Day 34 – St Clairsville to Grantsville – Cycling US40
118 miles, 13:05 elapsed time, 9.5 hours pedaling, 11,400 ft elevation gain, 8400 calories burned
The pre-dawn morning air chills us, up high on a hill overlooking the area surrounding St Clairsville, mounting up for another day in the saddle. The coming sunrise spills warm orange and rich reds across the sky. The view across the hilltops is breathtaking, and we take a few pictures, knowing full well these aren’t the kind of shots that translate into anything other than “ho-hum†if you’re not standing there.
With this chilly air, I’d love to have bit of climbing to warm my joints and muscles as a beginning to the day. However, as soon as we leave town, we begin a two-mile descent steep enough to require quite a bit of braking. It’s cold enough I’m uncertain about potential icy spots on the road as we fall into the coldest air at the base of the descent, where the road crosses the old Blaine Hill Bridge over Wheeling Creek.
The old Blain Hill Bridge after descending through the chilly morning air
It won’t be the last time today I’ll wish for another layer of warmth…
The road follows Wheeling Creek for several miles, meandering through old towns and past 200 years of history few people remember. It’s early in the morning on a Sunday, so traffic is extremely light, giving us a chance to stop and take lots of photo’s as we cross the Ohio River twice. The second crossing uses the old Wheeling Suspension Bridge.
Dave As We Follow The CreekDave Crossing The Old Wheeling Suspension Bridge
This is a beautiful old bridge, built in the middle of the 19th century. It spent two years as the longest suspension bridge in the world, and was the first bridge across the Ohio River. Dave and I walk the bridge, taking lots of photos, soaking in the history and beauty of the place.
In Wheeling, we begin to rely heavily on the maps I planned and loaded into my Garmin. Prior to this as we’ve crossed the country, we’ve just used these maps as a backup – something to get us back on track if we stray to far from our route in our meandering. Here is Wheeling, we just take whatever turns the Garmin tells us to take, and are rewarded with a wonderful ride through town, following an excellent bicycle path for several miles along an old railroad grade, dropping us off in Elm Grove east of Wheeling. Continue reading “A Bad Road – Cycling US40 in Pennsylvania”
Next morning it’s about 200% humidity as we roll our bikes out of the Comfort Inn at Obetz and saddle-up. I slept nearly zero last night, as there is apparently a softball tournament in town, and there was lots of party spirit all around us. All night. Suffice it to say that I’m making zero effort to be quiet as I’m getting ready to leave at 5:30 in the morning…
Meandering east and north through the suburbs east of Columbus, we eventually make our way back up to Old 40 as it parallels I-70. It’s a four-lane highway that’s essentially deserted of cars. I realize it’s a Saturday morning, which could account for the low traffic volume, but it looks like a highway that doesn’t see much use. After a few miles, the road narrows back down to 2 lanes, and begins to feel very much like The Old National Pike.
It strikes me that right here, this morning, the road around me has shifted a bit in historical time. It was the early 1800’s when this old Pike was commissioned by a young nation, and the remains of history that old is becoming evident. Back then, this was considered “the Westâ€, being “tamed†by this new road reaching out and offering a path for commerce and expansion. Today, as I ride my bike along the pleasant old road, up and down the increasing hills, I’ve entered “the Eastâ€.
I recently finished a final edit of my upcoming book, then sent it off to the editor. This last edit was just one of a long series of edits, sometimes prompted by manuscript readings from friends or colleagues, sometimes prompted by, well, nothing at all… I just wasn’t happy with something, so wrote it again.
When I get the draft back from the editor, I’ll go through and evaluate her suggested changes, and edit it again.
Another iteration. I suppose everything in life is like that. Another iteration.
Wherever I am today is only the most recent iteration of me. A work in progress, I’m still editing who I am through who I want to become. Life, that ultimate editor, continues to recommend changes. The testing team continues to find defects…
I worked with a fella once who said the two most important words in life are “good enoughâ€. Anywhere along the line, in anything you’re doing, the most important thing to define is that point when things are “good enough†for the task at hand. Without that, we waste too much time on all the wrong things.
If I’m writing software to guide a spaceship to a planet millions of miles away, good enough will require a high degree of both accuracy and precision. But if I’m hanging a picture on the wall, doesn’t it just need to look good? Isn’t that good enough? Is there really any need for a tape measure?
When I publish my next book, I hope I’ve edited it well enough to be “good enough†for my readers. I hope the reader can feel the heat boil under a sledgehammer sun across the Sonoran Desert, baking up into the bottom of my feet as I pedal. I hope you can hear the wind rip past my ears as I scream down Wolf Creek Pass tucked tight and low. I hope you can smell the alfalfa blooming as I ride along the lee side of a field in Kansas, or feel the joy of a mighty tailwind blowing me through the profound silence of the Mojave.
Day 32 – Richmond to Columbus in Ohio – Bike Paths in Ohio
It’s a low foggy mist as we roll our bikes out of our room at the Knight’s Inn at Richmond in the pre-dawn darkness. Riding east through town along the Old National Road, we stop for calories at a c-store at the intersection with I-70, lamenting the late starts that go with cycling in September.
While traffic is heavier than we’d like, the fog lifts it’s skirts a few miles out of Richmond, and we’re treated to a rich and lustrous sunrise over the fields of western Ohio. The thick air adds a muted quality to the beauty, and the traffic shrivels in my mind as I let myself fall into the unfolding wonder along the horizon. I’m at the top of a rise, with a long, gentle downhill slope in front of me. There’s a farmstead on the right side of the road, a modern silo and grain machinery reaching up through the light mist that lays across the field. The rich reds and oranges of the morning sky pour themselves over this bucolic scene.
A sailor might take warning at this red morning sky. In the back of my mind I know it could foretell the rainy day the forecasters are predicting. In my heart and soul, this unforgettable morning sky is one more reminder of how lucky I am to be out here, in and amongst the universe as it unfolds.
Every day the sun rises, often in the sort of spectacle I’m witness to this morning. If the sunrise isn’t particularly wonderful, then perhaps it’s the sunset. If not the sunset, then maybe some other magical nugget the world is sharing. Soaked in the beauty of the morning, I realize that beauty like this only feels rare to me because my life keeps me focused on the little details in front of me every day. I get up, have my breakfast, commute to work, pour my energy into something there… Continue reading “Bike Paths in Ohio”
Day 31 – Indianapolis to Richmond in Indiana -Â Confederate flags, Ragtime, and Red Hat Ladies
Another installment in my description of my bicycle ride across the country.
I’m sure my dreams meander through bed bugs and other worse things that might be crawling around the room as I try to sleep. I’m up and out the door well before dawn, looking for a place close by to escape the awful room and have some breakfast. Few things are as comforting as breakfast food, and I slather on a little comfort before saddling up and making my way down the road.
Today I’ll ride about 90 miles to Richmond. Dave is driving today, making his way toward Richmond too. We’ll meet up there in Richmond, and complete the ride to the east coast together. Dave isn’t able to take the long chunks of time off from work that I can, so he rode the section from Kansas to Indianapolis earlier in the summer.
I’m really looking forward to connecting with Dave again, and having companionship on the ride. I enjoy being alone, and I enjoy the company of people I care about. Alone and together – it’s always seemed like a symbiotic relationship to me. My alone time helps me appreciate the time I get to spend with friends, and my together time helps me appreciate solitude when I get it.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found myself becoming more protective of both my alone time and my together time. Both are too precious to me to waste on the company of the wrong people. Dave is the right people, and I’m really looking forward to our time together.
