Category: Love, Friendship, Family

Day 28 – Alton to Greenville in Illinois

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 “master”.

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 “service”.

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-ness”. 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?”

“You said other big semi’s had been up here”, I replied.

“Not big trucks like that – I meant just a little bigger than a pickup truck.”

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 “road”, 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?”, Erik asked me as we slipped under them.

“Oh nothing”, I said. “They’re just letting us know the slope isn’t groomed back here, and there are lots of trees”.

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!”

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?”

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?”

“Well, I’m not sure yet”, 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.”

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…