"Darlin'"

July 24, Bardstown, KY

“Is that gonna git it for ya, hon?” she asked me as I placed several items on the counter. “Yes, mam,” I said. I paid and as I approached the door, the lady behind the counter said, “Yew be careful, darlin’. It’s a hot one out there.”

“Hon,” “darlin’,’ “sweetie,”—you get called them and you know you’re in the South. I enjoy listening to the accents, rhythms, overtones, phrases, and regionalisms of people. There’s almost a sing-song patter in the South that varies from state to state and area to area. The deeper south you go the heavier the accent.

I was rolling along at a good clip this morning when a teenage Amish boy whizzed past me on a bike. Looked like a 10-speed. He didn’t say a word. I’m amazed at the diversity of the Amish n this country. I’ve shouted “Hullos” to them in Montana, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois and now Kentucky. Pass through the rural parts of a state and the Amish or Mennonites will be there, most likely on very well tended farms. Some make furniture; others cut timber while others operate general stores for their communities and the public.

As the boy and I approached Litchfield, KY I realized that I had made a 10-mile error. Correcting my route took me through Clarkson, KY and past the Walter T. Kelley Co. For 86 years Kelley has been making and selling bee equipment and supplies. It is one the world’s biggest bee supply companies and ships literally around the world. Cypress hive bodies are best but if you take care of pine hive it will last a long time, explained Christina Newton. She showed me queen bees in small containers ready to be shipped. “These are Italian bees. They have a good temperament but they’re more susceptible to mites. These Russian bees are strong but they aren’t as docile as the Italians,” she said. So bees are like humans.

Bardstown (“Sample our spirit.”) is the epicenter of Kentucky whisky production. I was eager to tour a distillery and taste a sample after a long day in the saddle. After a quick clean up I mounted my steel steed and took off for the closest one, Tom Moore Distillery, just a few blocks away. The guard at the gate said, “Sorry, we don’t give tours on weekends, only during the week at 10:30 and 1:30.” Crushed, I looked at my Bardstown attractions map and realized that all the other distilleries were miles away, not a desirous option after pedaling more than 80 miles already. I went back to my room and drank some Powerade.

Blasted heat

July 23, Axtel Campground, McDaniels, KY

I’m in the Army Corps of Engineers’ Axtel Campground on Rough River Lake. Since I started this journey private and state/federal campground hosts have said COE campgrounds are the best. They’re right. The campgrounds are clean, well maintained with good facilities and usually beside some Corps=created body of water.

It’s 2 p.m. and I’m camped on the banks of the lake within walking distance of the swimming beach and showers/toilet building. With a forecast of 99 and a heat index of 110 I decided to dismount early. A gentle breeze is coming off the lake. I cooled down with a swim, then a shower and now sit in the shade of an oak tree.

As intelligent as my decision appears to be it was based to a larger degree on reality—the next possible campground or motel is 56 more miles away. Cross country bike riding requires a daily assessment of one’s capabilities versus the reality of distance, weather, amenities, and traffic. So, tomorrow’s ride will be at least 56 miles. I’ll be on the road by 5:30 a.m. to get in the most riding during the coolest part of the day.

Kentucky wins.

July 22, Owensboro, KY

Note: Kentucky has surpassed Missouri has having the trashiest roadsides. The picture is typical of all Kentucky roadsides only in the nature of the trash. I have seen many items of clothing nor many animal carcasses. All of the trash has been food related—beer and soda cans, Styrofoam, paper and plastic drink cups, fast food bags and containers, liquor bottles, and cigarette packs and butts.

I came up here off route to get my gears adjusted and to buy a tube for Dee. I’ll head back to the route tomorrow.

A Kentucky experience

July 21, Sebree, KY

I crossed into KY via a 15-car ferry between Cave In The Rock, IL and a soybean field in KY. There was one car and one bicycle on the ferry. The man tending the bowlines wanted to know what I regretted about my ride. “Not a single thing,” I replied. “It’s been spectacular.” “I think you’re a damn fool but good luck,” he said as I rolled off the boat.

Bob and Violet Hardison wanted to be missionaries when Bob graduated from divinity school. However, Violet failed the physical that was required by the Baptist Missionary Board. So, instead of going overseas they were posted to two stateside churches before landing in Sebree 34 years ago. Today they are legends on the TransAm route.

They opened their door to their first TransAm cyclist 31 years ago when the town decided not to allow cyclists camp in the park. “We were the first church they came to and they would ask if we knew of a place to camp,” said Violet. What at first was allowing cyclists to camp on church property has turned into a hostel in the basement of the First Baptist Church.

Mattresses, towels, a shower, air conditioning, toiletries, and a kitchen are made available to riders at no charge. And after every guest has cleaned up, Violet cooks dinner in her house. So far this year she has fed 296 hungry cyclists, the biggest group being 31. There five of us tonight.

