If you'd rather place an order by talking to one of our cheerful order desk clerks, please call 1-888-232-4444 (USA and Canada only) or 250-383-6864. From Europe, ring our UK order desk clerk at local rate number 0845 230 9601 (UK only) or 44 (0)1865 722 113.

Grandmas Across America: The Story of a Cross-Country Bike Ride

by Sandra Mason

133 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-2671; ISBN 1-4120-2123-5; US$17.00, C$19.00, EUR14.00, £10.00

The true story of two grandmothers, one outgoing and athletic and the other a klutz, who embark on a cross-country bicycle ride from Maine to the State of Washington.

Read more!

About the Book      About the Author      Excerpts      Catalogue Information

About the Book

A young-at-heart grandmother wishes to fulfill a life-long dream of crossing America by bicycle. The only one she knows who has the time, energy and guts to go with her is a fellow grandma, younger, stronger, and the complete emotional opposite. Would their opposite personalities cause problems? You bet! Would they make it? Well, you don't get to be old enough to be a grandma by giving up.

Read about their adventures and misadventures as they discover their own individual strengths and weaknesses.

---

About the Author

Sandra Mason lives in Ocean Shores, Washington, with her husband, Bob. Between them they have raised six daughters and at last count had ten grandchildren and seven great grandchildren. Sandra plans to continue riding her bike in the Seattle to Portland (STP) each year until she's at least 70. Grandmas Across America is Sandra Mason's first book. The Ocean Shores Community Club publishes her humorous column in its monthly newspaper The Ocean Observer (Wildwood Publishing).

---

Excerpts

Excerpt 1

A car stopped and an attractive young woman called out.

"Are you okay? Do you need help?" A thin reedy voice I didn't recognize answered.

"No, I'm fine, I just thought I would rest for a while." Was that my voice? The handsome husband and squeaky-clean children leaned out the window and stared, open-mouthed.

"Are you sure you're okay? Do you need anything?" the pretty young mother asked again.

I brushed a few flies off my stiffened cheeks and bared my teeth in what I hoped would pass for a lighthearted smile. I tried to strike a nonchalant pose as I lay in the dirt and weeds.

"Oh, I'm fine, I'm just resting a little," I croaked.

They drove away but soon returned. Once more they asked if I needed help, and offered to drive me somewhere. I was too embarrassed to accept; I was a smelly, bug-infested, sweaty mess. Reluctantly they left again, and I could see the children's worried faces pressed against the rear window as they drove away. What made them think I needed help? A 58-year-old great grandmother, lying beside the road being eaten alive by all the bugs in New Hampshire, no food no water, at least 25 miles from civilization. Did I look like I needed help? Hah! I continued to ignore the various bloodsuckers having their way with me. I wondered how long it would take to die.

What was I doing 3,600 miles from my home near Seattle? On a bicycle, for God's sake! With nothing to protect me from the elements! Who knew where my riding companion was? Who cared! My anger was starting to subside and so I had to admit that maybe I did care. With no other choice, I struggled to my feet and continued my shaky assault on The Kanc.

Excerpt 2

To handle the dogs, we carried pepper spray. If we could get it out of our bike bags in time it proved quite effective, but the times that I needed it the most I couldn't get to it fast enough. I resorted to high-pitched screaming and kicking, which usually warded off the attack. The dogs on the well-traveled bicycle route were so savvy that you only had to wave the can of spray at them. They would come to a skidding stop, grin as if to say "just kidding," and slink home. In fact, we realized they were so intimidated that we only had to raise an empty hand, move it in a spraying motion, and they would practically somersault to a stop. When we got off the popular bike route we would be filled with dread when we saw a lonely farmhouse in the distance. We knew that the local beasts most likely weren't familiar with the nasty stuff. We would hold the cans in our shaking hands and pray that they were too lazy to make a run for the kill.

Excerpt 3

People coming down the mountain were giving us "thumbs up," especially when they realized that we were women, and not young women at that. We were pumped and enthusiastically pressed on. About four miles from the summit disaster struck when Teanna broke a gearshift cable. She had to push her bike from there, but waved me on. About a half mile from the summit she came by in the bed of a pickup. Some Canadians (our saviors on the trip once again) picked her up. They yelled and asked if I wanted a ride. I told them no, I was going to make it. With the tourists urging me on, I continued. Sweat soaked, face purple, tears welling in my eyes to the point where I could hardly see, I reached the summit of Logan Pass!

---

Catalogue Information

---