Pressing Matters. . .and Flowers

From Pittsburgh, I made the last leg of my journey through Kansas, which was only six miles, and made the other leg of twenty four miles through Missouri to meet Tim. The wind was doing its own thing in Missouri compared to a constant head wind in Kansas. I couldn't figure out where it wanted me to go but was thankful for those small bouts of encouragement when it was at my back. Added to that was the desire to reach Golden City, my last stop heading east and then it was all south from there.
On my way, I hit a couple of rainstorms that weren't torrential but were a torment when it came to my comfort on the road and the leisure I took to get where I needed to go. I took a small refuge in a small church to await the passing of the side-winding rain. As I made my way closer, I passed a few cyclists wearing the same jerseys and we did the usual wave-hi-how-are-you. A mile down, I passed more cyclists wearing the same jerseys as the group before. We waved. A mile or two further on down, I passed another group adorned with the same jerseys. At this point, I started to get the idea that all of these people were together and tried to ask who they were but they took my hollering and asking to my hollering hello as though I were hard of hearing and I needed to yell my "hellos" to everyone at the top of my lungs as though a train were passing. . .as though as though. One of the earlier guys I waved to yelled back at me "Kookie's Kitchen has excellent pies!" and he was gone. That made me think about the idea of passing cyclists while on tour across the country. Aside from the status quo of passing them and just waving and saying "Have a good ride", what would you yell if you wanted to tell them one quick, important thing about one of the town's they were coming up on that you'd already experienced and might be able to give a good tip about? And I guess telling a fellow cyclist about where to find good pie would fall in that category and I must say that he was right.
I made it to Golden City and found Kookie's Kitchen where I had told Tim and his wife to meet me seeing that the Kitchen had good pie. I entered into the diner and looked around, calling Tim and trying to figure out if he made it before me or not. It was hard to tell because the place was such a hustle of bustling people in such a narrow space that I really couldn’t find my bearings. All of a sudden, a young man who looked like he just stepped out a desert, showered, and put on a smile approached me and stuck his hand out. It was him. . .Tim.
After telling me I looked a bit crazed and that the road hadn’t done me well(always a good friend), we started in on talking about my trip thus far and what we were expecting on the road ahead. We had a few good laughs and went out to his car to retrieve his bicycle and baggage from the car. He was half-bit prepared without sunscreen and no helmet. I laid my face in my hands, trying to understand his reasoning behind no helmet and other small detail-ish things and settled on him not remembering which was reasonable enough knowing who I was dealing with. He bid his love a lovely day and we started off toward Arkansas, going the wrong way for about ten feet and then turning around to get our heads on straight in order to straighten out our route.
We had a heavy head wind going south and were exhausted by the time we made it around fifteen miles or so. We made our first pit stop in a cemetery, ready and willing to let anyone who found me to just bury me right there and then. We continued on and being that I had started collecting local floral from Kansas, I figured it reasonable to keep on gathering ye’ flowers in Missouri, so I was always on the lookout for something new. Passing some purple something at one point here and there, I finally pulled over and rummaged for my journal where I was keeping these samples. While I was digging through my bags, digging because I could never remember where I put anything in eighty pounds worth of luggage, two motorcyclists were riding by and slowed to see if we needed any help. Say what you will about how most of those bikers look, some almost as worse as we looked, but they are some of the friendliest blokes on the road. There’s not a particular common bond found between cyclists and bikers, but there is a comradery between us in that we’re both traveling on two wheels? Either way, I thanked them for the offer but we were alright. And as they rode off, I thought of what we were doing, and turned to yell back as they drove off, “We’re just pressing flowers!” I yelled to the point where I knew they wouldn’t hear me so as not to embarrass Tim; but it was a funny thought and I took advantage in being vocal about it. It was his turn to lay his face in his hands. At this point, I knew I had the right person on the road with me. We were a pair and three’s company.
We made it to Reed and found where our flat roads met an end and started on our first uphill battle. It wasn’t big, but it was my first one on the journey and would be a precursor to what was to come. We trudged up, the whole time me huffing, puffing, and cussing Tim for dragging me into this mess(even though I was the one who convinced him to meet me; it was just nice to find someone else to blame for what I was putting myself through rather than myself). I introduced him to the world of asking strangers on the side of the road about the surrounding towns and where a good place to stay would be. We found Sarcoxie per a Reed-ian and discovered Casey’s Grocery and fell in love with the most convenience I had found and both of us would find on the trip until we would hit Russellville, AR. They had subs, coffee, fruit, and so much more. We purchased what seemed to be a rag-tag dinner and sat, well, more slid, against the wall of the building and began to eat when one of the ladies who worked inside asked if we wanted to sit inside in the back. We agreed and she grabbed two milk crates and went on to explain that she did this for her kids all the time and set the crates in the back of the store(not in a separate room, but in the store itself) and we had dinner in the middle of the small convenient store and laughed at the thought that we looked homely enough for a woman’s motherly instincts to kick in and offer us comfort.
After we finished, we set up tent behind a church across the street and just around the corner from our next route change. It was nice to have someone to talk to and aid in the speed of my setting up camp. We talked until the fireflies signaled the getting late of the evening and we retired in southern Missouri to the pressing matters of an exciting venture that awaited us for the next four days.

