J. Paul Oxer, right, meets with then-Gov. Lester Maddox.

By J. Paul Oxer

In the summer of 1970, I read an article in the Atlanta Constitution about draft legislation in both the Georgia and Florida assemblies to provide funding for 4-foot-wide bicycle lanes on key routes. Georgia’s then-Gov. Lester Maddox was well known for his support of cycling and for his press stunt of riding his fat-tired cruiser inside the Capitol rotunda as he sat backward on the handlebars.

That year I stayed in Atlanta after my sophomore year at Georgia Tech to earn some cash rather than go home to south central Florida. The intermittent odd jobs that I struggled to string together left me with time on my hands, some of which I spent at my fraternity house with the guys attending summer session. As I read the article, I thought about what a great idea it was, and I wanted to do something to help. Cycling, which had given me my first real sense of freedom and mobility, had always been a joy to me, and my nascent political activism was looking for purposeful outlet.

A fraternity brother, Ron Currens, suggested we go to the Capitol the next Wednesday, “People’s Day,” to see the governor. As Maddox made his way along the line greeting visitors, Ron and I stepped up to introduce ourselves. When the governor shook my hand, I told him that if he would write a letter to Florida Gov. Claude Kirk supporting the bicycle lane set-aside legislation, I’d deliver it by bicycle.

Still clasping my hand, he looked me straight in the eye for a split second, and then, with a grin, told both of us to wait in his office, that he wanted to speak to us with his press secretary.

Fast-forward a week to July 31, 1970, and I’m back in the Capitol rotunda, now being interviewed by Atlanta’s major radio, TV and print media outlets as I prepared to take the governor’s letter to Tallahassee. The owner of a local bike shop had provided me a 10-speed Schwinn road bike, along with a pump, patch kit, spare tube and one folded spare tire. In the rear deck bag I had an extra pair of cut-off jeans, two pair of socks and underwear, a couple of tie-dyed T-shirts and a blue bandana for a headband. I strapped a big, clunky FM radio over the handlebar bag that held my canteen and $40 the guys at the fraternity had collected.

Maddox, on his handlebars, and I rode our bikes around the Capitol for the press. We shook hands, I flipped down my Ray-Ban Aviators and I was off, riding away from downtown at exactly noon.

The first night I made it to Thomaston, where I stopped at the police station to ask where I might find a safe place to camp. Recognizing me from the day’s news, they invited me in for a shower, a meal and a bed in an air-conditioned cell. They had a good time taking “mug shots” and a picture of me and my bike in front of the entire night shift.

J. Paul Oxer still bikes today.

The governor’s office had alerted the state patrol of my planned route to Tallahassee, so occasionally a blue-and-gray cruiser would come alongside and the officer would ask from beneath his brim, “You that boy carrying the letter from the governor down to Tallahassee?” “Yes, sir.” “You need anything?” “Well, I could use some more water,” I once replied, whereupon the officer stopped and produced a gallon jug from his trunk and refilled my canteen.

I asked an elderly gentleman sitting on his porch somewhere along Georgia’s old Highway 3 if I might fill my canteen from his yard hydrant. As I did, he recognized me from the story that had run two days earlier in his local paper and invited me to “come sit on the porch and rest a bit,” out of the August heat. I did, gratefully.

Owners of several restaurants in small towns gave me lunch or dinner when I told them what I was doing. I stayed half price in a small motel after my longest day of riding, pulling up well after dark and thankful just to be off the road. One afternoon I stopped for a quick swim in a pond adjacent to the highway, just taking off my shoes and socks and slipping into the cool water. And one morning I crested a hill just as the sun was breaking above the trees, gliding along several miles afterward just simply enjoying the ride.

The trip did have its tense moments. I was run off the road several times, suffering minor cuts and bruises and a sprained ankle; hit in the back by one of numerous beer bottles and cans thrown at me; and regularly scared witless by tractor trailers passing too close and too fast as I hugged perilously close to the edge of the asphalt.

When I reached Tallahassee on the fourth day out, a local TV station filmed my approach up the hill in traffic along Appalachee Parkway to Florida’s Capitol as I arrived to deliver the letter to Gov. Kirk’s office. (He wasn’t in at the time.) Two days later, I set off again, finally arriving at my home in Lake Placid four days later, after logging a total of just over 600 miles.

When I returned to Tech that fall, the Georgia parks department invited me to speak of my adventure at a number of events in support of the proposed legislation.

Ultimately the bill passed in both states, and soon new bike lanes with their distinctive markings began to appear along highways, giving cyclists a little more room and showing them a little more courtesy.

The next summer, while I was out with some fraternity brothers one weekend in early July 1971, a drunk driver ran a red light at 70 miles per hour and plowed straight into the right side of the car in which I sat in the back seat, leaving me with, among other internal injuries, a massive concussion, a broken jaw and left cheekbone, and a right leg broken so badly that the doctors considered amputating it.

After six weeks in traction, much of it with my jaw wired shut from two major operations to repair the damage, I left the hospital more than 60 pounds lighter, with a boot-to-hip metal brace holding my right leg in alignment.

I managed to get back into school that fall, taking a minimum full-time load. Tech registrar Frank Roper helped me schedule at least an hour between classes to give me time to poke across campus with a cane.

Months later, when I could walk unaided again, I got a bike to help in my rehabilitation. I still remember my first tentative turns on the cranks with knees stiff from inaction and how good it felt to be free again.

I’ll be 60 in the fall of this year, 2010, the 40th anniversary of my adventure, and cycling is still a passion. Even now, I get a joyous rush when I first clip into the pedals and make the first few turns.

I’m 30 years, 30 pounds and four knee operations past being anything like competitive, but at least I’m out there hammering away at it in charity rides. Even now, I struggle with the aftereffects of that accident in 1971.

Cycling has evolved significantly in the past couple of decades with major improvements in equipment, clothing and safety gear. Interest in the sport continues to grow. Thankfully, so does the respect generally afforded to cyclists on the road.

It was nice to have a small part in helping create some safer places for all of us to ride in Georgia and Florida.

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Pedal safely! See you down the road!

J. Paul Oxer, CE 73, of Smyrna, Ga., is the managing director of McDaniell, Hunter & Prince Inc., which provides transaction support and project development for investment in infrastructure.