defiant confidence and claim my legal right despite the inherent danger. Large green highway signs directed drivers onto the divided four-lane version of Route 62, creating for me the sense that I was entering where I shouldn’t be. Still, I didn’t see any notifications against my doing so, and it was the only way I knew.
Despite my uncertainty, I propelled my bike through a break in the cars and entered a new phase of the trip. The road offered the widest, smoothest riding shoulder of the day and quickly melted my reluctance about riding so close to the speeding traffic. Each mile now took only three minutes, a 20-mph pace I expected to continue over the ribbon of highway that continued for as far as I could see.
A television station—its broadcasts our family never watched at home because it was too far from us for good reception—appeared on the southeast corner, St. Thomas Aquinas High School was on my right. I was encouraged to think about how far I had already ridden over 40 miles.. I mitigated my wonderment by reminding myself that I needed to pass both sites again on the way home.
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