All in all, the Katy is a wonderful trail through a beautiful part of the nation. I’d eagerly ride all or part of the trail again in the future. While I don’t believe I’m qualified to proclaim that the Katy Trail is the crown jewel of the American rail-trail system, there’s no doubt in my mind that at the very least it deserves a prominent place in the jewelry box where the crown jewels are kept!
The air is thick with fog as we glide through the empty streets of Clinton, our first pedal strokes of the trip filled with shared excitement as we make our way to the trailhead. Once there, we stop and turn off our lights, taking pictures of beautiful webs hanging heavy with moisture, shining brightly with the hidden sunlight that works hard to penetrate the dense fog from somewhere in front of us.
Pedaling again, I find it impossible to ride with glasses on, a nonstop stream of dew sweating across them as we roll through the thick mist, with visibility at maybe 50 feet. The muffled crunch of our tires is the only sound we hear as we spin across the finely crushed stone that surfaces the trail. It’s a spectacu- larly beautiful morning that we’re winding through, wet webs shimmering in the trees that line the trail, early- morning light soft and warm as it seeps through the thick cloud that rests on the shoulders of the eastern Missouri farmland we cruise across.
As the fog slowly melts away, we see the landscape around us alternate between woods and field. The wooded sections are generally early growth deciduous woodland, young trees that hang over the trail and create a canopy, the roof of a tunnel pierced by the trail. The open sections usually have cultivated field on one side, commonly late-season beans but interspersed with occasional corn stubble or alfalfa. Rich scents saturate the air around these fields, sometimes lush and verdant, often damp and stagnant, occasionally sharp and dry.
Back at our B&B, it takes us only moments to fall into deep sleep on a sinfully comfortable mattress, the cool September breeze caressing its way through the room. Remember, dear reader, that a shower was the one time that I am always glad to have paid for lodging after a day of cycling? Nights of sleep like we experience at the High Street Victorian Bed & Breakfast come in a close second.
The slowly swirling surface of the Missouri River stretches out beyond the porch. It’s easy for my imagination to conjure up an image of Jim coaching Huck Finn as the two of them drift down the river on their raft. Notwithstanding the fact that Jim and Huck drifted down the Mississippi River rather than the Missouri River, the image is palpable here in the heart of Mark Twain country, and it brings a warm smile to my face as I enjoy another piece of leftover pizza.
Mentors within our society talk about the value of building a good career, of making something of yourself in the world. There’s talk of the importance of friends, but that talk is usually within the context that we need to make friends wherever we are, and that those friends are an important part of our life.
Without a doubt, all this advice and wisdom is true and important. But rarely do we recognize the real value of friendships that span a lifetime. When we’re young, we can’t fathom that this is a big deal, as we’re moving through the adventure of living, greeting life where it meets us, building as we go with the new tools and gifts and people that we meet.
I think it’s only when we reach the wise side of 60, as I have, that the real value of these lifelong friendships becomes apparent. It’s possible that I was taught this when I was younger, and that I simply didn’t pay attention. Maybe I heard it back in those wonderful days when I knew everything, before I entered this dark time of life when there are things I don’t know. Back before I learned that I’m not invincible, before I learned that listening is more important than speaking. All the more reason, I think, that we as parents and grandparents need to teach this lesson to those who depend on us for real wisdom, those who don’t yet know that they need this wisdom.
This revelation doesn’t smack me in the face this morning, but it creeps along the edges of my thoughts as we pedal along, making small talk occasionally. Rick and I share history that goes back half a century. We haven’t stayed in close touch over the years, but we were close friends before college, knew each other in college and after college, and have gotten together occasionally over the years. Our small talk reveals just how far back our history goes, and just how much we know about each other.
It feels good to have someone know so much about me. Someone with whom I share such a long history.
Our conversation dances around those subjects that most 60-something folks probably talk about: failing memories and changes in our attitudes as we’ve gotten older. And of course, it’s impossible for two men in their 60’s to have a conversation and not complain about the fact that we have to pee so much more often than we did when we were young and robust.
I like having these conversations. It makes me feel more normal, like things will be okay. It’s hard to feel your brain changing, forgetting things more than you once did, and not feel worried. I feel great about the life I’ve had and the life I’m having, and I have absolutely zero fear about walking out of this life. But Alzheimer’s is not the path I want to take. Every time I forget something that I don’t think I should have forgotten, I worry. But talking to other folks my age who have similar expe- riences helps me feel like it’ll be okay.
