AUG. 2, Sonora Junction, California, to Sonora, California, 82 miles via California Route 108. Average speed today, no figure due to partial computer reading, but extremely low. Total trip mileage to date, 3,781. Average daily mileage since June 1, 60.

Not everything, we found in spades today, goes according to plan. Ben and I had often dreamed of together conquering Sonora Pass, gliding down the long hill and riding triumphantly into Sonora.  There would be no streetside throngs cheering us on, but we still imagined it would be pretty cool.

It wasn’t. At least not for me. Instead I found it the longest, hardest and most frustrating day of the trip. But, thanks to the help of many, I got the ride done – rolling down Washington Street at 7:40 p.m., about four hours behind my son and a few minutes ahead of nightfall.

In many ways the day was a microcosm of the entire journey. Misfortune was answered by the invaluable help of Good Samaritans – only this time there were more Samaritans than I can count.

The day began fine. Our group of nine enjoyed breakfast at the Sportsmans Inn in Bridgeport. We then drove out to Sonora Junction, where Suzy and Ben’s friends wished us well and headed up the pass. A few minutes later we saw the “Trucks Not Advised – 26 Percent Grades Ahead” and soldiered on. We had climbed many passes. We were ready.

I was really ready.  I had typically outclimbed Ben on the trip’s steepest grades and was ready to wait for him at the 9,600-foot Sonora Pass summit and cheer him on as he crested.

This didn’t happen: Instead, as I began to use my smallest chain ring up front, the chain began slipping off it. I didn’t panic, and instead put the chain back on the ring several times.  Then, on maybe the fourth of fifth time, the chain jammed between the first and second rings.

Ben yanked the chain loose with his Leatherman tool, but we found one link was all but busted. Even a little torque, I realized, could break it. I told Ben to forge ahead. I would walk the hills to the summit, then pedal softly on the downhills while pondering a solution to this unfortunate problem.

The unfortunate problem became a potentially day-ending problem in minutes. On a small downhill five miles east of the summit, I gently began to pedal. In seconds the chain jammed and my derailleur snapped loose and fell into into the spokes.  The bike was toast – not even walkable --and I was disconsolate. I laid my stricken steed down and weighed my options.

Ben had said he’d contact Suzy when he was back in cell phone range. Also, Teresa Baggot –an old friend and Union Democrat colleague – was waiting at Kennedy Meadows to ride with me on the long downhill run. Maybe a solution would somehow materialize.

Meanwhile, I stuck out my thumb each time I saw a westbound pickup approach, figuring I’d have to get the busted bike off the pass eventually. None stopped. But about 40 minutes later, I caught a break

A guy named Dave pulled over in his small SUV, even though I had not offered a thumb. “Looks like you’re in trouble,” he said.  “Need a ride?”

I readily accepted, and on the way over the pass he told me he lived in Boulder, Colo. and was on his way to Dodge Ridge to interview for a job. I was wishing him well when we caught up with Ben near the summit.

“A bike mechanic was on his way down to help you,” he said.

Huh?

Another in a long line of Samaritans? Yes, in the person of Trek for the Track committee member Dick Chimenti’s grandson, Chris, who had ridden a motorcycle up the pass looking for us. Dick was going to ride his bike with us and wanted a fix on our progress. When Chris heard from Ben that I had a busted chain, he said he had been a bike mechanic and could probably fix it.

But, alas, a snapped derailleur was beyond the means of even the most skilled roadside mechanic. Dave and I continued to Kennedy, where Teresa and Suzy waited. Although surprised at my predicament, they joined me in brainstorming a solution:

My daughter could drive my backup road bike up the pass from home. Or Suzy could haul my badly injured bike to JT Cycles in Sonora and hope owner Jon Tonneson could pull off a miracle. But as time went on it seemed more and more likely that I would have to give up the day’s ride and try again later.