Of Getting Back to Reality

I stayed a Schmidt for one more night for no other reason than they asked, I said "Sure", and it's fun being a Schmidt. I worked at the pool the next day selling concessions to better pay my dues to such hospitality. I played shoot 'em up video games with Chuck, who kicked my butt at every corner due to the fact that I'm completely in the dark when it comes to anything that has to do with a console; especially if it doesn't have a N64 or Original Nintendo stamped on the face. While playing, Chuck asked me if I would be staying another night. I thought to myself, If only I could. . .but I knew if I did, I definitely would never want to leave. I told him my legs were getting restless and I had to be on my way, quoting Good Will Hunting, "I've got to see about a girl." We had a good laugh and I retired to bed.
The next day, I did my bidding of farewells to the family, making one last trip to the pool so I could see off the rest of the worker-bee family. I rode off into another scorching day with a clean jersey stained with miles and a couple of dryer sheets in my bags to keep the upcoming days smelling fresh enough to fool myself.
From here, I had plans on meeting up with an old college mate of mine in Golden City, Missouri. Tim Walton is a married man who convinced his wife that he was stupid enough to join me on a trek from Missouri back to Russellville, Arkansas; and he is. I rode from Eureka through a few more small ghost towns hosting nothing but one road and a few condemned buildings supported by walls that could only talk of the good ole' days when they were able to support conversations about the future that would never be. One town had a neighborhood watch that I could only fathom that the only thing they had to watch was the wind; but, who am I to say they didn't have troubles in such a small town. . .such as wolves stealing babies as such.
I made it to Chanute, KS and found that there wasn't a whole lot going on and I just found the closest(only) camping ground and pitched tent. I showered in the public bathroom as I had been in most of the parks and camp sites on my trip and read the usual graffiti splayed on the walls of the shower and made me really nervous about showering in a place where men felt sure enough to sketch their sketchy thoughts about such things I'd rather not draw out in detail so as to believe that these thoughts were jokes and not a reality hoping to be played out on some out-of-state traveler who had no other choice but to use their facilities. . .After a restful night. . .I bolted from the town and made pretty good timing to Pittsburgh, a town of over 10,000. Just outside of the town, I took a pit-stop in front of a chicken farm on a rural road and got the biggest kick out of chasing chickens in my cleats, trying to capture them on camera to document the countless number of chickens, ducks, and roosters clucking around the grounds. If it weren't so far away, I would like to have taken a picture of this one creature that I can only explain as having the body of a chicken, the neck of a goose, and the face of a sunflower. I had a good laugh, not at its expense, but to myself in feeling bad for such a creature caged with a bunch of normal looking animals.
I found the local park in Pittsburgh which was big enough to have a permanent little amusement park for kids that had a train that ran through the entirety of the park, including past me pitching my tent in my spandex where I imagined if the conductor, hunched up in a ball in the engine car that was as big as a three wheeler you had when you were a child, were pointing out all the spots in the park, he would say, "And there's a man in tights setting up a tent in the middle of our city park. Just wave and maybe he'll go away," to which they all would wave with blank stares on their face and I would just smile and keep on trucking with my cooking and camping as though I were in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere. It was a fun little thought and I couldn't wait to get through the night so I would be able to ride out in the morning and meet with Tim so I could have another person with me to talk to besides me and the cows.