“Dig in and the boarding house reach is OK here,” Violet said following the saying of grace. Our meal consisted of country ham, corn pudding, snaps, butterbeans, fruit salad, potato salad, sliced vine-ripened tomatoes, squash and zucchini, homemade iron-skillet cornbread, fried apples, slaw, cukes, and buckets of iced tea and lemonade. Dessert was a selection of cakes and pies, both a la mode, if we wanted.

“My father said I was going to be killed by allowing strangers in my house,” Violet said as we talked after dinner. “I’ve never feared a single rider. You aren’t that kind of person. When I gave a rider the keys to my car so he could visit his sister in Owensboro, my friend said I’d never see the car again. He brought it back and with a full tank of gas.”

Over the years she has identified several common traits among her cycling visitors. “You are all intelligent, caring human beings who are highly motivated, movers and shakers, and this experience is a gift to yourselves.”

Each visitor is asked to place a pin in his or her home town on a large map of the United States. The wall also has maps of every country in the world. Pins appear on every map. “Just last week we got our first visitors from South Korea,” said Bob.

Seems to me Violet and Bob created brilliant strategy to fulfill their missionary zeal: Have people come to your door rather than you travel to theirs.

A Loopy day

July 20, Golconda, IL

Michael’s Motel is at the crest of a large hill in this town that sits on the western bank of the Ohio River. An ascent was not what we wanted after a long hot, muggy day in the saddle. The day was both heart-achingly rewarding and frustrating.

Frustration began early. While admiring the scenery and wildlife, I rolled merrily along for 2 miles before realizing that I had overshot my turn. So my air-headedness added 4 needless miles to the day. More were piled on when there was no sign where one should have been going through the Crab Orchard National Wildlife Refuge. About a mile past where I thought I should have turned I stopped and flagged down three motorists. All of them said they were visiting the area and couldn’t help me. A fourth, a local, didn’t know where the road was. “I don’t know road names, I just know where they go,” he said.

Then I spotted sure salvation—the water district office. If anybody knows roads, they will, I figured. I was wrong. The lady behind the counter thought the building in which she was sitting was on Grassy Road (It was. It said so on the sign outside.) but she had no idea where Tacoma Lake Road was. And, no, I could not look at water district maps to locate it.
A young man in a pick-up thought he knew where the road was because he rides his bike up and down it on the weekends. We pulled up to the intersection of the road, where the sign should have been, and asked a surveyor who was working at the intersection if this was Tacoma Lake Road. “It might be but I’m not sure,” he said. Realizing that was about as affirmative an answer as I was going to get after more than a half hour of asking 7 people, I took off down the road. (It proved to be Tacoma Lake Road.)

When the three of us (Dee, Richard and I) caught up with each other in Goreville, we all complained about the missing sign and told our respective stories about navigating that section. We ate a late breakfast at Delaney’s on Broadway Restaurant. Because we were TransAmers and had a meal, we were offered our selection of a free piece of pie. “We do it for all of you cyclists,” said the owner. As we polished off the pie, she came back and handed each of us a bag with two Granny Smith apples and two small bags of potato chips. “I know how you can get out there and there’s nothing for miles and miles so we give these to each rider,” she said. Saying thank you, even several times, seems so inadequate when people show such kindness.

The day ended with two of us being chased by a dog. Well, not exactly chased. It started out that way, he dashing across the road at me. I never felt threatened. He didn’t bark and he wagged his tail. His owner yelled for him to stop but the bloodhound just loped along side of me in the grass. I stopped; he stopped. I yelled, “Go!” and he retreated three steps before sitting down. I got on my bike and pedaled like hell; he kept pace. I slowed, he slowed.

Two men in a pick-up pulled in front of me and stopped. One had a leash. “This dog’ll follow you all the way to town, he’s so loopy,” the leash man said. “He come over to my place two days ago and couldn’t get home. What kind of a bloodhound is that?” After several failed attempts to leash the dog the men drove off. Loopy and I continued toward Golconda.

Another mile down the road and Loopy was in bad shape, given the heat and the miles he had traveled. I stopped and poured water and Gatorade into a discard soda cup. His legs were shaking, his tongue lolled out and foam circled his mouth. After getting him to sit in the shade, I offered him the drink. He drank some. Dee rolled up and asked what was going on. I told him to just continue riding slowly past while I diverted Loopy’s attention with the drink. The moment Dee took off, so did Loopy. About a half mile on he disappeared into some woods.

Roadside detritus

July 19, Carbondale, IL

Having pedaled through eight states now, I’ve made some observations about roadside detritus:

1. A hell of a lot of animals are killed by vehicles. The largest I’ve seen have been deer, the smallest butterflies and bugs. In between have been a coyote, dogs, cats, rabbits, opossums, two badgers, squirrels, skunks, raccoons, prairie dogs, snakes of various lengths, an uncountable number and variety of birds, and surprising numbers of frogs, turtles and armadillos in Kansas. The armadillos have continued into MO and IL. Given the death I’ve seen it’s amazing that any wildlife still exists. However, I’ve seen more deer bound away at my approach than lie dead roadside. The only death I’ve witnessed was an SUV making no effort to avoid hitting an armadillo.