I make my way “through†Indy by crossing on secondary and suburban roads to the south of town. I find the going pretty easy, with few places where I feel at-risk. (Well, any more at risk than any cyclist feels any day on the road with cars and trucks…) There’s a light rain or mist falling throughout the morning, and again today I have a quartering headwind. The rain is never enough to really get me soaked – it’s very light and intermittent – just enough to keep the road damp most of the time, with a brief light shower now and then.
Once I’m SE of Indy, the road becomes increasingly rural. I’m struck by the preponderance of houses who fly the confederate flag. Many times, I see a flagpole out in front, flying the confederate flag on top and something else (maybe a state flag or something else) beneath it. No US flag…
Not that I’m a big flag person. I think flags in general can too quickly become overly nationalistic, and overt nationalism (in any flavor) always leads to nasty things in my opinion. Many years ago, we were part of a Lutheran church while we lived in Cincinnati. Most folks in the congregation probably leaned pretty far to the right politically, and it was in that era when the Republicans were working hard to establish themselves as the party that liked the American flag the most. (Is that era over yet?) There was a big push on the part of many members in the congregation to get the American flag up by the alter, and this created a power struggle between Pastor Ed and the flag folks.
Now, I can’t tell you whether Ed was a Republican or a Democrat. He and I were good friends, but he never let his political views be known to anyone in the congregation. What he did make clear was his opinion that politics and nationalism had no place in The Church. Ed’s religion was far older than the United States of America. It was older than any of the national entities that all of our ancestors emigrated from. He believed strongly that trying to let nationalism coattail with religion just whored up the religion. (My words, not his.)
So he fought that battle, and won. No American flag in church. The Republicans all wore their American flag lapel pins to church on Sunday mornings, and the Democrats all drove their Volvos. But in church, Ed made sure we were all spiritual beings seeking spiritual sustenance. He made sure nationalism didn’t creep up onto the alter.
I’m remembering Ed and his battle this morning, as I notice all the confederate flags flying. Are these folks still fighting the civil war, 150 years after it ended? Are they trying to make some political statement about states rights? Are they rabid racists looking for a way to say so without being blatant? Are they folks who hate America and want to secede?
Who knows why they do it. I suppose someone with hard nationalist leanings would be offended that they fly the stars and bars and ignore the stars and stripes, but I just don’t have those leanings. To me, all it means is that I’m skirting the northern edge of The South now, and I’ll probably be seeing more of this.
Thinking of my friend Ed, I realize that I really am a spiritual being, just seeking spiritual sustenance. What I have and what I seek has very little to do with little nationalistic things like flags or stars or bars or stripes. It’s deeper and older than that.
The road is narrow and deserted. Cresting a hill, I see a doe and two fawns playing in the road down at the bottom of the long grade. The woods encroach on the narrow road from both sides, and as was the case yesterday, the deer don’t see me as much of a threat as I stop at the top of the hill to watch them. They’re oblivious to flags and stripes and bars, just looking to enjoy the beautiful fall day.
Making my way up through Carthage and along the Carthage Pike, I’m surprised at the Quaker presence. After riding along a road with several confederate flags, I realize that I’m probably riding right along a seam of political dissonance that goes back quite a ways. There are militant folks longing for a return to the days of slavery, glorifying the American Civil War with their confederate flags, right alongside folks who won’t fight in wars, and were among the most strident abolitionists in the days of the civil war.
Arriving in Knightstown, I wander up and down the street just a bit until I find the Knightstown Diner. I’m leaning my bike up against a post out front when a young fella named Kevin says hi and starts a little conversation out front. Turns our Kevin owns the diner, along with Justin. Kevin opens the door for me, and as we walk in, he introduces me around to everyone.
I mean, really, is this small-town America at its best or what? The owner of the diner greets me on the street, holds the door for me, and introduces me around to the local folks as I come in.
At the table next to me are Rick and Marcus. They’re brothers, and Justin’s uncles. They’re probably my age, and we have great conversation over lunch. Their mom died about a year ago, and they’re in town today taking care of some final estate details. Their closeness to and love for their nephew is obvious, and I feel lucky to be welcomed into their circle so warmly.
Turns out both Rick and Marcus are from Kansas, just like me. We’re all from the same place, meeting here over the lunch counter. Will the serendipity never end…
While we’re eating and talking, the Red Hat Ladies are gathering at the big table at the front of the diner. It’s their meeting day, and they’re raucous and joyous as they gather and chat. One of them, who I had met when I came in, leans over and pulls me into their conversation. She introduces me around the table, telling me little bits about each of the ladies. One gal – who must have been over 80 – had just had liver surgery a couple weeks ago. Here she was out and about, chatting it up with her Red Hat friends, just 2 weeks after a big surgery.
I’ll have some of what she’s having…
A fella about my age walks in the front door, and over to the piano in the corner. They introduce me to him as well. Turns out he’s the husband of one of the Red Hatters, and he comes to their meetings and plays piano now and again. I listen as he pounds out some ragtime, then say my goodbyes and head for the door.
Rick and Marcus walk me out, and we say our goodbyes standing out on the sidewalk. The sound of muted ragtime drifts through the front window of the diner, birds squabble around us in the trees, a car slowly drifting past on the road now and then. This might be the friendliest place on earth.
Here I am, in the middle of nowhere America, right on the seam between strongly held political beliefs. I just had a great lunch in a diner that might (or might not) be run by a couple gay guys. I like to think they are, because that makes the love and support they get from their family and their community that much more meaningful in the context of this seam that I’m riding across. I’m a middle-aged guy in spandex, riding his bike across the country, and these folks all welcome me into their world with warmth and love and concern that overwhelms me.
Once again, I realize I must be the luckiest guy on earth.
Arriving in Richmond, I only beat Dave by a few minutes. We fall immediately and without discussion into our tried and true traveling routine, showering, washing clothes in the sink, getting ready for supper.
Routine feels good.
We throw down some calories at the Arby’s up the street, lamenting a weather forecast that talks of a good chance of rain tomorrow.
What will be will be.
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me
From “Warningâ€, by Jenny Joseph. The “anthem†of the Red Hat Ladies
I’m feeling a little vulnerable to the traffic as I head east on 40 through downtown Terra Haute. I’d hoped to be out of town by the time the sun rose to avoid the dangerous traffic behind me and sun in front situation, but “town†goes for longer than I expected. The traffic is pretty heavy for the twenty or so miles to Brazil, where I stop for breakfast at the Sunrise Family Restaurant.
Today’s a short day by design. I’ve got some lollygagging and detouring planned that will take me up around some covered bridges, and I want to have dinner with an old friend tonight in Indianapolis. While I’m still on US-40, I’m presented with many chances to detour for short distances along what appear to be old versions of the highway. These are sometimes in such bad shape I need to walk my bike over small sections, but I get to see some pretty cool old road ruins.
Hauck Covered Bridge
Just past the little town of Reelsville, I start meandering my way north to visit a couple of covered bridges. – the Houck Bridge and the Oakalla / Shoppell Bridge, both of which cross the Big Walnut Creek. These old treasures feel strong and mellow to me as I explore them. The quiet of the remote countryside, broken only by the trickle of the creek below, intoxicates me and holds me close.
Engineering and design tells us so much about a culture. The solid wood and meticulous construction of these bridges speaks of a culture that cares about doing things well and right, about doing things in a way that lasts. The design – covering a bridge to be sure the creek can get crossed even in deep snow and ice – speaks of a culture bound and determined to live life fully day and night, every day of the year.
In the hour or so I spend exploring and enjoying the bridges, I think two vehicle cross them. Clearly they get very little traffic these days, and we’re lucky that somebody cares enough to preserve them. This speaks clearly about the culture that has evolved from those people who built the bridge in the first place. It tells of a people who care about where they came from, and care about wonders of engineering and design enough to preserve them for future generations.