Of Hospitality and Family

When I awoke early the next morning, I started getting everything together in a very slow and lethargic manner, feeling very grimy and dirty as I was still wearing my jersey and covered in the filth of a seventy mile ride from the day before. After getting everything together, the same lady from the night before pulled beside me and told me that if I wanted to use the facilities of the pool to take a shower seeing that they were giving lessons and the showers were open. I thanked her and asked if there was a Becky that worked at the pool because the Scotsman that I bunked with at the Tribune city park told me to stop in Eureka and ask for Becky. The lady answered that she was Becky and I told her that the Scotsman said "Hi" and that he was doing good and still traveling well. She was happy to hear and she told me that she does offer her house up to cyclists and that if I wanted, I could go there and chill for the day or if I wanted to stay the night, I could do that as well. I thanked her and rolled my bike over to the pool and took my shower, feeling more refreshed than a morning flower dabbled with dew facing a rising sun. I breathed in a fresh start and decided that I might need to use Becky's laundry and waited for her to return by reading some of my book.
When she came back, I waited a bit and when I stood up, a young girl stepped out with her hand held out, introducing herself as Betsy, Becky's daughter, asking me if I was going to stay with them for the night. I spoke with her mother about laundry and agreed upon a place to sleep inside for the night. I followed her to her house to which she gave me a grand tour and said some quotable things that I really enjoyed hearing:
"This is my home. I don't do anything special for you guys. It is what it is. I just ask that you make yourself at home."
I enjoyed hearing some directness from another human being tinged with respect to the fact that I'm a simple man with simple pleasures in life. I feel as though she understood the cycling culture due to the fact that she's housed so many of them and she knew that it didn't take much to make us feel comfortable. After the tour and the pointing out of the washer/dryer, I came to the conclusion that she wasn't just offering up her house to me; she was making me apart of that house for however many few days I felt like I needed to gather myself. She needs to have clones of her and her family scattered along this route, especially in the desert where a cyclist longs for warm people such as herself.
She told me she would be in and out, as would her five kids, and I should make myself at home in every respect. When she left, I started my laundry and looked into the sink and found a perfect way to make myself feel at home and show my appreciation at the same time. I did the dishes while I waited for my clothes to wash and dry. Throughout the day, which I spent reading and writing a bit, I was slowly introduced to her kids one at a time. Betsy, I had met at the pool. Brooke came in behind Betsy. Later, the only boy, Chuck,  who I had to give props to for coming out as head strong as he has living with five other women. Bailey came third. And Becky, the last daughter, was the last to officially meet. Each of them, separately, were just as kind as their mother. And as the afternoon wore on, and the pool began to close, they all started to gather together as a family, and when that happened, the music started playing and they began their circus dance of raucousness and horseplay. I thought to myself, as I sat there and answered all of their questions and inquiries and watched as they flung themselves here and there, how entertaining. But I tagged right along with their silliness very slyly and tried to fit right in, making smart remarks and throwing the jokes in with the best of the mixes and muddles. We had dinner and they started talking about other cyclists they'd put up and the different type of people they'd met; I won't go into detail as I don't want to ruin your stay when you find your way coming through Eureka and in the depths of the kindness of these wild hearts. Then, the subject of puppy chow came up and when I had related to them that I'd never had the snack, all of them held their hands to their mouths in different fashions as to show the different ways one can be surprised and made references to the rock I had lived under and how much my life wasn't complete!
So, with the plans of making puppy chow that night, I accompanied Brooke to the pool where we got the vacuum ready. When they had planned on going to the pool for the weekly cleaning, I don't think they expected me to jump at the chance, but I hadn't had a pool in eight to nine years and hadn't vacuumed one in the same time, if not longer. It's not that I enjoyed doing it when I had it, but if I could indulge myself just once without having to do it all summer, I would tag along and indulge myself as such.
The rest of the family met up poolside and Chuck and a few others dove in to enjoy the empty water. They had an exciting challenge in trying to drag Brooke into the pool and I almost flung her in myself just to sate the anticipation of seeing her hit that water. They say that Chuck is a state champion wrestler and after seeing him tackle and mangle with Brooke, I could see where he acquired the strength and practice to become such a talented tosser. I helped finish up the pool and felt very accomplished in cleaning a pool after so long and still being able to do a decent job. We packed everything and headed back home. When I got there, Bailey and her friend decided to drag me out to get a watermelon. We got the watermelon seeded with good laughs and silly jokes popping in and out of the car.
When I entered the house, I found puppy chow being churned about in a big bowl and dove right in to the addicting food. It was as good as they had explained and I took half a cup and realized that any more would make me explode rich goodness all over the place. So, I settled myself on that and talked a bit more with Becky, the mom, before she was suddenly called to her motherly duties once again. So, left alone in the living area with everyone else in their respected rooms, I sat at their grand piano and messed around for a while, letting my fingers become acquainted with the keys and the familiar touch of ivory and my ears to the once-upon-a-time chimes of the keys on string and the chords that rung out, taking me back to the upright back at home. I hadn't played in ages and was glad to be in front of the black and white buttons that would set off an explosion of harmony that made me smile so, reflecting my teeth back at the white keys in front of me.
When she returned, Becky set my place on the couch and as I was very grateful, we bid each other "Goodnight" and I fell asleep with the thoughts of being a part of a strange family that day and living in a home after being on the road for eleven days. And it's not that eleven days is a long time, but to have the comfort of a home and family reminded me that I couldn't wait to get to mine so that I may wake up every morning close to a familiarity that warms one to the bone. So, I must make a public appreciation to the Schmidt family for making me one of their own for one night. Today, the morning after, I leave a McDonald and look forward to being closer to the friends and family that make me so.