2. Missouri has the dirtiest roadsides with Illinois a close second. All the other states are virtually pristine. Should Kentucky or Virginia fail the pristine test I’ll make note. The MO and IL trash is typical—cans, plastic cups, take-out bags, beer cartons, etc. Each state has an “Adopt-a-mile” program but it appears that some states are better at instituting it than others.

3. I’m thinking of opening Mike’s Bungy Store when I get home. While I’ve picked up a few, I’ve passed scores and scores of them on roadsides. The pickings are so plentiful that I’ve become very selective in the ones that will continue with me the rest of the way. Only the best and least marred will do. The one exception is the one that I picked up as I entered Yellowstone National Park, the one that still holds up my biking shorts. A word to other bungy hunters: Stay away from the flat black ones with the wide head that holds an S hook. Time after time I’ve seen them with one head ripped off. Must be a flaw in the basic design. Stay with the original multi-band design.

4. Clothes seem to be a favorite item to fling out of a vehicle. I’ve seen every item a human being wears from underwear to coats lying beside the road. There’s also the occasional pillow, sheet and blanket. Some of the stuff is in fine shape. I found a perfect pair of Levis, in my size, in Wyoming. (No, kids, I didn’t pick them up.) As I pedal on I can’t help but wonder why the clothes got there. Sucked out by some Venturi effect in the vehicle? But that would mean the clothes were off the individual. Hmm? What was going on in there? Someone doing an in-car strip? Maybe to moon an on-coming car? What else can one think when the roadside is littered with a t-shirt, then a bra, then shorts and finally panties? What about that bag of clothes roadside? Did some sort of fight take place in that car and she said, “Get out of the car. I don’t ever want to see you again and take your smelly clothes with you.” Such are the thoughts that go through one’s mind as you make your feet go in endless little circles for 60-70 miles a day.

July 18, Chester, IL

I crossed over today. The Mississippi River that is. Chester sits on the eastern shore. As I rolled off the bridge over the full and churning river I was greeted by Popeye’s statue at the town’s visitor center. Chester native Elsie Segar created the spinach-eating sailor in 1929. According to local lore, Popeye was patterned after Chester resident Frank “Rocky” Fiegel, while Segar’s boss, William “Windy” Schuchert, was the man on whom hamburger-eating Wimpy was based. Statues of all the Popeye characters are sprinkled throughout the town. Naturally, there’s a Popeye Museum, an annual Popeye Picnic with a parade and almost every store in town tries to make some Popeye connection. The MacDonald’s has a large can of spinach hanging from the ceiling with green plastic leaves of the iron-rich veggie floating over diners’ heads.

Dee, Richard, a PE teacher from IN, and I left about 6:30 a.m. California John and Chris, who is from Reno, NV, the youngsters, were sleeping. The route took us through part of MO’s wine country. We passed two modest vineyards and then came upon a very large operation…Crown Valley Vineyard. They also had a new beer brewing operation a couple of miles down the road. Further down the road we passed a tiger sanctuary owned by the vineyard/brewery owner. Earlier we had passed the Farmington Country Club, which, in addition to the typical offerings of golf, tennis and swimming, was also a sanctuary for tigers. Go Mizo Tigers!

About 10:30 a.m. as the three of us took a brief rest on a hill, two young Brits going west stopped to chat. Bethan and David are recent Oxford chemistry graduates. Their American adventure is a last fling before “we get tied down with jobs.” As we talked the bright day turned into night. The winds picked up. Bruised-blue clouds hung down like a southern sheriff’s belly. Thunder rolled and lightening stitched the clouds. We beat a quick retreat to the porch of a house across the road. No one was home so we sat on the porch for 90 minutes before deciding that the rain had let up enough for us to all go our ways. Chris, the late riser, said the tornado siren sounded and electricity was knocked out in Farmington during the storm.

By the time we arrived at the Fraternal Order of Eagles Aerie in Chester the sun was out. The Eagles have built a “bike shack” for cyclists to use free. The shack, a very apt description, has 9 bunk beds, an air conditioner and a chair. We use our own bedding. I was the first person to take a shower, which is about 50 yards away in a small room attached to the Eagles’ main building.

When I finished I tried to open the door but it wouldn’t budge. I pushed, pulled, giggled, put my shoulder to, and even kicked the door. It wouldn’t open. Is this the way my bike ride ends, trapped in a shower in Chester, IL? I banged hard trying to attract attention. Nothing. I picked up the shower bench and rammed it against the door several times. Finally, the door opened.

“Hey, I was trapped in the shower and you guys did nothing,” I yelled to my fellow cyclists. They looked at me like I was nuts, but John closed the door too and was trapped for a time.

Ritz-Carlton of hostels

July 17, Farmington, MO

We’re staying tonight in Al’s Place, a hostel created by the City of Farmington. The city manager just stopped by to say hi. This is the hostel’s inaugural year. Based on the comments of those who have stayed here before us and our own reactions, the city should get an award for best hostel along the ACA TransAm route.

