Through the Fog and Into the Flint Hills

Well before daybreak on day 5, we’re in the saddle and headed east from Wellington. A fitful night in a loud and hot room has left us a little less rested than we’d like. We stop at a c-store before leaving town, and are astounded by the viscous ferocity of the mosquito population here. Stopping the bike is gonna be something we’ll want to avoid this morning, lest the little winged critters carry us off.

After the storms of the night before, this morning is covered in a dense and beautiful fog. Our enjoyment of the mystery and beauty of the foggy morning is cut a little short as the city roads narrow down into highway headed east from town. The highway is narrow, the shoulder is non-existent, and the traffic is VERY heavy. Add to this the fact that the dense fog has cut visibility tremendously, and you end up with 2 very nervous bike riders. There’s nothing friendly about the honks we get from cars on this stretch of road.

After about 10 miles, we go through the little town of Oxford. Here, the road actually widens out a bit with a little shoulder, and the traffic drops to a fraction of what it was between Wellington and Oxford. This is a much nicer ride now, as we make our way into the town of Winfield feeling a lot less nervous than we did during the first 10 miles of the morning.

Winfield is a town that feels both healthy and quaint. Well maintained and vibrant, it’s home to a big bluegrass festival in the fall of the year, as well as many other regional events throughout the year. Downtown is still full of activity, and you feel good when you’re in town. We find a little diner downtown that we like the look of, and step in for some breakfast. The humidity is so thick you could cut it with a knife, so leaving any gear on the bike to “dry” is a joke – I take it inside with me instead.

Once again, a chicken-fried steak and eggs breakfast puts a smile on my face. Listening to the folks moving around us in the diner, it’s clear that most everyone here knows one-another. The gal who runs the place goes out of her way to say hi to everyone, and stay connected. While I pay the check, she asks me about where we’re riding from and to, so I give her the 10-second synopsis. As we’ve seen so many times on this trip, this gal is genuinely and sincerely concerned for us, telling me repeatedly to be sure and stay hydrated because of the big heat they’ve been having, and stay out of the way of the cars and trucks. Her chicken-fried steak has filled my belly with warmth and fuel, and her caring spirit fills my soul with strength and nourishment.

When Dave and I started on this trip, our plan called for options by the time we got to someplace around this point in the state. If the winds had been strong and consistent from the west, we could just keep going east. With good winds, we figured we could end up with something well in excess of 800 miles before we ran out of time – ending up someplace in Missouri. We had a couple other options as well. At this point in the ride, though, we’ve been fighting some version of a headwind for way more of the trip than we’d hoped, and frankly we’re tired of the fight. At dinner the evening before, we’d decided that on the remaining days of our trip, we’d determine direction and destination based on the wind forecast – avoiding wind in the face whenever possible.

This morning the wind is blowing from the south, with a bit of east in it as had been its habit during most of the last several days. Stepping out of the diner, we look at each other and agree that north is the direction of choice for the remainder of the day.

This northward turn through the Flint Hills has always been my most favored option, and I’m delighted that the wind will push us there today. Having grown up in Kansas, and having gone to college in the northern Flint Hills, the place feels more like home to me than any other place on earth. I have fond memories of bike rides and hikes from my college days, and have hunted in the area many times since.

I think most of us have a “place” that we call home. I think our heart puts roots deeply into the substance of the “Place” that we call home, linking our heart to this “Place” forever. Whenever we get close to our home – either in body, mind, or spirit – the place sings to us, calling us to reach out and feel the connection. I’ve always thought of the Flint Hills as this Place for me – this home of the heart – and I feel the song that it’s singing today, pulling my heart toward its heart.

Headed north from Winfield, we’re riding on a section of highway that I rode decades ago when I was in college. I’d attended the bluegrass festival, and was riding my bike back home to Manhattan. I’d left way before sunrise, and had very fond memories of a beautiful pre-dawn and early morning ride all the way up through El Dorado, before the winds came up and changed the complexion of the ride. I remember watching the antics of the Scissortail Flycatchers to the side of the road as the light was just coming up, a nice and easy tailwind, and essentially zero traffic.

This morning I’m a bit disappointed, as our ride doesn’t match that memory. The traffic is pretty heavy for the first 15 miles or so as we head north on US-77, but then diminishes quite a bit. The traffic is largely trucks, though they are courteous for the most part – giving us as much road as they can. I wonder why I have no memory of this busy section of highway from 35 years ago – has the traffic increased that much, or was it the day of the week and the time of the day 35 years ago that made it so much nicer? I’m thinking it’s probably a combination of those 2 things, plus something else that’s got me thinking more and more – the selectivity of memory. Probably the ride 35 years ago wasn’t as perfect and idyllic as the ride my memory has created. I’m sure it was a good ride, but I also think my mind has created the ride that it wants to remember, using the best pieces of that ride 35 years ago, and ignoring a few pieces that it didn’t like.