I spend a good deal of time exploring them, taking pictures, and enjoying the countryside, then make my way toward Greencastle on a dirt and gravel road along the Walnut Creek. I stop in pone place along the road to watch a couple fawns playing in the road ahead of me. They don’t seem to view the bicycle as much of a threat, and I spend 10 minutes or so enjoying their antics.
Greencastle is a college town, home of DePauw University. I didn’t know that, but figure it out as I ride into town. I’m delighted by the old town square and college town feel of the place. I find the Almost Home Restaurant right off the town square, and enjoy immensely what appears to be flirtatious behavior toward me on the part of a pretty waitress 20 years younger than me.
Now really, is it likely that this 40-ish woman, beautiful and seemingly very intelligent, would be taken by a 58 year-old guy in spandex? Not to mention that I probably smell less than handsome… But to the male ego, none of that logic matters. This gal has probably learned through the years that catering to that male ego will earn her a bigger tip.
Part of me feels a bit guilty, but most of me feels smug, knowing that my tip won’t be influenced at all by whether or not she flirts with me. I’m a pretty good tipper anyway, and especially at diners and little places like this. She’ll get the same good tip she’d get if she was just friendly and took good care of me.
But I enjoy the flirtatiousness nonetheless. Who knows, she might really be flirting. It’s not something I’ve ever been very good at evaluating well when it’s aimed at me. That’s probably why it’s so effective when women flirt with men – we’re terrible at understanding it. I guess we always figure that there must be a catch if a smart and attractive woman wants to flirt with us…
With a full belly, I mosey on out to the sidewalk, where I meet a fella who’s also just passing through town. He got off I-70 to drive up here and have a small-town meal. He’s from south of Dayton, (close to where I once lived), and is headed out to Colorado. He’s looking for work I think, and we chat it up and trade email addresses. I saddle up and head east toward Indy, taken again by the serendipity of these folks I keep meeting who are headed west to Colorado, coming from somewhere I’ve been or somewhere I’m going.
A brief road note here for cyclists: Highway 240 runs straight east out of Greencastle until it meets up with US-40. On a map, this looks like a really good way to meander toward Indy. If I had it to do over, I’d probably look for some other country roads to cover those miles. 240 was very busy when I rode on it. There’s little or no shoulder, and a lot of the traffic is from trucks. It’s probably only about 10 miles of riding, but it’s a pretty unsafe 10 miles.
In Indy, I stay at a little motel at the Plainfield exit off I-70. It’s one of several motels there, and will remain nameless in my writing.
Let me first say, as I said in my earlier book about the western half of this journey across the nation, that I’ve stayed in some pretty low-rent motels in my life. My bar is pretty low when it comes to what I need from a motel. A relatively clean room is all I want, and quiet.
This place is neither. The management is apparently accustomed to some pretty unsavory behavior or tenants, as the bed is covered in a waterproof mattress pad. I discover this after I’ve been laying in bed a few minutes, and couldn’t figure out why I was sweating. I get up, strip the bed down, and re-make it sans the waterproofing. Then come the fun times in the rooms around me, people coming and going and walls so thin their snoring keeps me up once they finally do go to sleep.
I know it’s an unfair characterization to use this hotel and management as an example of the people of Indianapolis. I am positive that the good folks there are just like the good folks everywhere, in the same measure. But as I lay awake listening to the sounds around me, I’m struck by the contrast in cultures that a few miles on my bicycle bring me through.
From the quiet world of well-engineered covered bridges, preserved and maintained by people who clearly care about things well-made, through a fun little college town where a smart and attractive waitress feels confident enough to flirt openly with a traveler she finds attractive… (I’m sticking with that version of the story, btw…) From that, a few short miles down the road to a modern exit off a superhighway, where people have no courtesy at all for those around them, and must care nothing about the quality of the product they provide.
At some point, there’s a break in the snoring and other noise, and I’m tired enough, so I drift off to sleep for a bit. I’m not one who remembers my dreams, but it wouldn’t surprise me if tonight they take me on a journey where I transform from Harrison Ford in an idilic world like the one found in “Witnessâ€, to a bronzed Mel Gibson in Mad Max.
I might point out that in either case, my waitress friend in Greencastle would probably find me attractive – for real…
It’s a chilly 39 degrees in Greenville as I bid goodbye to Cheryl, and make my way through the sleepy little college town. The sun breaks the horizon as I pedal through campus, bathing the road in front of me with brilliant orange sunlight broken by trees showing just a hint of fall color.
It’s a little later start than I usually like, but Cheryl was insistent on making breakfast in the morning, and I didn’t want to make it too early for her. The breakfast is wonderful, and I enjoy her company and conversation before saddling up and heading out onto the quiet road.
Today I meet US 40, which will be my path for the rest of the journey across the nation. Not that I will follow the exact current route of US 40 all the say, but I’ll follow the general path, often getting off the current route and following an older version of the highway.
Old roads are the lifeblood of a culture and society as the society grows. They connect one little tribe to another, one village to another. In our world today, it’s easy to lose perspective on just how important roads were in times gone by. Today our “roads†are telephone wire, cell towers, internet routers, and TV screens. These are the things that connect us today. But for thousands of years prior to the last 100 years or so, it was all about roads.
US 40 is called “The Old National Roadâ€. It’s called that because it’s “old†– an old concept. Up until a few decades ago, it was just called “The National Roadâ€. But then highways started getting built all across the nation, and a vast system of interstate super-highways replace those highways… Now, “The National Road†is just a historical idea.
The National Road was the first nationally funded road in the nation, funded in 1806. US 40 was one of the “highways†designated and designed in the early part of the last century to accommodate the automobile, and when it was designed, it used the path of the National Road, as well as several other “roads†to make its way from the west coast to the east.
For much of its current path across the nation, US 40 is the same highway as I-70. If you look at a map, you’ll often see that I-70 and US 40 are both the same road, but parallel to that highway is another highway, usually called something like state highway 140, or highway 144, or something like that. Generally, this is the “old†version of US 40, and when I-70 got built, then just moved the name US-40 to the new highway, and gave the old highway a new name.
There are a few places where the new I-70 highway just paved right over the old highway, and they became the same – there is no “old†version of the road. There aren’t many of those, though. For logistical reasons, it was best to leave the old highway there until the new highway was built – gave folks something to drive on while the new highway was under construction.
When I was a boy, my family would drive from Kansas up to Wisconsin to visit relatives. In those days, the Interstate Highway system was just a dream starting up. I remember my dad was always engineering new combinations of highways he could take to get us up into the backwoods of northern Wisconsin where his family lived. We’d always start by following US 69 north, then we’d start inching our way east onto other roads as we went. I remember very clearly him talking about the giant ribbon of construction that we’d meander past all the time as we went north. A new interstate highway system, where there were no stoplights and you could cruise along without traffic or anything else.
That ribbon of construction became I-35, running from Kansas City to Minneapolis. In later years, we’d follow that interstate for most of the trip. Running alongside I-35, US 69 is still there. I see it now and then when I drive that highway, and remember those days half a century ago when it was the “main†highway, relegated now to the status of a secondary road, it just happens to run alongside the “real†highway.
I’m thinking of that as I ride along an old highway this morning. In Mulberry Grove, I ride briefly on “old 40â€, before turning off again to stay on what I think is highway 140, and crossing under I-70. Here I encounter the first of many little “road moments†that I’ll have in the coming days as I make my way toward the east coast. I’m pretty sure 140 is the “old 40â€, that was replaced with the “new 40†which now owns the name of US 40. I-70 is really the main highway now, having replaced US 40 a few decades ago.