We’re on the second floor of a stone building built in the 1840s that until the late 1990s was used as the county jail. The city didn’t know what to do with the building after the county donated it to the city for nearly 10 years. Then the city manager got an idea: Given the number of TransAm cyclists that pass through the city looking for a place to stay, the city should convert the second floor to a hostel. It’s air conditioned, furnished with 14 bunk beds, a washer and dryer, dining table and chairs, two bathrooms, lounge area with cable TV, a computer wired to the Internet and a kitchen. Cost: $20 per person. Tonight 5 of us will stay here. Our bikes are stored in part of the first floor.

“You cyclists have been coming through here since 1976 looking for places to stay and we’ve been sending you to the city park,” said the manager. “It took us awhile but we think this is a better alternative.”

All of us shouted, “You bet.”

Killer day

July 16, Ellington, MO

Pictures: Tit-for-tat between feuding Missouri neighbors.

Today was very unpleasant. It started with a change in end-points. Initially I was to ride to Eminence, there to reconnect with Dee and Richard, two cycling companions who rode ahead while I sought medical care in Larned, KS. They were going to take a rest day in Eminence while I rode from Ellington, about 60 miles away.

When I inquired about adding another day at their motel they were told the motel was booked and that they would have to leave this morning. The closest town with a motel was in Ellington, 27 miles east. They booked rooms for us all of us and rode there. My problem was that instead of a 60-mile day, I now had an 80+-mile day. To make things even harder this section of the entire TransAm route is considered, by far, the most difficult because of the number of very steep climbs it contains. Adding to my ride were temperatures in the mid 90s with humidity about the same.

It was one hell of a day.

Summer

July 15, Houston, MO

Summer has always had several distinct characteristics to me: Long, hot windless days where the sun beats down with a vengeance. Humidity that saps strength and the will to do much. Cicadas buzzing in trees and leaving their exoskeletons clinging to the bark. Clutches of wild tiger lilies brightening roadsides. And blackberry bushes drooping with their delicious fruit.

It was a summer day today. The sweat started soon after leaving Marshfield shortly after 6 a.m.. The still, humid morning led to an equally still, humid afternoon where the sun drove the temperature into the mid 90s. Cicadas buzzed relentlessly. A Michigan lily appeared in a roadside ditch. A couple of miles further on blackberries appeared in profusion along a field fence. I had passed miles of flowering blackberry bushes in Oregon and Idaho but was disappointed about being a month too early to enjoy them. Although I had to peddle 2,000 miles for a month and a half, I knew these Missouri blackberries would be just as good as ones from the Northwest. I downloaded blackberries for 15 minutes.

In Hartville I stopped for a rest and to get a Subway sandwich for later dining roadside under a shady oak. As I packed my sandwich I saw a man come out of the drug store on my side of the street. He had a huge. T-shirt-stretching, belt-breaking gut on him. In that moment I saw him being reeled in by his belly to the restaurant across the street. His shoulders were back to counteract the forward motion of his belly. His spindly legs took numerous small steps as he was drawn forward. At the door he had to turn sideways slightly to reach the knob. And then he was netted by the restaurant.

By the time I arrived at the air-conditioned Convenient Feed Store in Bendavis I was ragged out, heat-blasted. “You look like you need to stay here for a while,” said Ben, the clerk. “Want a piece of pizza?” he asked as I reached for a Gatorade. “OK,” I said. “Here. It’s on me,” he said handing me a quarter of a pie. “You’ve put in a lot of work and deserve a reward.”

It is in these sticks, boondocks, burgs, backwaters, jerkwaters, the wide-spots-in-the road, the don’t-blink-or-you’ll miss-it towns where I am constantly humbled by the kindness shown a stranger. I am reduced to near tears at such gestures. This is the most rewarding experience of travel, encountering the kindness of strangers

Deep in MO

July 14, Marshfield, MO

This is the roller coaster section of the route. West-bounders complained about it during our roadside encounters. Although I haven’t gotten to the Ozarks, I’m enjoying the ups and downs. What drove me nuts in the western sections of the route was the lack of pay-off for my effort. I’d grind up and up a huge hill, mountain or bluff for hours and expect to be rewarded with a great downhill. Not so. I’d top out and the road would simply level out, or maybe go down somewhat but not equal to what I had invested.

Here, there are lots of ups but they are short and there’s always a great roll down. Given the right spacing and decline/incline of the hills you can roll almost to the top of the next hill. Seems very democratic—I put in this much effort to get to the top and I am rewarded with a fine, cooling roll down the other side.

In addition, the scenery is constantly changing, unlike Kansas, Wyoming or eastern Colorado. Plus, there are trees! Ah, brief periods of shade. They were greatly appreciated today when it hit 96 degrees at 2 p.m. and heat index was 104 degrees.