Enter Mike Miller, another Trek committee member, a longtime Sonora Elementary School teacher and an endurance athlete himself -- like the guy runs 100 milers. But today his mission was saving my hide and my ride

Mike had earlier driven to the top of the pass to greet us, and in fact had posted Trek for the Track signs on the grade to encourage us. But when he learned of my troubles, from Ben, he drove to Kennedy.

“Hop in,” Mike told me. “We’ll drive down to Twain Harte and get you my mountain bike.”

Sounded like the best solution yet.

Suzy put my stricken road bike in the back of our convertible and headed toward Sonora. Teresa started riding west, thinking, unbelievably, that I’d somehow catch her later in the day. Ben ripped downhill full tilt and Mike and I headed toward Twain Harte in his Subaru.

But before we got to Pinecrest, Mike spotted a lone cyclist making his way up the pass on a mountain bike. “There’s your answer,” said Mike. “Take Dick’s bike.”

Sure enough, the rider was Dick Chimenti, and he volunteered his Diamondback. “There’s no rush to return it,” he said. “I probably haven’t ridden it in seven years and it may be that long until I ride it again.”

The three of us crested the pass in Mike’s car, then plunged five miles to where I had broken down. We pulled the Diamondback from the trunk and I gave it a once-over. It was small and, gulp, looked like a darned girls bike. But I was out of options and was lucky to have a bike at all.

I raised the Diamondback’s seatpost as high as I could, hopped aboard and, at about 1:30 p.m.,began climbing. The gears were low, the shifts smooth and, in a little more than an hour, I was at the summit. Mike and Dick wished me well, and I prepared for the long downhill.

Yeah, I might have looked like a bear on a circus bike, but I kept rolling. I gripped the brakes as we passed Kennedy, then Clark Fork. Next came a few miles of uphill to Eagle Meadows, which seemed to take forever on the bike’s fat, knobby tires. At Eagle, my cell phone kicked back in and I called Suzy at about 3:30 p.m.

“Your bike’s ready,” she said, explaining that Jon had done the repair for free in a warp-speed 90 minutes and it was good to go. “I’ll bring it up.”

We met just west of Pinecrest after 5 p.m.. I had logged 42 miles on the dinky mountain bike and was more than ready for a mount that fit me. I thanked Suzy profusely and hopped aboard.

“Teresa’s 11 miles head of you,” she said.

“I’ll never catch her,” he said.

A key reason for this was my eyes: I’d been having contact lens problems over the past few days and had started my climb with spare lenses and solution. But in the bike switch my backup lenses were lost.

By the time I reached Mi-Wuk Village, after 5 p.m., my vision was blurry at best. Blinking and squinting didn’t help, and I took out my left lens at the Mi-Wuk Laundromat, hoping it would help. It didn’t.

Teresa was waiting for me at Twain Harte, and I was overjoyed to have company. Only 11 miles to go, but it went painfully slow. On a mountain bike herself, Teresa flew down the hill. Able to see clearly only a few feet in front of me, I crawled behind at a snail’s pace.

“I’m legally blind,” I explained to her when I caught up at a light. Potholes, rumble strips and roadside debris were all potentially hazardous, and I probably shouldn’t have been on the road. But I was so close – I couldn’t quit.

Things only got worse as we rode into the setting, blinding sun. But I kept my eye on the pavement below and, at 7:30 p.m. or so, we hit Washington Street. No, my return was hardly triumphant, but 10 minutes later the 82-mile, 12-hour ordeal was done.

“A lot of people were praying for you,” said Teresa.

So could I attribute my finish to divine intervention? Or to blind luck, good friends, help from unexpected quarters, fate, or a charm that has seemed to accompany this journey throughout its 3,700 miles?

I don’t know, but I was very thankful to pull into our Yankee Hill driveway, get a shower and enjoy a home-cooked meal with my family and our friend Teresa.

After today’s ride, I reckoned, nothing that might happen on the two-day ride to the coast would be a problem.