So I’m on the “old old†highway, as I make my way along the twisting blacktop into a bright and beautiful autumn morning sun. There are old curbs on this road in places, and the only traffic is local traffic making its way to the bigger and newer highways. The sun is starting to warm the air a bit now, and my fingers are finally feeling a little less frozen.
The ruins of the “old old old” US 40 – probably the original National Highway.
Rounding a bend, and crossing a little creek, I’m taken by another little “road momentâ€. Here I am, on the “old old†highway, and 20 yards to my right is a very old one-lane bridge crossing this little creek. I suspect this old bridge – nearly covered now in growth from the creek – was where the highway crossed the creek when it was first laid down nearly 100 years ago. It’s the “old old old†version of the highway. Just a narrow single lane.
I smile, take a sip of water, and decide to enjoy a granola bar beside this old old old place. Has anyone even noticed this in the past year? The past 10 years?
I doing research and writing this story, I’ve come across other folks who like to research and write about old US-40. Frank Brusca administers a web site where he posts all things US-40 here. Matt Murphy is a fella from out east who posts on his blog about the eastern part of the road here. If road history is an interest, I’d recommend checking out their sites.
Stopping for lunch at Joe Sipper’s Cafe in Effingham, I realize it’s likely to be a longer day than I expected. In my mind, today’s ride is going to be just a little over 100 miles, and I’m only halfway there at noon. It’s a nice little cafe, and while I sit and eat, I watch a great big wind building outside – looks to be from some flavor of east and southeast.
Old Covered Bridge in Greenup
A quartering headwind to face for the second half of the day. Delightful.
Selfie while riding with covered bridge in background
In the town of Greenup is an old covered bridge. While I’m riding on “old 40â€, I veer off 40 to get onto Cumberland Road to cross the covered bridge. I’ve decided to try and check out a few covered bridges along my route, and this one in Greenup is easy since it’s very close to the road. After a few pics of the old bridge, a granola bar, and a selfie, I head on up the road, snapping a selfie looking backwards at the bridge as I ride along the old road.
Mary – Riding from Annapolis to Denver
It’s early afternoon when I meet Mary. She’s cycling from Annapolis to Denver. Amazing coincidence. I’m from Denver, cycling to Annapolis, and we meet as she rides from Annapolis to Denver. We talk a lot about routes, and I give her my best advice for roads she should consider or not. We hang out and chat for a bit, exchange email addresses, and head on down the road. Mary’s roughing it a bit more than I am. She’s carrying more gear, camping part of the time. She’s having the version of this adventure that a 25 year-old seems, while I’m having the 60 year-old version of the adventure…
Mary’s journey seems to be a “coming of age†story. She’s recently completed big milestones in her life, and this journey might be her way of transition into her next chapter. Maybe it’s her way of discovering what her next chapter needs to be. In any case, it’s a young person’s journey of discovery.
My New Best Hippie Friends
I’ve really not met that many other cyclists as I’ve been riding, and I’m not quite over the serendipity of meeting Mary along the road, when I spot what might be another cyclist coming toward me on the road. I stop and wait for him at the top of a little rise, trying to put the image together as he slowly makes his way up the hill. It looks like a 5 gallon bucket, with a bicycle strapped to the back of it, all sorts of junk hanging off the sides, and a hippie standing on the pedals pushing it up the hill.
He stops to chat. Soon after comes his buddy, followed a few minutes later by a gal. They’re all on similar machines, dressed in rags, big smiles on their face.
These folks are headed to Colorado as well, though they’ve just begin their journey in Indianapolis. We chat a bit, and I tell them about Mary who’s just a few miles in front of them. Mary’s traveling faster than these folks are, and I can’t imagine that she didn’t pass them. As we talk though, I come to understand that they really just started riding for the day an hour or so ago.
Hmmm. Late sleepers. Seems they were up late last night in the campground, making merry and making music with other folks there. It all kind of fits together, and I’m really taking a shine to these three. They’ve fashioned bikes out of old clunker machines. With 5 gallon buckets duct taped on to their handlebars, sleeping bags roped to the back of their bikes, and fiddles or mandolins tied to their stuff, they’ve struck out on their journey west.
They’re hippies, on the modern-day version of the VW microbus. Long hair, ragged clothes, the scent of a recent j wafting from them…
We exchange stories, and I give them my best advice on routes to CO. They really don’t know what routes they want to take – they’re just headed west, hoping they’ll be able to find their way as they go. We snap a couple pictures as we part, and I wish them the very best.
Really. They’re gonna need it…
I stand there and watch them meander down the road, my first thought that there’s no way they’ll make it. They’re so ill-prepared for the journey really. They have old clunker bikes that aren’t maintained and will probably break down in some way, not to mention that they weigh a ton. They know nothing about how to fix them or take care of them. Their clothes flap in the wind and get caught in bicycle parts. Starting their days at after noon, when the wind is high, they’ll be lucky to make 30 or 40 miles a day. They’ve done zero preparation to be in shape to ride, and don’t even know what route they’ll be taking.
I contrast them to Mary, who’s pedaling steadily toward Colorado with both purpose and planning on her youthful quest. I can’t help throwing myself into that mix, contrasting all of us.
I suppose we’re all on a journey, aren’t we? We go out and get in our car and drive to work in the morning, and maybe it can be a bit of a journey. We all have different notions of what we might find on the journey, why we’re there, and how we travel. Who am I to criticize another person’s bike or pack?
Mary seems to have purpose and drive. She wants to find something, though maybe she just hasn’t figured out what yet. She prepared herself for a journey, packed well for it, and is making her way methodically across the country. She’ll find her next purpose in life, I’m sure of it. When she gets to Colorado to spend time with her folks, I can picture conversations where they share big dreams and ideas, and plan ways to make that happen.
My hippie friends are on the same road with Mary, just a few miles back. (Well, by now Mary has gained a few more miles on them…) Their target isn’t as pinpointed as Mary’s – they just know they want to get to this state called Colorado. Their route isn’t as well thought-out as Mary’s – they just know they need to keep chasing the setting sun. But for now, they share this road we’re on.
I share it with them too. They’re all young, and headed toward something that must feel like the “heart of lifeâ€. They see big things that life probably holds for them further down the road. They’re headed toward the middle of life.
Finally, as my hippie friends disappear down the road, I turn my back and climb back into my saddle, coasting down a little hill before turning the pedals and finding that nice steady cadence I like to maintain as I ride. I think the wind has died down just a bit for me.
The middle of life is behind me, not in front of me. I must be one of the luckiest guys on earth, able to pedal my bike along this road, meeting folks like Mary and the hippies as I go. I’m at an age where I only survive this sort of ride with a lot of fitness preparation, and the planning gnomes in my tiny little brain insist that I have my route planned, and that I’m aware of alternate routes in case of a problem. I’ll use this magical little plastic card in my pocket to buy a warm shower and a soft bed every night.
More than anything else, I feel lucky that I don’t have an ounce of envy for Mary or the hippies. I took the time to have misadventures when my body was built for it. I spent many nights sleeping on the ground in those adventures. I had my moments of hippie-ness, and I spent my time in purposeful pursuit of far-away destinations.
The World’s Largest Wind Chime in Casey, IL
I think there was a time when I was looking for the biggest or best or longest or tallest. I’m learning to find good and nice these days, and liking it very much.
I can look at my hippie friends and wish them the very best. I’m not optimistic they’ll make it very far, but wherever they make it to, it will have been an adventure for them. I’m sure Mary will make it to Colorado, and that she’ll do much to change the world in good ways – I wish her all the best too.