As I sat eating my Subway sandwich in Fair Grove a guy asked if he could sit next to me. He peppered me with the usual questions about where I started, where I’m headed, where I’m from, etc. “I’ve always wanted to do what you’re doing, ever since I was a teenager,” he said. He used to work in a grocery store in Hartville, a town I’ll pass through tomorrow. “Riders would stop all the time to stock up and I talked to them about where they were going, how long it was taking them, why they were doing it. It just sounds like such a great experience,” he said. He left saying it looks like he’ll have to wait until he retires to satisfy his teenage fantasy. I urged him not to wait.

Missouri

July 13, Everton, MO

Crossed into MO early this morning and immediately felt the earth begin to tilt upwards, and then downwards, and then upwards. This will continue until I hit the Virginia Coastal Plain, I am told. Folks going west stop and say, “I can’t wait to get to the flat ahead.” You might not be singing that song when you get to Wyoming, I say to myself.

Ever since crossing the 100th Meridian in Kansas, the demarcation line between the dry West and humid East, a couple of days ago, the humidity has been steadily climbing. Paired with temperatures in the mid 90s, that makes for very uncomfortable riding. By 10 a.m. my shirt is soaked with sweat and I’ve stopped several times to drain a water bottle of Gatorade. One nice thing about MO is that there are towns about every 10-12 miles apart on our route. Couldn’t say that about Kansas, eastern Colorado and most of Wyoming. Having a cool place to slip into and down a chilled bottle of Powerade sure helps. Today I even found cool comfort and refreshment in a farm equipment store.

That was several hours after I stopped for lunch at Cooky’s Café in Golden City. It was pure happenstance that I chose it over two other restaurants in town. The place was jammed. Ordered a BLT with a side of potato salad and lots of iced tea. Then I saw they had 21 different kinds of homemade pies! Had two—blueberry Dutch and pecan chocolate. $1.75 each and superb. Total bill--$8.50. The waitress handed me a spiral-bound notebook and said that since I was a TransAm bicyclist I had to sign their register. Great reading the comments of other riders.

The day before I had a similarly delicious serendipitous lunch experience in St. Paul, KS at the St. Paul Café. I ordered a ham and cheese sandwich with two sides (pickled beets and cottage cheese), iced tea and the last piece of coconut custard pie. “I’m sorry the sandwich is so expensive,” the waitress said as I paid the bill of $6.50. “We (waitresses) don’t think the owner should charge that much for putting a piece of ham on a cheese sandwich.” “Mam, you don’t know how delighted I am to be paying $6.50 for all that I had. Back East $6.50 would have gotten me just a piece of pie,” I said.

Tonight I write in the cool confines of Running Springs Farm, Hunting Preserve & Inn. I’m the only guest. At $20 I’m living in luxury that during the Fall and Winter costs hunters a dear penny. Bill Cork, the owner, admires what we cross-country cyclists are doing so from May until the end of August he turns his inn into a hostel for cyclists. The kitchen is ours and we can use whatever is in the refrigerator or cabinets. The beer is free. “I don’t know how you folks do it,” he said. “I can’t ride my motorcycle more than 200 miles without getting a sore butt.”

California perspective

July 12, Pittsburgh, KS

We were awakened at 4:30 a.m. by the Backwoods roosters. Pets. No hens. Just three randy guys strutting their stuff around the acreage. One red. One white. One black and white. So John and I got an early start. That was good because the temperature and humidity built into the 90s throughout the day.

On Andy’s advice, we ignored the ACA’s route in favor of a shortcut to Pittsburgh. That took us through Fredonia, a typical small Kansas town that has seen much better days but has retained some of its bygone stature in its impressive buildings and homes. As we looked for the downtown, John, a life-long Californian from the San Francisco Bay area, constantly “Ooohed” and “Aaahed” at the homes and buildings. “Some of these are really old and really great looking,” he said. “In California we’d just knock ‘em down or they get knocked down by earthquakes.”

As I rode through Greenbelt my curiosity forced me to find out what kind of seeds the Beachner Seed Company sells. Kentucky 31 tall fescue. They have more than 7 million pounds stored and ready for shipment east. They also handle lespedeza and brome grass seeds, but not at the Greenbelt plant. Area farmers have planted fescue since the 1940s. They harvest the seed heads in early June and then let cattle eat the remaining stalks.

Now where else in your daily lives are you going to learn such valuable cocktail-conversation facts?

At Backwoods

July 11, Backwoods Bait & Tackle, 7 miles south of Toronto, KS

Meet Andy and Andrea Hilyard, owners of Backwoods Bait & Tackle. They possess two of the most generous hearts I know. And they practice a ferocious philosophy of “what goes around, comes around.” I wasn’t in a particularly pleasant mood when they opened their welcoming arms.

My night in Cassoday had been basically a sleepless one. Every 20 minutes a Burlington-Northern train clickity-clacked through town. That might have been bearable, but each train had to cross two roads and the engineers leaned long and hard on their whistles at each. In the morning, the lady at the general store said a man had been killed at one of the crossings 4 months ago so the railroad was being particularly cautious.

Adding to my foul mood was the very high humidity and a temperature in the low 90s. I was forced me to seek relief far from the goal I had set. Looking to buy a cool drink and inquire about camping in the area, I hauled into Backwoods Bait & Tackle, not an establishment I would normally stop at when driving past at 50 m.p.h.

