Serendipity, and an apology...

Serendipity is an important part of our life.

Joyce and I embrace it. We encourage it.
For example, I’ve relayed to many of you about my frustrating attempt to chase down an Army buddy from the ‘60s by the name of Andy Love. After more than a decade of failure, I finally found him on an Amtrak train from Lawrence to L.A.

During dinner with the New Mexico landscape whizzing by, I was chatting with our dining car waitress, “Charlie.” She, incidentally, was subbing for someone; it wasn’t her regular route, which punctuates the serendipitous nature of this tale:

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“A little town in northern Maine nobody’s ever heard of.”

“Madawaska?”

Her eyes popped large.

“You’re the only person who ever got that,” she gasped.

I then told her I knew Madawaska because I’d been looking for an old Army buddy from Madawaska by the name of Andy Love.

“I was in his sister’s wedding” she yelped.

Andy and I eventually hooked up. Andy lives in New Hampshire not far from our daughter, who lives in Nashua, N.H., and he once worked the bar at our favorite restaurant in New England: Warren’s Lobster House, a part of which literally sits atop the estuary in Kittery, Maine. Best salad bar ever. Oh, and fish and chips, too.

And:

I once ran into an old high school buddy, whom I hadn’t seen in 10 years – in downtown Nairobi, Kenya.

And:

Joyce and I always take roads less-traveled just to increase the opportunities for “surprise.” That’s how we found the wonderful Groveland Hotel in Groveland, Calif., that I’ve written about previously in this space.

Hence, my time on the Loneliest Road in America this May.

That’s where serendipity (and the need for an apology) struck just west of Ely, Nevada, this May. It’s where I encountered the intrepid German couple, Marita Weber and Cornelius Hummel. In my “age group,” the two adventurers were on bicycles laden with enough gear to live on their own. Yep, bicycles loaded to the gills literally in the middle of effing nowhere. (“Can you hear me know,” Mr. Verizon sez. “Nope.”)

Cornelius Hummel and Marita Webber, whom I encountered on the Loneliest Road in America. The Miata can be seen down the road a bit in the background.

Marita and Cornelius (we came to first-name status quickly) were biking and camping across the United States. They had started in Florida, they told me, circumnavigating the Sunshine State (I guess for practice on relatively level ground) before heading west, mostly uphill, I would think, until you cross the Sierra Nevada range and head downhill to the Pacific. Each, it must be told, received a bit of a boost on their many-thousands-of-miles trek from a fist-sized motor that, Marita told me, helped on the hills. But they still had to do a lot of pedaling to crest the hills.

They’d been doing it for months, and they planned to put their kickstand down for the last time in San Francisco. (Though I love San Francisco, I’d have picked a flatter spot to stop).

We exchanged pleasantries with promises (that I hope to keep) to hook up at some point either in Kansas (they have an open invitation) or, more likely, in their native Germany.

After the promises, I wished them well, hopped back in the Miata and whizzed off on that lonely, but magnificent, road in Nevada.

It was made more special because it was in the Miata, top down. No cops. Twists and turns. Great weather. And speed! (That’s the “no cops” part.)

So today’s lesson is to embrace serendipity so you run into good, intrepid and interesting folks like Marita and Cornelius (and “Charlie”). But do a better job at keeping promises.

I had promised Marita and Cornelius that I would tell all y’all about my encounter with them and keep in touch, but I’ve neglected my duties as a blogger and an emailer (though Marita did send the photo I took of them with their camera, and you can spot the Maita in the distant background). I hope this begins to make up for my lapse, and I apologize (to them and to you) for being such a slacker.

I’ll try to make it up when Joyce and I visit them (as promised) in Germany.

The beer’s on me.