I like the direction I’m going in life, and I’m happy to have met them on this road, headed in a different direction. Not that I don’t have destinations in mind, or aspirations, or expectations. I do. They’re just different at this point in life. More relaxed I suppose, with the middle of life behind me now.
I sleep well in the old Butler’s Quarters at The Bealle Mansion in Alton, waking as usual well before dawn, packing my gear, and headed down the winding back servant’s stairwell to the opulence of the main floor. In the 19th century, it would have been servants who would have been up and about at this hour, preparing the house for the “masterâ€.
My mind is still messing about with this idea of our “place†in the world. Feeling the house this morning, so quiet, understanding that it would have been the “servants†who would have been up and about at this hour back when the house was still young, has me using different language than I was last night.
It’s about service, isn’t it? Some of us take better to “service†than others do. Some of us enjoy it more. Most of the great gurus, shaman, and religious leaders throughout history have stressed service as a “path†worth seeking. Heck, it was the primary theme in the “service†of Jesus 2000 years ago – the theme of finding that place of “serviceâ€.
I’m seeing this and feeling it with a nice clarity in the pre-dawn quiet of this old mansion – this “upside-downness†of how we build our “classes†as humans. The folks who generally delude themselves into thinking they’re “on top†of the structure – holding the power and money – may just be the ones furthest from realizing their real human and spiritual potential. (Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle…)
I gobble a bit of the endless chocolate spread throughout the luxury of this old place, enjoying my last few minutes of this little journey into the luxurious world of 19th century “robber-baron-nessâ€. I wander into the kitchen pantry, and find a bit of actual nutrition, then bid goodbye to Jim, collect my bike from the garage, and pedal down the driveway into the dim pre-dawn light.
The streets are empty at this favorite hour of mine before everyone wakes. The damp air is heavy around me, just a tiny bit chilly as my bike quietly coasts along the mansion-lined streets at the top of the hill above Alton. After a few blocks, the street drops sharply into the historic old river town, past the casino riverboat that’s quiet at this hour, and finally onto a nice paved bicycle path that follows the top of the levy along the Mighty Mississippi.
I’m not sure how far this path would take me, but after 5 or 6 miles I drop off of it onto roads that will take me east toward my rendezvous with The Old National Road. As I pedal, I’m thinking about the beauty and synergy of a “levy†bike path, and hoping this path goes for a long ways. I mean, the levy goes all the way to New Orleans – why not have a paved path along the levy the whole way?
It’s such an obvious synergy, and one I’ve never thought about before. Sort of like the Rails to Trails folks who started converting old unused railroad right-of-ways to bike paths years ago. A perfect place to build an inexpensive bike transit corridor – 99% of the work is done, all you need to do is pave a path…
Leaving the bike path, I wind my way through refineries on roads that would probably be a lot less fun at a busy time of the day. The damp air has begun to shed a light mist onto me, punctuating the less than idyllic smells around me here in the refinery district. After only a few miles, I find my way to the Madison County Transit Watershed Trail, which I follow for a few miles into Edwardsville.
In Edwardsville, I enjoy breakfast and a little respite from the light rain at Fiona’s downtown. I need another couple tire tubes and a few other supplies, so take a detour of a few miles after breakfast to a bike shop that the locals recommend. It’s a short day today, and while the weather isn’t ideal for sight-seeing, I’m in a wandering mood and enjoy the extra miles seeing more of the area.
My stomach full of breakfast, and my bike supplies topped off, I find my way to the Madison County Nickel Plate Trail, which I’m able to follow for probably 20 miles or more up to highway 140. The trail is only paved for a little ways in Edwardsville before becoming the finely crushed rock that so many bike trails are made of.
The rain has increased as the morning has gone along. It was heavy air this morning, evolving to a light mist. It’s rain now, and I’m thankful to be on a bike path instead of a highway. The path is well-packed, so there really isn’t any mud to deal with.
The path ends at Alhambra, where I enjoy a few minutes of refuge in a c-store before pulling out onto highway 140 for the final 20 miles of the day to Greenville.
Way back on day 2 of this cycling journey across the country, I had light rain and mist along the coast of California as I enjoyed the beauty of Big Sur. Since that day, I’ve not had to deal with rain on my ride. I think about this as I ride, and count myself lucky that I haven’t had many days like this.
It sucks. Really.
I’m a bit chilly, soaked to the bone as I ride. I have my lights on and flashing, hoping and praying that they put off enough light to keep me visible. Each car or truck that passes soaks me a little more, and I keep thinking that wipers for glasses would be a really great invention.
When you’re on a bike in the rain, the world closes in on you a bit. Your focus sharpens and narrows. Everything is about staying warm and safe. A highway is a lonelier place in the rain.
I’d like to stop, but realize I need to keep pedaling to stay warm in my soaking clothes. I keep my effort up high enough to keep burning calories to stoke the furnace. There’s world around me on both sides, but all I can see is the pavement right in front of me. I don’t want my wheels on the white line because it’s so slick in the rain, but also need to watch out for wheel-eating holes in the pavement hidden by puddles.
Here in the Midwest, the bit of good news about the rain is that the drivers seem just a little nicer to me as a cyclist. I imagine that most of them are thinking one of two things as they pass me – they’re either feeling really sorry for this soaking cold guy on a bike, or wondering what kind of idiot doesn’t know any better than to get in out of the rain.
In either case, they seem to give me just a little more space as they pass…
Later, looking back on the ride, I’ll remember this as the most dangerous section of the ride. There were other sections with worse roads, and there was one point where a passing yahoo throws a beer bottle out his truck window at me (and hits me), but this section in the rain on a good road will become the most dangerous.
Arriving in Greenville, it’s just past noon. I’ve got a reservation at the Chartreuse B&B in town, but I’m sure I won’t want to leave again once I arrive, so find my way to a diner for a big lunch before going to the Chartreuse. The warmth inside the diner is heavenly, though I doubt they appreciate the puddles of grimy road soak that I leave behind…
The rain has actually stopped by the time I arrive at the Chartreuse. Cheryl (the Innkeeper) happens to be standing at the door to welcome me. I get myself situated in my room, and after a long and hot shower, make my way downstairs to visit with Cheryl a bit.
Cheryl’s a southern lady through and through. She’s moved up here to Greenville to make a new start after losing her husband, and clearly loves the chance to share her southern roots and hospitality with her guests at the Chartreuse. Greenville is a small college town, and I wonder to myself how a B&B could make a go of it in this small place. Cheryl’s home is yet another example of the entrepreneurial spirit of small-town America at work.
Back in my room, I have everything spread out and drying after running it through the shower with me. I lay down under the warm blankets and read, content and happy. The healing and delighting properties of food, human companionship, and a warm and dry place never cease to amaze me.
Most of us live comfortable lives, where it’s very unusual to be uncomfortable. This isn’t true all over the world, but it’s true in our culture. When’s the last time most of us were soaked to the bone and shivering violently from the cold? When’s the last time most of us were deeply frightened that the cars and trucks passing us in the rain on the highway wouldn’t be able to see us? When’s the last time most of us felt deeply alone and isolated in the world, thankful for the smallest gestures of courtesy from those passing us?
Not that I’m advocating that cold or danger or fear are good for us, or that we should seek them out. But when we build a life of such comfort that we forget what deep cold feels like, or forget what mortal fear does to our mind, or forget just how delicious a kindness can taste… Well, is that good?
Many years ago, (decades really), my brother and I drove a truck together. We were on our way home to Kansas one winter day, with one last pickup to make in Mountain Home, Arkansas. The weather called for a winter storm to come in that night. We picked up our paperwork in Mountain Home, and the dispatcher there gave us directions that sounded like they took us pretty far out into the mountains. We called to make sure we could get a big truck (as in semi) into the location, and they assured us that other big trucks have come there.