As I approached the store door, Andy, a bearish man, came out of the house next door and welcomed me into the oh so cooling store. I asked about camping and Andy said I could camp free on the grounds. “And the first drink--beer, pop, juice, whatever--is on us,” he said. That’ll change a body’s mood real quick! As I finished showering in the Hilyard’s home, California John showed up. He got the same treatment.

Andy had his first heart attack in 1992 and now has 9 stents in him. He smokes. And he’ll occasionally kick up a glass of pop with a splash of bourbon. Five years ago he bought five acres with a small ramshackle building on it and decided that he was going to open a bait and tackle shop to service the folks who enjoy nearby Lake Toronto State Park.

The reconstruction of the building turned into something of a community barn building. Friends, family and strangers helped with construction. At the grand opening Andy and Andrea offered free food. Some local musicians played. People danced. They had a great time. And they continue to.

Backwoods has become a local gathering place where weekly BBQs, dances and concerts take place. Soon after the building was finished a local man wanted a bigger area for dancing. “He came back the next day and threw $500 on the table and told me to build a proper dance area. So, we did,” said Andy.

He said it was a shame we didn’t arrive the night before because they had cooked free BBQ for everybody and that it was a great party. We climbed into his pickup for a tour of the lake and best places to catch the biggest flathead catfish. The store sported pictures of fishermen struggling to lift 45-pounders for pictures.

By the time we got back to the store Andrea and a friend had grilled some burgers and brauts. “You guys timed it just right. Come on, let’s eat,” said Andrea. As tree frogs began their nightly chorus outside, we sat in coolness next to burbling bait tanks, coolers filled with chilled beer and pop and at a table spread with as many burgers and brauts as we wanted to stuff down.

Serendipity indeed.

Cassoday, KS

July 10, Cassoday, KS

As you can see Cassoday’s 131 citizens are proud of their place in the world. They have a lovely, well-groomed, tree-filled roadside park in which I am camping this evening. I’m here with John Harris who I met in the Hutchinson church hostel. He’s from CA and is going to Yorktown before riding to DC to catch a train home. We leap-frogged each other throughout the day before riding together the last 38 miles.

Not much here but the lady at the gas station/general store made a very good supreme pizza on order from us. While gobbling it down in came Chris, a stick-thin rider from CA who has been chasing John for weeks. “Oh, you’re the one I heard has been chasing me,” said John. While they chatted the two Ohio guys who stayed at the church with us rolled in. The trio decided to try for Eureka, 30+ miles away, before nightfall. John and I headed here to the park.

About 10 miles east of Hutchinson this morning I stopped to help a man untangle a barbed wire fence. Max Liebe said someone had hydroplaned in the recent rains, plowed through his fence and flipped over. The driver wasn’t seriously hurt but Liebe’s fence was destroyed. It fenced his airport. He has built a runway and a hanger for his three airplanes.

He recently retired as manager of production at Hutchinson Salt Company. Hutchinson, which calls itself Salt City, sits atop huge deposits of salt. The mine goes down more than 640 feet. More than 2,000 tons of salt are mined every day to be used for deicing roads, softening water, industrial applications and for cattle feed. According to Liebe putting salt into cattle feed keeps the animals from gorging themselves when they’re in the feed yards.

This is the land of geometry—lines, angles, points, surfaces. Razor-straight roads are intersected every mile at right angles by lesser roads demarcating “sections”, or 640 acres. The plain is flat, the surface uniformly even. To look down upon this land from above is to see a massive sheet of grid paper. Every line intersects at 90 degrees. Nature has no hold here; man has made his very un-natural mark. It is monotony.

July 9, Hutchinson, KS

It “felt” right to stop here. The care attended to my posterior and my rest made for a great ride. But I decided not to push it too far today, so I turned off course 6 miles to spend the night here. Besides, my riding friend Dee called and said I had to stay here.

I’m typing this sitting on furniture in the nursery of the Zion Lutheran Church. Since 1982 the church has made its basement available to bicyclists for free. They provide towels, showers, beds, sheets, pillows, TVs and a kitchen for any cyclist passing through. You pick up a key from the local bike shop. They only ask that you clean up after yourself and that you sign the register. Looking through the register since 2005 I found people from almost every state and Holland, Germany, Sweden, Chile, South Africa, Japan, Korea, Indonesia, Denmark, Wales, Ireland, England, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand.

The register allows riders to pass on information and bits of advice: “If you hate the last 500 feet of high passes let your lover/partner/friend go ahead and surprise you with a cup of coffee on the summit.” Stephen also advises: “Do not use dough balls or chips of beef jerky as fish bait! The fish take offense.”

Josh from Tasmania admits that he is having a “bum problem.” He didn’t mention it to me when we met in Montana about a month ago. I guess that’s because he has a positive outlook on everything he has experienced: “I really enjoyed Eastern Kentucky with its lower socio-economic population and howling mongrel dogs. It was a great experience.”