Music That Makes the Wheels Turn 'Round

This will be a short post. I just wanted to take some time to explain how I've gotten through a lot of these headwinds and difficulties I might have run into during my travels. Music. For those of you who don't know me very well, I like, nay, love music. It's sort of the grease and oil in my own internal gears that spin and move the thoughts and things in my mind. It's become a half influence in my life and here is a list of some of the artists that have influence the miles and actions I've taken in these past twelve days: O Brother Where Art Thou? Soundtrack, The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Bernard Fleischmann, The Blind Boys of Alabama, Blind Melon, Blind Pilot, Bob Dylan, Bon Iver, Buena Vista Social Club, Cake, Clap Your Hands Say Yea, Damien Rice, One Hall & Oats song, The Daylights, Deer Tick, the one-hit wonder of Dexy's Midnight Runners, Edith Piaf, Explosions in the Sky, Frightened Rabbit, Green Day's album Nimrod, accidentally played Harold Melvin & the Bluenotes' If you don't know me by now, The Helio Sequence, Glen Hansard, J. Roddy Walston and the Business, John Hartford, Louis Prima, Moby, Modest Mouse, Old Crow Medicine Show, Orchestre Baka de Gbine, Paul McCartney & the Wings, Pela, Pink Floyd, Pixies, Radiohead, Roger Miller, The Rolling Stones, The Rat Pack/variations of its members, Sly & the Family Stone, The Temper Trap, The Twilight Sad, Waldeck, The Walkmen, We Were Promised Jetpacks, Wilco, Wolf Parade, Delta Spirit, Yo-Yo Ma Plays Ennio Morricone, and the thoughts in my head that ran rampant from one place to another like a rabbit dodging cars.
I know that it might seem like a lot but you have to spread these bands and songs out in a twelve day period where some days I didn't listen or some I only listened to a bit and some I did nothing but listen. My favorite songs are the ones in the mixes I've made especially for being on the bike and they've proved to be the most mind easing and helpful. Please let me know of any other music that I might enjoy listening to on the road and you will have a special place in my heart. There's only so much room. So act fast. Kidding. There's no room. Kidding. There's a whole lot of room because no one's there. Kidding. My heart's beating so fast on this trip that I can't keep any body still in there.