Well, if somebody else could do it, then I could do it, right? The deeper our directions took us into the mountains, the more narrow the roads became. Eventually we came to one turn that I thought couldn’t be made, but by golly, if someone else did it I could do it. After much jockeying, I got the truck maneuvered onto the next road – one so narrow the outside wheels on my duals hung over the ditch as I rounded corners, taking up every inch of the narrow road.
Arriving at the address, the woman clapped her hand to her mouth and said, “Oh my God, how’d you get that big truck up here?â€
“You said other big semi’s had been up hereâ€, I replied.
“Not big trucks like that – I meant just a little bigger than a pickup truck.â€
Hmmm. Effective communication…
Well, we were there, so made our pickup. It took all day to get loaded, and by the time we were done, (blocking the entire road the whole while I might add), dark was descending, the temperature was dropping to below freezing, and a dense fog had rolled onto the mountain. My plan all day had been to back down the narrow road, since the folks said the road got worse if we went forward. The fog was so dense, though, that I couldn’t see the lights at the back of the trailer (or my brother directing me) through my mirrors. Backing up was not possible.
Our options were to spend the night there, continuing to block the road, or go forward. If the storm was as bad as they said, I could get stuck there for days blocking the road, which didn’t seem like an acceptable option. The lady told us that if we went forward, there was just one bad creek crossing, then the road would improve.
Hmmm. We decided to give it a whirl.
If I’ve had a couple beers, this story becomes long and fun, but I’ll shorten it here. (Feel free to drop me an email if you want to have a couple beers and hear the longer version…)
The next big milestone in our story comes in about 30 minutes, when we’re stuck trying to get up the slope on the far side of the creek we had to cross. Now I want you to picture a big 18-wheeler, trying to negotiate what is essentially a jeep trail, deep in the mountains of Arkansas. It’s raining. Freezing rain falling through dense hoary frost that hangs in the forest around us. We’re halfway up the “roadâ€, going no further with an iced-up fuel filter.
Your image here will be enhanced if you understand the relationship between my brother and I. We love each other dearly, but I can drive the poor man crazy sometimes. Erik’s a safe man. If he’s gonna buy a new boat, he’ll think about it for months, shop for more months, ponder and analyze for more months yet, before finally arriving at the decision. Then he’ll shop some more before making the purchase. Once, when skiing in Colorado, I led us over the back side of a ski area.
“What do these yellow ropes mean?â€, Erik asked me as we slipped under them.
“Oh nothingâ€, I said. “They’re just letting us know the slope isn’t groomed back here, and there are lots of treesâ€.
Well, that and the fact that it’s REALLY STEEP and we shouldn’t go there unless we’re really accomplished on our skis. I left this part out. Why? Because I knew that if Erik knew the risk, he wouldn’t do it. I thought we could do it, and wanted to give us a push.
That’s us, Erik and me. He’s weighing the options, wanting to make sure the decision is right, and I’m crashing headlong into the risk, confident we’ll figure it out as we go.
I’m pretty sure he’ll outlive me.
On the ski slopes that day long ago, I’m glad he didn’t have a gun with him. I’m pretty sure he would have shot me. I learned some new curse words, or at least some new combinations of curse words, as we made our way down that mountain. At one point, he says,
“That’s it, I’m done, I’m not doing this any more!â€
At the time, our skis were keeping us up on top of many feet of nice powder covering the dense forest floor. He’s reaching down to clip himself out of his boots, thinking maybe he’ll walk and slide his way down the mountain, and I’m trying hard to tell him that’s not a good idea, but he’s not listening to one syllable that his stupid brother is uttering.
Of course, with no skis on, he just postholes down to the top of his thigh with his first step, and looks at me with fury in his eyes, and the promise of mayhem when he gets his hands on me. The fact that I’m standing comfortably on my skis 20 feet away, laughing my ass off, isn’t helping.
15 minutes later, he’s managed to get his skis back on, and make his way to the surface of the snow. We continue down the mountain – me keeping a safe distance from him until his anger cools a bit. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody keep a rant going as long as he ranted at me that day on that mountain. By the time we arrived down at the bottom, he’s cooled down quite a bit, and I suffered no injury at his hand that day.
That’s Erik and Neil. A nice balance of caution and recklessness. So far, nobody’s gotten seriously hurt.
Back in Arkansas, on the cold mountain in the dense fog and freezing rain, Erik is not a happy man.
“So now what, Mr Brilliant?†He’s not so much talking to me or asking me a question as throwing the words at me.
“You just HAD to drive up that narrow road in the first place, didn’t you? I told you from the beginning this was a bad idea. So now what?â€
We’re on a steep slope, but the brakes seem to be holding just fine once I set them. I’ve crawled out of the cab, and chocked some wheels as he’s ranting at me. He’d be less mad at me if I’d seem bothered by our situation, but I’m just standing in front of the truck, shrugging my shoulders, asking him if he’s coming with me.
“Coming with you? WHERE?!!! We skipped breakfast and haven’t eaten anything all day. I’m cold and hungry, and you don’t have a plan, do you?â€
“Well, I’m not sure yetâ€, I answer, “but we’ve got to do something, and it will involve getting a winch or a new fuel filter or something. I’m not sure yet, but it will involve getting someplace. We can’t just sit here and freeze.â€
Logic. He hates it when I do that.
He’s right of course. The smart thing to do would have been to listen to him way back at the beginning of the day. It’s my stupidity that got us into this mess. In my mind, the door on that barn has been open for a long time, and there’s no sense in revisiting it. Yep, I’m an idiot, but we are where we are so let’s move forward.
Really though, he probably needed to hear me say the words. I doubt if I ever did. I doubt if I ever do.
So, for the record, here it is: Erik, you were right that day, and I should have listened to you. Sorry about that…
I suspect these woods aren’t all that populated with humans at any time, and on this cold winter night in the freezing rain, there’s not a human anywhere. There’s not a house anywhere. In the back of my mind, I’m hearing the Deliverance riff on the banjo…
We walk a couple miles before we come to an old shack. There’s just a dim light shining through the window, but we’re hoping someone’s home, and we can borrow a winch and chains, or call somebody who might have such equipment, or something.
Knocking on the door, we step back a bit to make sure we’re not too threatening when someone opens the door. I suspect we’re a sorry sight.
The door parts halfway slowly, and the first thing we see is the barrel of a side-by-side leveled at us. Behind the shotgun an old guy peers at us, wondering what we want. The big picture descends on me at that moment, and I realize we might be the first visitors at this guy’s door in ages, and here we come in the middle of a winter storm. His clothes are ragged, and he’s seen some hard miles in life. He might not have indoor plumbing, or running water. He might not have electricity. Heck, he doesn’t even have teeth. (Well, in fairness, he seems to have a few. Summer teeth as my friend calls them – some ‘er teeth, some aren’t…)
The old guy’s not about to trust us, and the shotgun stays leveled at us. He tells us that if we keep going down this road, we’ll come to his daughter’s house in about 5 miles or so. We’ll know we’re close when we see the big oak tree on the left, and we should look for the path of her driveway on the right just past that.
Really? An oak tree? We’re in a bloody forest of big oak trees!
But I’m not gonna argue with him. Well, I might argue with him, but I’m not arguing with the shotgun.
