Bearded man and his bike tell a story

You just never know whom you will meet around the next bend.
I was on state Route 626 outside New Springfield on my way to work one morning. I was not in a good mood because my thoughts were in turmoil over what I was going to write.
Little did I know I was about to run into my next subject.
Just past South Range Road, I saw a man riding a bicycle on the side of the road. Cars were slowing down to pass him on the busy road. As I approached the bike, a car was coming in the opposite direction, so I slowed to a crawl and followed the rider until the car passed.
In those few moments riding behind this cyclist, I became intrigued.
Mysterious bicycler
The rider was wearing a large, straw cowboy hat. Gray hairs were poking out underneath the rim of the hat. A few bags and a box were strapped to the back of the bike. Multicolored bandanas had been tied to the rear basket and hung down to the middle of the spokes.
When the traffic cleared and I was able to pass the bike, I looked over at the cyclist. A neatly trimmed mustache and beard, peppered with gray, covered his face. As he peddled, he looked neither unhappy nor delighted, simply a man going for a bike ride.
Something told me there was more to this biker than that. So I pulled off to the side of the road and stopped my car.
I quickly learn that Steven Konscol is 66 and lives in New Jersey. Eleven days ago he left Trenton, N.J., to come to Youngstown to do odd jobs for people he has met here. He has traveled the 400-plus miles on his bike, a vintage 1948 Firestone Cruiser.
Decades in miles
Long road trips on his bike are nothing new for Konscol.
"In the '60s, I went to Atlanta," he says. "It took me two months and two weeks."
In the '70s, he peddled to North and South Carolinas. He has been traveling to Youngstown every summer for more than 10 years.
"I've had this bike since I was a kid," Konscol said. "My dad bought it for me for $28."
The receipt from the sale is inside one of the handlebars.
As I look at Steven's transportation in amazement, he explains, "I was gonna paint this."
Indeed, the bike is in desperate need of a paint job -- there is not a dash of color on it. The entire frame is covered in rust. The metal, however, still looks sturdy.
"It used to be black with red stripes down the sides," Konscol said, bending down to one of the fenders to show me. By the look in his eyes, I could tell he still remembers what the bike looked like the day it was bought for him, though it has probably been decades since it has even closely resembled its former glory.
"Its a smooth ride," he assured me. Looking at the wheels, I have no doubt this is true. They are the big, oversize tires with white walls. You can't find a tire like that today.
"That's the original seat," Steven says with pride. Flattened with age, the leather cover looks soft and smooth.
Finding necessities
Strapped to the back of the bike is a tent in a box, a sleeping bag and a nylon Coca Cola bag, all of which had been given to Konscol the night before by a pastor from "down the road."
Konscol will not stay at shelters. "They don't let me take my bike inside," he explained.
"Where will you sleep tonight?" I asked him.
"I have no idea," he says with no concern in his voice. "I'll figure it out."
Pointing to the Coca Cola bag, he added, "I have my soap and everything in here. I'll take a bath in a creek."
That is also where Konscol will wash his clothes. Looking at his blue jeans and red T-shirt, sporting a Packard Electric Plant 11 logo, he must have found a pretty good creek the night before. They are clean as a whistle.
"I have a driver's license. I just don't like driving."
Anxious to reach his destination in Youngstown, Konscol hops back onto his bike.
"God bless you!" he yells to me.
No, Steven Konscol. God bless you -- and your 1948 Firestone Cruiser.
gwhite@vindy.com