This post is dedicated to Eric Brumley. Music is the minute hand that makes the hour grow faster.

Shaking My Tail in the Tailwind

After a wonderful experience in Newton, I headed out and when I first turned on the road that would take me east, all the way to Cassody, I found a most glorious discovery: overnight, the wind had shifted and was coming out of the west and blowing hard east! I was fired up in all regards and decided that I would make the most of this day and go as far as my will would take me; and in this wind, my will was just as happy and strong as my legs. I started to go and the more I rode, the better I felt. I had my music playing and I was dancing in the saddle. Kansas may have been kicking me in the face throughout the past five days, but it was my turn and I was kicking it in its paved butt, tearing apart the tar with rapid gusts of pedal strokes. I was smiling the whole way and just taking in all the beauty. Kansas, in being barren, can get pretty tiring if one is having to go against the wind and struggle to make it across the state; however, when the wind is at your back and it's nothing but a breeze to get where you're going, the scenery turns beautiful with the white-as-angel clouds strutting across the blue-as-ocean sky like thousands of heavenly spaceships slowly drifting through. And I couldn't have picked a better day to find the rolling hills of eastern Kansas than a day where the wind had a hand on my back to aid in my ascents. The grass was kind of green that whoever invented the word green must have looked upon to come up with the word 'green'; and that green rolled this way and that forever and ever and the whole of the countryside looked as though it had just jumped right out of a photograph and into the world.
I made it to Cassody in no time at all and blinked my eyes and all of a sudden I was headed south toward Rosalia. I braved the crosswind, not letting my spirits get carried away in any sort of side manner. I made it to Rosalia with a few more cyclist meet-and-greets tucked away in my fanny pack. I stopped in and ate at the Old Hat Cafe where I was told my more than a couple of people that they cooked the best burgers in the state and the lady there was as sweet as could be, talking about how she raised her own cattle and cut her own meat. The burgers had no preservatives in them and they were 100% natural beef. I have to admit that the burger was very good but I didn’t get to enjoy the company of the sweet lady and got to talk with Cowboy Jim about politics and raising cattle and cutting the hooves on goats and teaching his kid how to play sports(“sports that most city boys don‘t get to play, like football and baseball“) I didn‘t understand that logic but went along listening being that I didn‘t have much of an option. He was a fun guy who had a zest for life and really had a good head on his shoulders when it came to family and the more important things; I could have done without the politics, but I still got a kick out of his kicks.
I made it to Highway 54 and hopped on the wind wagon heading east and found where the elevation dropped tremendously. I coasted for a total of six miles on three to four different hills that had me hollerin’ out to the world like some cowboy whose horse was buckin’ and broncin’ in a fit and frenzy.
I pulled into Eureka and found the city park where I set up camp. A lady pulled up and told me if I had been a bit earlier, I could have taken a dip in the pool. I was set up by that point and too tired to worry too much and thanked her anyway. Without the provisions of the pool, I laid down in my tent in my own filth . I didn't put up the rain flap seeing that the sky was clear and I read some of my book before staring at the sky. Aside from the stars, the fireflies were blinking on and off like a silent chorus, playing a song in their flashes, putting me to sleep with a concert of crickets humming in the background.