I must say that I do have nice memories of the walk in the dark wet forest that night. It really was beautiful. The soft rain had a “tinkle†sound to it as it landed, mostly frozen by the time it landed. The trees were creaking and snapping occasionally as we walked, shifting under the pressure of the weight of ice building on their branches. The snow fell intermittently, softening the sound of the world around us, muting the quiet crunch of our boots on the path. Everything around us was covered in a shining hoar frost from the fog.
That sort of walk brings a new focus to life. We’re alone. Really alone in the quiet woods. I suppose we could freeze to death, but I know that won’t happen. We’ll keep walking, and we’ll solve this. But it could happen, and that realization brings a different focus.
It’s cold. Really cold. A bone soaked cold. A dark and lonely cold.
The first glimpse of that next house 5 miles later brings a flood of warm emotion to both of us. The gal welcomes us with hope arms. There’s hot chili on the kitchen stove, the best food I ever put in my mouth, made so by how urgently my body wants warm food. Our clothes are strung around the family room to dry in the heat of the woodstove. We crowd around that stove, sucking down the hot chili, letting the heat from the stove soak into our bodies.
It’s one of my most pleasant memories in life, that little cabin in the Arkansas mountains. I think the woman’s name was Cheri, but I’m not positive. She was truly an angel for Erik and I that night. Her warm chili, piping hot stove, and pleasant company was such a warm contrast to our cold night that it remains burned in my memory, resting in that bucket of wonderful experiences.
Without the cold misery that led up to meeting Cheri, would I even have held on to the memory of that cabin in the woods?
I don’t want to seek out misery on my path. I want to seek life – all of life. In doing so, I accept that I’ll sometimes dig myself into some misery. It’s only through the lens of misery that some miracles are visible. Only through loneliness that some levels of deep kindness and compassion can be recognized. Only through shivering cold can the real warmth of a hearth be appreciated. Only through real and empty hunger can a bowl of chili be truly enjoyed.
Laying in my warm room in Greenville, IL, I think back on my day as I drift toward sleep. I didn’t enjoy the cold today. I’m thankful to have survived the danger of the rain on the highway. Cheryl’s hospitality, company, and nourishment was heavenly after such a day. But all in all, I’m most thankful to have the opportunity, desire, and ability to live a life that lets me feel every ounce of what it has. It makes me that much more thankful for the goodness around me when I feel it.
Because really, there’s nothing on earth like a bowl of hot chily sitting on a wood stove in a warm house in the woods…
Bicycle Trip People On my recent bicycle journey from Kansas to Annapolis, I met quite a few really interesting folks. I’m doing a series of posts on these wonderful and interesting people, and this is an installment in that series. While there are others I met along the way as well, these are the ones who I was able to spend enough time with to get a feel for their story.
An Old House, Loved, and Discovering My Place in The Butler’s Quarters
Breakfast at the Concord House B&B is quite an affair – not something to be skipped. Everyone was up late the night before, making music and making fun, so it’s not an early affair. While we’d love to eat at 7:00 and be out riding by 8:00, it’s clear as I roam around the house in the morning that breakfast isn’t happening early this morning.
The kitchen at the Concord House is hard to avoid. It’s really the center of the house. It’s one of the things that makes this such an inviting place to stay. I find myself wandering through the kitchen many times as I rattle around early in the morning, hoping to see signs of impending breakfast taking shape.
I’m a breakfast guy. Lunch is nice, and I miss it if I don’t get it. Supper is something I can take or leave – usually I sleep better if I just skip it altogether. But breakfast? That’s my essential meal of the day.
I love breakfast. The day is ahead of me, the food is food I like, I’m full of energy, looking forward to what life has in store for me. Sometimes, at a diner, I’ll actually order two breakfasts, and have no trouble at all getting both of them down.
And the thought of missing breakfast? Well, I just don’t miss breakfast, of if I do, I’m not a happy guy.
Most B&Bs that I’ve stayed at serve an early breakfast. Now, my version of early and most folks might be a little different, but still, it would be unusual to have to wait past 8:00 for breakfast at most places. With Maggie and George, after a Saturday night filled with fun and music, 8:00 is clearly not a target time for “forks up†at the breakfast table.
Eventually, however, George is in the kitchen. He doesn’t seem particularly happy, and he certainly doesn’t want any loud noises around him, but I sense he’s searching for some zen harmony as he begins to orchestrate the components of what is to become our breakfast. Ingredients from the garden and the refrigerator come together like tributaries flowing toward a rich river, and Maggie assures us that this will all flow into something worth the wait.
We do our best to stay out of George’s way. He gets grouchy whenever someone invades his space in search of water or coffee, grumbling and scowling, but magic is happening – it’s in the air.
Turns out Maggie is right. Breakfast is truly great cuisine. A little down-home midwestern fare, a little southern delight, and a whole lot of magical mojo. I’m not sure if George’s hangover is a requirement for his breakfast to be this wonderful. I suppose it’d be worth a little experimentation. However, if I go back, I’ll be sure and do it on a Saturday night when some good music and lots of drink will flow, hoping for a repeat of this unforgettable morning dining creation.
George’s breakfast at the Concord House is made for a guy like me. It’s not only good, but there’s LOTS of it. Simply stated, I make a pig of myself…
Bellies full, smiles on our faces, we climb on the bikes and head down to the Katy Trail to continue our journey eastward. This section of the Katy Trail east of Marthasville is more of the small-town farm country we’ve been riding through for the last 20 or 30 miles. My friends ride with me to Augusta, where they turn around to head back to the Concord, and I continue alone riding east on my journey toward the east coast.
It’s been an enjoyable 3 days of riding with good friends who I’ve known most of my life. We dawdled a lot, riding at a real easy pace all the time. I’m reminded of the value of old friends – folks we’ve known most of our life. Rick and I have known each other since we were 10 years old or so. Realizing that we’re nearing the place where we’ll part, I wonder how long it will be until I see him again. I don’t want it to be long, but the last gap was several years. Why do we let so much time pass?…
As we exchange hugs, I’m sad to be leaving them behind. Like so many times in life, I turn and face east, continuing my journey. Behind me I feel the comfort of people I’ve known well and loved deeply for so long. Ahead of me a breeze is in my face, unknown adventure calls.
Seeking…
I’ve been chomping at the bit all morning to let the legs loose a bit, and put some miles behind me. As I wave and start riding east on the trail, I kick the pace up to a high level, keeping it there for hours. My legs are rested, full of energy, and ready to work. This flat and windless trail is the perfect place to open them up and let them run as hard as they can.
It’s a Sunday, so there are folks out on the trail. The closer I get to St Louis, the more populated the trail is. I live in the Denver area, which has one of the best bike trail systems in the country, so I’m used to riding on well-used trails. If you’re looking for remote and lonely, this eastern section of the trail on a September Sunday probably doesn’t fit the bill.
However, the people make it nice in many ways. Lots of happy folks, enjoying a beautiful day. The air smells great, a hint of autumn on the edges. It’s warm and sunny.
Once again, life is good.
At one point, the trail goes right past a Ted Drew’s, which is a local St Louis frozen custard place that folks love. Normally I’d stop and enjoy a cone, but I’m feeling so darned good with this hard riding that I don’t want to stop – I’m making great time!
I should mention that there are a couple fairly congested places as I get closer to St Louis. And without a doubt, folks are less openly friendly the closer I get to the city. But I never feel like it’s dangerous.
It’s mid-day by the time I reach the old river town of St Charles, MO. I’ve covered about 30 miles since leaving my friends, and my water bottles are empty. I’m not sure if there will be any other services between here and Alton, so I want to start with full water bottles and good hydration.
