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.