This post is dedicated to Old Chicago Restaurant in Conway, AR and my friends within

Kansas' Kitchen a la Karen

I left Hesston and found that I would have been better off just riding into Newton the night before. Apparently, there had been a few storms that had been going through Kansas and what they left behind was a thirty mile per hour wind going north. I was heading, like I said, south to Newton. Those nine miles took forever. I figured I was going about two to four mph and, really, before I knew it, I was heading east three miles to Newton, dealing with the crosswind. Either way, I finally made it into Newton and stopped at the Sonic where a slush sounded amazing. I sat a bit and pondered on what I wanted to do. I was either going to go the rest of the way into Cassody or stay in Newton and take a day off from riding. A day off sounded pleasant and I soon found that my decision was well worth it.
I made it down Main  Street and entered into a quaint little downtown area with shops and things for me to keep myself busy until I decided upon a place to stay. I found an old book shop and browsed around there for about thirty minutes or so, finding a couple of books of poetry and Charles Dickens' Hard Times. I didn't pick it out for the reason that you might be thinking. I definitely have gone through some difficult times, but I wouldn't categorize them as hard. I've had too much fun for this adventure to be labeled as hard. I would rather say that it's been exciting with a hint of danger.
Anyways, I left the store and just a couple of businesses down, there was a little cafe: Karen's Kitchen. I didn't know what to make of it at first. It had the look of a bakery and a coffee shop and when I found Karen at the register taking my order, she explained what the place was and it pretty much was a coffee shop and diner where they made their own bread(so, sort of a bakery). With my intuition working on a good level, I had a nice afternoon sitting in the coffee shop and talking with Karen about this and that, more of this and a little of that. The inside was a nice little mix of feelings and nuances. In the sitting area, pictures and paintings from local artists looked over with deep emotion at those who might be having a quiet conversation. Across from there, an antique piano stood upright, surround by a couple of high top tables, the scene very nostalgic and welcoming for musicians who might play every once-and-a-while in the eatery. Only having been there for a year, their local accumulation was already booming, evident in the pictures of friends and acquaintances that were pinned in the middle of the Kitchen. I had a good feeling about the place and the feeling stayed with me during and long after I left. "Big enough for a good time Small enough for good friends." I couldn't have said it better myself.
With good food and a heaping of pleasing coffee rumbling around in my belly, I walked around the area for a bit, getting cash out for my books and stopping in a shop called Ten Thousand Villages. Come to find out, there were around one hundred of these shops around the country, including one in Little Rock. The premise was, or what Denise told me, that poor artisans from third-world countries made particular items and this company sold those items in these shops and the full price of the object went to that particular artisan who made it. The Mennonites were a big part of the organization in that a lot of the Mennonite women worked in these countries with these artisans, sort of a connection to the United States. There were all kinds of crafts including instruments, jewelry, cards, and other interesting doo-dads. I purchased a card for Bangladesh and made my way out of the store feeling pretty good about how the day was turning out: getting a few books, getting localized in the coffee shop environment, and helping others around the world. You stop me from cycling and I'll show you what I can do.
I went back to the Book Reviews, the name of the store, and purchased my books. From the assistance of Karen and her kitchen, I found the local park where I would camp out for the night. The Athletic Park of Newton was huge. I'd say there were three playgrounds for kids, a municipal pool, a good one hundred picnic tables, a tennis court, a baseball field, and a statue of, what I think was the Mennonite founder. I set up camp next to the statue and took a shower in the pool's shower room. Clean and refreshed from a hard day of R&R, I pulled out my newly purchased book, Hard Times, and began to read for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Later into the night, I took a walk around the place where the hooligans(teenagers)of the area were starting to crawl out of their teeny hidey holes to jolly about the place, throwing a surprising number of cuss words that slid down the kiddy slide and rocked back and forth on the swing set, staining the playtime equipment for all the little kids to enjoy the next day. Dodging the language and the nonsensical shouting, I tried not to remember that I might have(or was)like that once before.  An interesting little bit was going on in front of what looked like the public school; it was some sort of rehearsal for a play or dance. What had caught my attention in the first place was what sounded like a classical piece playing on a radio fronted by a French or German woman singing, in her respective language, a beautiful song that had to be about love, because, let's face it, when we hear a foreign singer singing, we automatically think they're singing about love; I jump to that. The kids were placed in their respected spots and the boys were twirling girls around with one lone girl kneeling down in the middle of them all and a young boy behind her. He moved around her and picked her up as though her character where hurt and alone and he was her rescuing prince. All of this was being played out at a distance from me and was in the foreground of a dark, gray sky stricken with bouts of lightening. I don't know why, but the scene was really beautiful and I stored it in my memory for years to come. I made my way back to camp through the slow flicker of fireflies that lighted my way. I crawled in and read a bit more of the book and fell asleep to the rain falling on the tarp stretched tight over my tent, playing a trickling beat to my slumber.
I woke up this morning and made my cup of Piñon coffee and packed everything up. I'm prepping myself at Karen's this morning before I head out and would like to say that I'm almost tempted to stay another night, but I'm afraid I might find myself stuck here. It's a nice town and I will definitely find myself back in the bowls of the Kitchen a la Karen.
Until next time.