I eat lunch at a cute little cafe just off the trail. There are several cyclists hanging out, and I ask several about the trail continuing east – toward Alton. Nobody appears to ride that way – everyone seems to use St Charles as the trailhead. I strike up a conversation with a couple gals from the area who are out enjoying the trail. One of them has a boyfriend in Boulder, so we talk a lot about the trails around the Denver area. They’ve never ridden further up the trail here either, though they ride the trail often starting here in St Charles.
It feels like I’m headed into the unknown as I mount back up and head further east on the trail. From here, the trail is actually continuing on the northeast bearing it’s followed for a while, skirting to the north of the St Louis area. Immediately, it’s clear that this section of trail is rarely used. It’s well-maintained, but from St Charles to the end of the trail, (about 12 miles), I don’t see a single rider on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.
At the end of the trail, well, it just ends. There’s no big trailhead parking lot or anything. In fact, I buzz right past the last road – a place where there’s a little parking – and end up along the RR tracks in a bunch of fist-sized gravel. I find my way back to the road, and head north on Machens Road until I get to highway 94, where I can continue east.
It’s as flat as flat can get, riding along the Mississippi flood plain here. I wind my way through some back roads to avoid the highway, ending up in West Alton after about 10 miles. They’re having some sort of small-town fair this weekend, and I stop for a couple minutes to admire some of the old tractors hanging out – presumably participating in a tractor pull.
I pick up highway 67 here. For the first couple miles, there’s a bike path that parallels the highway, but eventually I have to get up on the highway to cross the bridge. There’s a good shoulder on the highway, but it’s full of glass and crap. The view of the bridge across the Mississippi is fantastic as you approach it like this from the west, and I find myself slowing down to enjoy it and snap a few pictures.
Although most if my days are pretty well-planned along this trip – at least my starting and ending points – today is a little loose in terms of planning. I’d originally planned on taking all of today as a rest day in Marthasville, then having a big day of riding tomorrow to end up in Greenville, IL. However, when I found out my friends had to leave on Sunday to get back home, I decided to get some of the miles done today. As I cross the bridge into Illinois, and look back over the last few hours of riding on this beautiful afternoon, I realize how glad I am to have made this choice. I had a tremendous breakfast with really interesting folks, spend a couple more hours riding with friends who are dear to me, then enjoy a few hours of hard riding along a great trail on a warm autumn afternoon.
As I cross the bridge into historic Alton, IL, I consider finding a historic little hotel to stay in. It’s a beautiful old river town. But decide to get a few more miles in and just find any sort of little motel. After a mile or two headed down the bike path along the river, I feel a few drops of rain so I decide to try using my Garmin to see where hotels might be along my path. I spend enough time to realize that I’m not likely to come on a motel for quite a while on the route I’m taking, so decide to turn back and find a place in Alton after all.
The first place my GPS suggests looks like it might be an old historic hotel, so I ride there, discovering that it’s old for sure, and might be historic, but certainly isn’t a place I’d want to go into. Bed bugs would be a given, and probably the least of my worries in this place.
So I look for a B&B, finding a place called The Beall Mansion that sounds pretty cool, even it if’s a little pricey. I talk to them on the phone, and head their way.
The Beall Mansion is one of several large mansions along what they call “Millionaire’s Rowâ€, up on the hill. I suppose these were the homes for the barons and tycoons that amassed wealth back in the 19th century, maybe running riverboats or other shipping operations?
Depending on your point of view, these folks might have been robber barons or titans of enterprise. Either way, they had most of the wealth, and had the big houses up on the hill. Tonight, I get to stay in one of the big houses up on this hill – as-if I were one of those robber barons or titans of enterprise.
I find that the only room I’m willing to pay for is the Butler’s Quarters, way up on the top floor. As I schlep my stuff up the stairs, I find it interesting how you can see the division of classes as you rise up through the house. My little hovel can only be reached via that “back stairsâ€, but even here the division is evident.
Our culture has changed a bit now, and we don’t like to have that division quite so evident in the same ways. As the “lower class†continues to expand in numbers in our economy, and the tiny “upper class†continues to amass more of the wealth with each passing year, I wonder if we’ll soon be moving to these more blatant signs of class division. Back in the middle of the 19th century, folks accepted that there were the very wealthy, and that these few held all the power, and that they were probably “better than†the rabble in some way. That they somehow “deserved†to be wealthy. Kind of like the old notion that the King is King because God wants him to be King. This seemed to be OK with everyone. As we moved into and through the 20th century, the wealth distributed itself out, and we moved further toward this American ideal of equality, those notions of blatant class division became less popular.
How long will it stay so, I wonder as I climb the servant’s stairway? At the very top of the stairs are two rooms. One is my “Butler’s Quartersâ€, and the other must be for the head housekeeper or something like that – the head of the female staff perhaps.
Walking into my room, I find I actually like it quite a bit. It’s cozy, but not cramped. Of course, it’s been decked out as a nice room in a modern B&B, so it’s certainly nicer than it would have been for the butler who lived here 150 years ago, but nonetheless I find I like the room a lot. On hot summer days, I imagine this room is more than just a little warm, way up on the top floor of this mansion. But on this cool late summer evening, with the windows open and the birds singing outside, it’s heaven for me.
By the time I get showered, wash my clothes and hang them to dry, it’s too late to find supper anywhere close. So I wander down to the main floor, where there’s an absurdly large assortment of chocolates and candies of all sorts. There’s a little “almost healthy†food too, but mostly I just chow down on chocolate. Oh, and there’s a snifter in the corner with brandy too, which I help myself to as well.
This place is GREAT!
Loaded up on a chocolate high, mellowed by some delicious brandy, I drift off to sleep in my butler’s room, delighted that I happened on this wonderful place. I don’t know if Jim and Sandy will be able to make a go of this in the long run. It must be a TREMENDOUS amount of work to keep it up. But they clearly love the old place, and it shows.
I wish them the absolute best, and hope I can get back through here another time to stay in one of the nicer rooms, though I do love my little Butler’s Quarters. In many ways, I think I prefer the Butler’s Quarters. Sitting back and thinking about it, this feels like a good place for me. We’ve all got our place, or maybe a set of places that work well for us. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t like it one bit when a few people “lord†their power over other people, and “keep them in their placeâ€. I’m a stubborn SOB who’ll argue with a rock if I think the rock is trying to tell me what to do.
We all need to decide and figure out for ourselves what and where “our place†is. I suspect it changes a bit as we move through life, life happens around us, and we mold ourselves into our ever-changing self with life’s help.
But I do think I have a place – or set of places – that suits me well. I’ll bet we all do if we think about it. I like being in a “place†where I can provide service – where I can help other folks in some way. I see this reflected in many aspects of my life. In my career now, I like positions where I can sit in the background and be a quiet advisor to folks – usually younger than me and full of ambition – to help them do their job and advance their career. I’m done with big corner offices, and prefer the quiet place to sit, observe, listen, and be of service and value when I can.
I like the Butler’s Quarters – it’s a good place for me at this point in my life.
Such nice and easy words, though too many folks have turned them into a club. On one side are the folks who insist that only Christians get to celebrate the holidays, so if you say “Happy Holidays†instead of “Merry Christmasâ€, you’re doing some terrible damage to the Christian holiday – you might even be offending the Most High, who’s pretty busy running the whole universe by the way.
To which I say, “Get over it.â€
Anyone can celebrate these wonderful holidays in whatever way they want. Just because I call myself a Christian doesn’t mean I get to own this month of the year, and dictate the rules to the holiday that everyone else must follow. To paraphrase Ebenezer, I’ll keep Christmas however I want, and you get to keep it however you want.
On the other side are the folks who insist on being offended if someone does use the phrase “Merry Christmasâ€, as-if uttering this phrase works some sort of dark magic and is part of an evil conversion ritual.