“I asked my doctor about it,” I say to Rick. “He said not to worry too much about it. Says it’s common for memory to change as we age. He gave me this little verbal quiz as a high-level screen, and he said that really, he didn’t see any need to test any further.”
Rick is staring off into the distance. I learned a long time ago that Rick does this, and while it might appear that he’s not paying attention, he is. I sit for a few seconds, then I add, “I hope he’s right.”
“What sorts of questions were on the quiz?” Rick asks.
“I can’t remember.” I don’t say it to be funny, but in the context, it makes us both laugh heartily.
About six miles into the ride, the rain starts up again. Beginning as a light drizzle, it intensifies to a downpour within 20 minutes. Before long it’s a torrential rain so heavy it pulls leaves off trees, big green wads carried through the river of water falling from the dark sky above us. Rain so thick and heavy it ob- scures my visibility beyond a few yards, causing me to slow further. Thunder explodes every few seconds, often close enough that it’s only a second or two behind the burst of lightning that created the explosion. I’d dearly love to stop and seek some shelter, but all that’s around me are trees and trail.
This is not a fun moment. We joke a bit as we ride, or at least we try to joke. It’s interesting how moments like this can bring a couple closer. Not that I’d choose this particular moment, or choose the misery we’re feeling, but it’s clear we’re feeling it side by side, in a manner of speaking. We bond tightly as these miles pass, knowing that we’re united in our misery, and we’ll find a way through it together.
Shared adventures form an important cement for a relationship. The adventure unfolds, stirring moments of delight together with moments of misery, forming a glue that defines the relationship and binds it together. It can be a volatile mixture, and as with any volatile mixture I’m sure there are times when there’s more blowup than binding. This morning, with me and Christine, the strengthening connection feels good, a powerful occasion of kinship. There’s a covered bench by the Weldon Spring trailhead, where we stop to try and get some protection from the lightning. We sit together on the bench, and I wrap my arm around Christine as she pulls herself deeply into my arms. I move immediately from misery to bliss as we share warmth and comfort, somewhat safe beneath a tiny covering, rain pummeling the ground around our feet while wind, lightning, and thunder rage through the woods above us.
As the rain slows a bit, I take our daily selfie to send to the kids. They turn the image into a meme later, one where Christine is saying something akin to “and this is Neil’s idea of fun … ”
Squishing my way through the front door, I see that Christine has found us a table to sit at and is peeling wet gear off. She’s smiling, feeling wonderful to have a warm and dry place to take a break. There’s another couple at a table who appear to be cyclists but who are bone dry. We exchange a few words with them, discovering that they’re hanging out here waiting to see if the rain stops before they make their way down the trail. They’re starting their ride across the Katy here in Saint Charles, headed west, and if it rains all day, they’ll change their plans and start their ride tomorrow.
Christine grabs my hand and guides us over to the barista at the coffee counter, where she orders a latte. It seems that even the act of ordering the latte brings her happiness, and I have to admit that the hot black coffee that the barista hands to me is more than just hot liquid—it’s an icon of warmth that I wrap my hands around as we make our way back to our table.
Our walk to supper takes us west this time, away from the mansions, and the neighborhood around us evolves as we walk, soon reminding both of us of the working-class neighborhoods we grew up in. Five young men gather around an old Ford pickup truck, leaning on the truck, an open 12-pack of Budweiser resting on the tailgate and half consumed while they chat and laugh. They look our way as we pass, and I give them a little nod and slight smile, receiving the same in return.
A compact neighborhood grocery rests up against the aging sidewalk a block further down the street. A diminutive elderly lady makes her way to her car parked on the curb in front of the grocery, accompanied by a young grocery boy carrying her two bags of groceries. After placing the groceries in her trunk, he opens her car door and holds it patiently while she eases her way behind the wheel after deliberately placing what is proba- bly a tip into his palm. The scene caps off the nostalgic fog that we’ve both felt over the past couple of blocks as the neighborhood has such a sim- ilar feel to those we both grew up in. Christine reaches for my hand, and we walk hand in hand the rest of the way to supper.