This post is dedicated to Bill and his family.

Yoo Hoo Moo

I made the rest of my way to the first town that presented itself to me in Kansas: Tribune. As I rode through the level ground, I crossed the time zone and before I did, I stopped and looked on into the future, into tomorrow, wondering what crazy adventures it had in store for me. I crossed over and stopped once more. I looked behind me into a land of yesterday, where there was a me an hour before crossing the desert from Colorado Springs and exploring abandoned houses. I could see a me gasping for water, smacking his dry lips where the sand had settled in its cracks. I felt bad for the me that was going to have to go through those tribulations, but I will say, I wouldn’t go back to warn myself for anything in the world. I was glad to be out of yesterday and into a new day.
Coming into town, I spotted the RV of my Canadian mates and waved my last wave that I would wave to the traveling troupe. I asked directions to the local park where I knew I would be able to set up camp as the map so informed.
I made it to the park and searched for a good fifteen to twenty minutes for the gazebo in front of the municipal swimming pool(as every town with a population over 1,000 seems to have). After meandering around like a lost child, I found that I had passed it when I first entered and that there was a cyclist already sitting there. Both of us were a bit confounded on how we didn’t see each other when I rode into the park and we had a good laugh. The gentleman was traveling by himself and was, like most, heading west; though, I feel like he might be alone on his reasoning. He is initially from Scotland and dragged his words and phrases with a slightly thick accent that I hung onto with every ounce of my hearing. He had left Washington D.C. and was going to Australia to see his wife who was studying there. He had already gone across America once on bike and was a professional Tri-athlete and all of this at the age of seventy three. We had a good long talk about bicycles and bicycling in Great Britain of which I had stirred up and was keenly intrigued upon knowing. The park was definitely at full capacity that evening: kids in and out of the pool and softball games being played into the late hours of the night, the low, mumbling of the announcer rattling out the stats on bases and players up to bat and standing on the pitcher’s mound. I finished my dinner with the show going on around me and found that my neighbor didn’t drink coffee and always woke up at six in the morning to leave, neither of these things giving me the chance to make coffee for the two of us in the morning; but, mainly because I was still young and spry and not daft enough to get up that early while traveling across America even though I have found myself up around six thirty or seven a couple times already. We bid each other good night and retired to our respected tents set up under the pavilion that we shared.
I awoke late in the morning to find he had cleared out and I did the same. I stopped at the mom n’ pop diner where I had a good breakfast to get me to my next town, Scott City. The lady there was fun to talk to and had me sign the cycling log. She told me that I “was stupid. You’re traveling by yourself. You need to be careful.” And in my defense, I told her that “I couldn’t find anybody stupid enough to go with me.” We had a good laugh.
I left Tribune behind me and found that the winds had picked up and I found myself trudging along with more effort. There is something to be said about Kansas. The state surely does have a lot of cows roaming it’s flat fields; moreover, I must say that they are a curious bunch of creatures, these cows. Now, when I pass these cows, and I know that everyone has done this at least once(and if you haven’t, you’re either lying or I’m still holding a child within me somewhere): I go by a cow, or group of cows in the case of Kansas, and give out a long Moooooo! Half the time I don’t, but the reaction, either way, is always the same when I pass by. One cow looks up and, one by one, the others raise their heads from their chewing and grazing to watch me pass by. And as I go on further, I look back and there’s always that one that’s still looking on. So, I have to think to myself how it must be going on in their head. First, in the case of me not mooing and just riding by, the one will look up and say to the others, “Hey, Gloria, take a look at this. What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know,” says Gloria. “Hey, George, what do you think?”