Stephanie from NY with boyfriend Sebastian offers the following advice: “Do not tie a jacket to the outside of your panniers (saddlebags); it may get caught in your chain and rip off your rear derailleur.” She also tells us “…wash your bike shorts daily...and let them dry in the sun. UV rays will kill any bacteria.”

Nine members of the Fox family from Castroville, CA passed through in August 2008. Eight rode while one drove a support and gear (SAG) van. They made the trip because they felt it would be the last time they could be together for an extended period since the two oldest daughters were going to college in the fall. Mom and dad were also using the experience to re-evaluate their careers. They also wanted to see if they could make it on their limited budget. Their final reason: “Why not?”

“Wish I’d had more mosquito and biting cow-fly repellant for Kansas,” wrote Stephen Tschopp of Switzerland.

This morning I stopped at an observation point in the Quivira National Wildlife Refuge. “Plain Jane” was sitting in her pickup getting ready to go to work down the road. She’s a state-certified feedlot vermin exterminator. She kills rats, mice, flies and mosquitoes that hang around the huge feedlots in this part of Kansas. “You know that yard you passed with the purple sign, Ward’s? They run the cleanest feed yard in the state,” she said even before the question had occurred to me.

She then let me know that feed yards will boost a beef’s weight from approximately 500 pounds to 800 pounds in 90 days. “Hell, they shit 80 pounds a day so they have to take in a lot to put on that weight.” She threw some more cattle facts at me before getting a tad emotional: “I just love coming out here and listening to the birds and seeing the wildlife. It’s so peaceful. You know I came out here when 9/11 occurred. I sure felt secure out here.”

July 6-8, Larned, KS

Rolled in here on the 6th and have taken two days rest partly on a doctor’s order, partly due to my realization that I needed some rest.

The need to see a doctor had been building for about a week as riding became more uncomfortable. Without going into details, I now have salves, ointments, pads, new respect for certain vitamins and minerals needed by skin and a gel cushion for my bike seat. I will get back on the bike tomorrow.

Larned is not bastion of culture or much of anything else except for being a warm and welcoming community. It is disappointing to ride through communities like this and see them just barely hanging on. On the ride from Tribune I passed an abandoned school in Amy. It looked to be in good condition. Across the road was an empty church. A few vacant houses were scattered around. The only sign of life was at the grain elevator.

Long time residents in these communities talk about how vibrant life was in them 30-40 years ago. They eagerly talk about the number of school children, gas stations, the variety of stores, car dealers, etc. that each community had, their voices rising in the excitement in the telling of how it used to be. Then there will be a brief pause before they shift their voices to a more somber, resigned modulation as they describe how the young have sold their inherited property or rented it to local farmers or corporate farms. Newspapers feature articles about counties and school districts that are considering merging because alone they can’t afford to offer adequate services.

This isn’t the stuff of daily TV but if we leave these people, places and events out of the puzzle that is America then we can’t see America.

The Ogallala Aquifer, one of the largest in the world, covers virtually all of Nebraska, and portions of eastern Colorado, western Kansas, and the Oklahoma and Texas Panhandles. As I ride over this huge underground lake, the naturally high desert landscape flourishes with water drawn from the Aquifer by the pivoting sprinklers that look like huge skeletal caterpillars. From 31,000 feet up the watered abundance looks like green and gold poker chips on the roulette table of the Great Plains.

The reality is that in 1950 the Aquifer was just 100 feet below the ground surface, today it’s more than 200 feet below. Natural replenishment is not keeping up with withdrawal for irrigation. In less than 100 years, it is predicted, the Aquifer will be unable to support the current rate of usage. What will be the fate of today’s surviving Great Plains communities?

I don’t remember who said it, but: Man is not superior to nature but a part of an interconnected web of being.

Dighton, KS

The ice cream was great last night. The fireworks didn’t go off as scheduled because the firemen were called to a fire just minutes before the show was to begin at 9 p.m.

Figuring that was that and taking a look at the very threatening sky and 35 m.p.h. winds, I moved my tent from the open park field to the 4-H covered arena. My riding friend Dee decided to stay in the open. Just as I dozed off the firemen returned and lit off the show. It was short and I settled back down. That seemed to be a signal for every Tribune citizen to come to the park and set off their own stash of fireworks. The noise was unbelievable. Just as one group exhausted its supply, another one would arrive and it would begin again. Finally, about midnight everyone seemed to have satiated their explosive needs and quiet returned to the park. But not for long. A massive thunderstorm rolled over the area. Rain fell in torrents and then relented. And then lashed the city. And then let up. And then fell so hard I thought it was hail. On-off, on-off it went for nearly two hours until it just rained.

Dee survived but his tent was sopping this morning. I was dry. Neither of us had a good night’s sleep.

With the rain driving up the moisture content of the wheat very little harvesting was done today. The moisture content has to be 12 percent or below or the wheat will rot in storage. That made the ride here a little more enjoyable—fewer grain trucks on the road to set me a-jumble when their air wash hits me like a closed door.