George looks up, “Not sure.”
And so on and so on, some cows keeping their heads down saying, “Just don’t look at it. It’ll probably just start mooing if you do.”
Second, in the case of me letting out a mooing sound as I pass by, most all the cows look up at once and I like to think that they’re thinking, Hey, there’s a cow riding that bicycle. How can he afford that?
These are the things that are going through my head as I pass any livestock of cow or horse(or llama) and you have to give me that there’s not much else to do out on the road when you’re cycling except watch the lines on the road go by and think a lot about a lot of things; so, you have to resort to talking with the cows, even though their conversation-keeping skills are about as good as llamas, it’s still something fun to do and keep yourself occupied, helping the time along nicely.
Being that there are a lot of cows in Kansas, most have to be driven to some place or another at some time or another. And when you’re cycling and that cow truck goes by you and you’re unfortunate to have the wind in your face, a thick, moist smell of cow manure wafts in the breeze and makes itself at home in your nostrils, creating a crappy filter for any other smell that might want to investigate your sense of smell. It’s a bit difficult to deal with at first but you get used to it after a while and accept it as part of that natural smell that comes with cycling and it becomes almost. . .floral.
I made it about forty or so miles from Tribune and was getting close to Scott City when the exhaustion started settling in hard on my mind and body. I was five miles away and was slowly just giving up as the wind was unrelenting and intent on making my ride miserable. At this point, a strange thing happened. I started talking to myself out loud. Now, this isn’t the regular conversational talking that I’ve done before just to pass the time and have someone to talk to. Don’t think of me as crazy or anything, it’s just that I think a part of me found that I was giving up and it came out to urge me on. I have to say that when it comes to motivation, I do a pretty good job in pushing myself to do something. If I had to say that there was another side to me, I would say that it was extremely optimistic, even more so than I might be on a regular basis. It’s comforting to know that there’s a part of me, when push comes to shove, that will get me to where I need to go. Send in the troops! I’ll send them in to battle!
Needless to say, the last three miles were the hardest I’ve ridden since the beginning and I finally made it into Scott City. I found a fellow cyclist, or he found me, at an intersection and told me to follow him to the Athletic Center where he and two others were staying the night. I paid my twelve dollars that would get me a roof over my head and a shower to get myself clean. I had dinner with the two that had met each other halfway going west and had a few good laughs over a few good stories that we swapped. We were all bunked in the locker room with our sleeping bags and I actually woke up around six o’clock in the morning with the rest of them and we all packed up. The two I had dinner with left together and I told them to enjoy that tail wind they’d been enjoying at my expense and I headed to the diner with the other fellow to have breakfast, getting to know more about him and we gave each other the heads up on certain towns the other would hit along the route. I thought how funny it was that each of us were excited about getting to the next town but in light of meeting someone going the opposite direction, dreaded the idea of the other having to go through a town he’d already been through. Just a funny thought. I’m just full of ‘em.
I made my way to Ness City where I battled a heavy headwind tinted with a slight crosswind. I found a gentleman outside of Leoti who was dealing with a flat and no pump. When he found out that I was a mechanic, he was much relieved in me showing him how to change a flat and he was very grateful and we agreed that God must have put us in the right place at the right time. He was training for Hotter Than Hell 100 and I can only wish him luck and pray that he trains well.
With that, I made it to Ness City and not much else can be said because like they say, whoever they might be, “the rest is written.”

This post is dedicated to a dear friend of mine. A Yoo Hoo.