Adding to my Kansas experience were two acts of kindness today. The first occurred in Scott City where I stopped for lunch. But first I looked for an optometrist to fix my broken reading glasses. Being July Fourth Monday I didn’t have much hope of finding an optometrist open but I did. She was a delightful person who made the repair, didn’t want money and recommended a good restaurant. Shortly before arriving here I drove my bike and trailer into the mud. I limped into town looking for a car wash. As I walked in two young men were finishing the cleaning of a pickup and trailer. They asked questions; I answered. As they left they said, “There’s four quarters on the machine so you can clean your bike.”

Hey Toto, we’re in Kansas.

Tribune, KS

The trucks stopped rumbling into the weigh station about 10:15 p.m. Sleep came on quickly after that.

When I awoke the winds were out of the east, the direction I’m headed, at 20-25 m.p.h. The hated headwinds. Given the other two favorable factors, overcast skies and a cool temperature, I decided to plow through to Tribune, 58 miles east. I got here hoping to find a motel room but since harvesting is in full swing the inn is full. I’m camping in the city park but it’s next to the city swimming pool which has free admission this festive day. A lovely, cooling swim. It also has a warm shower. Tonight I will have a prime seat for the city’s fireworks, according to the sheriff’s dispatcher, and if I want I can get free ice cream at the football field at 8 p.m.

This landscape is stunning in its simplicity…it simply stretches to the horizon, a treeless vastness filled with wheat, poor pasture land or corn that’s knee-high. College lectures in Art Appreciation 101 about perspective came to mind as I looked down the straight ribbon of road in front of me. Towner, my next destination at one point, lay 12 miles ahead according to my map. Not only could I see its grain silos but also some of the houses and stores. From 12 miles away!! That’s how flat this land is.

Passing a grain silo in Brandon, I stopped and talked to Mary Jo Tallman who measures the moisture content and weight of the wheat being hauled onto the scales by trucks loaded with between 1,000 and 1,200 bushels. Unlike many of the other storage facilities around here, the Tallmans own their own weighing station and silos. They farm 35,000 acres. They contract the harvesting and store the wheat until the per-bushel price reaches a price they want, if it ever does. 2010 is proving to be a “very, very good year” for wheat. All silos are filled and wheat is now being piled on the ground in mounds the size of two story-high football fields. The mounds are then covered with massive tarps. While I was eating breakfast this morning in a gas station convenience store, one farmer said to another, “All my life we haven’t been able to get the wheat prices up high when we have a lot of it.” He wanted the price up near $6 a bushel. It’s hovering around $3.70. It costs a farmer about 4 cents per month to store a bushel of wheat. “That’s where it gets tricky,” said another farmer. “You hold on too long hoping the price goes up and it doesn’t, you’ve lost any profit just by paying monthly storage costs.”

Eads, CO

I make rules and break rules.


I’m camped here in the Eads City Park. It’s free but the restrooms are a football field away and I’ve been told by locals not to drink the water that’s available here. So, I washed down as best I could amidst the more than a dozen other riders who are camped here. They’re on a cross-country ride for MS. Up the street in a motel is a 14-person tour from the Adventure Cycling Association. Both groups are westward bound. I turn my nose up at them! They are supported by vans and just have to ride their bikes, not haul all of their equipment. Sissies!


The only problem with our site is that it is next to the town’s grain weighing station and grain silo. This is harvest season for winter wheat. Huge trucks rumble through the station every few minutes kicking up clouds of dust. I asked the weighing agents how late trucks will roll and was told they “might” stop about 11 p.m. Coming into town machines were chewing through to-the-horizon fields, each machine enveloped in its own golden cloud of thrashing dust. When their bellies were full they’d drive over to a field-side semi and regurgitate their recent consumption.


I pulled in here about 4 p.m. Yes, yesterday I said I would not ride past 1 p.m. Ah, but when I left Pueblo this morning there was a slight tailwind, the skies were cloudy, the temperature moderate and the route as flat as the desk on which your computer sits. I reached my initial destination, Sugar City, before noon. It turned into a 114-mile day but I wanted to take advantage of the good conditions that may not occur again.


This seems to be correction country. Today I passed two correctional facilities, one for the county, the other for the state. Very impressive structures. On the way to Pueblo I passed the Federal maximum security facility in Florence. It’s considered the most secure correctional institution in the country. Part of it is buried underground. It holds the baddest of the bad.


Mid morning I stopped at the Boone hardware/grocery/post office for some chocolate milk and a pack of nabs. I was quizzed by a trio of coffee-drinking geezers about my start and end points, why I was doing it, how long it was going to take, etc. After I explained things one of them said, “You’re about the biggest fool I know of. That woman of yours who dropped you off and drove back home is the smart one. And if she has any sense at all she’ll find her a smarter man than you and leave your butt in Virginia Beach.”


The rest of the day was spent pondering the fate of the automobile industry as I rode along side hundreds of empty rail cars designed to haul cars. The side-lined cars stretched for more than 30 miles on rusting rails.