Interesting. Just how much of the life that I remember, and that I claim as “me”, is mythology that my mind has created?

It’s been only a few weeks ago that one of the RAAM riders was hit around El Dorado by a motorist. I remember reading the account of the accident. Thankfully, the RAAM rider was only injured, but it was one more reminder of just how biased our laws and the judgement of some of our law enforcement officers is. The facts were pretty clear – the bicycle had been riding on the shoulder, and the car had wandered over onto the shoulder and struck him. I don’t think I need more information than this to know that the driver of the car was being careless. He may have been much worse than careless, but at the very least, he was being careless. A person might read this and assume that he would have been ticketed for careless driving at the very least, and most probably ticketed for something more serious. He had, after all, caused and accident with injuries. But alas, as is so often the case, the driver received no ticket, and the bike rider went to the hospital.

I’ll spare the reader an extended soapbox session. I think my opinion is pretty apparent. I’ll just say that this is one of those glaring areas of injustice in many areas of our country – one that results in death and injury to many people. It’s also a glaring cultural hypocrisy. On the one hand, we want to believe that we encourage people to be healthy and fit, and encourage a decrease in the use of oil. As much as anything else, the objective of lowering our consumption of oil is a national security issue. Half our defense budget is spent defending private oil companies and their assets. That’s a great big chunk of welfare that we as taxpayers give away to these folks. Even with that, we find ourselves mired in significant “conflagrations” all across the globe, as our foreign policy is so heavily influenced by our addiction to oil.

With this in mind, we talk about our need to use less oil. You’d hope that the talk would be backed up by some significant incentives to get folks to use less oil. Riding a bike sure qualifies. You’d also think that we might even modify our laws of the road, to give folks like bike riders a bit less to worry about from cars.

But alas, the opposite is true. In case after case, the price that drivers of motor vehicles pay in the form of penalty or punishment for violating the thin rights that bicycles do have is paltry or non-existent. Officers investigating accidents routinely seem to view the bike as something that shouldn’t have been there, rather than viewing the driver of the vehicle as someone who was acting irresponsibly.

It’s not just Kansas – most states have this imbalance of justice and stark hypocrisy. And I’m sure that El Dorado and Wichita are no more dangerous than most American cities. I ride roads and highways all the time. But on this trip, we’ve had such overwhelmingly good experiences with roads and drivers, and I’m a little concerned that it won’t take too much rotten urban traffic to sully some really good and consistent “goodness”.

I’ve been thinking about this as I’ve been riding this morning, enduring more traffic than I like. Peggy’s in Wichita visiting family, and I’m thinking about calling and asking if she’d be willing to meet us where we are, and give us a lift to the other side of El Dorado in exchange for lunch. I suggest this to Dave, who agrees with no need at all for arm-twisting.

Our target today is to make it to either Cottonwood Falls or Council Grove. The heat’s rising quickly, and if it were any more humid it’d be fog. Cottonwood Falls would be 120 miles, which shouldn’t be too bad with some tailwind. The ride that Peggy so graciously gives us cuts 52 miles out of our ride for the day, dropping us off at Cassoday, and we head north. We’re now on one of my favorite highways in the country – one that I rode many times 35 years ago – K177.

Within a mile or two, I begin to notice a bird that’s a pleasant companion on the ride. While I’m not positive, I’m thinking that this bird is a Grasshopper Sparrow. Every 100 yards or so, it seems like there’s one of these little guys on a fencepost on one side of the road or the other, singing their song. It really becomes comforting to have this predictable serenade along the road – much like the Meadowlark serenade a few days ago east of Meade, only these birds are even more numerous. I’m reminded yet again of that audible and aesthetic quality of a tailwind – the ability to hear the sounds around you rather than the rush of wind in your ears.

It’s a glorious tailwind that we have now, one that’s got a little east to it, but it’s mostly out of the south, and it’s blowing a steady 15 MPH or so. Oh, the joy of a tailwind… Sure it’s blistering hot and more than a little humid, but things are pretty darned good right now.

Well, there are the saddle sores…

Did I mention – way back at Day 1 or Day 2 – that I’d begun to develop some saddle sores? I may have suggested that this fact would become more irritating as the days rolled on.

The days have now rolled on, and the miles have stacked up. The saddle sores are irritating to say the least.

I’ve never had saddle sores before. I suppose I’ve had them develop on a long ride, but then they have time to heal before the next long ride, so I’ve never really experienced the, shall we say inconvenience, of saddle sores like I am experiencing them now.

If you’re in the saddle for 10 hours a day, and you maintain an average cadence of 80 RPM, that means you’re turning the pedals close to 5000 times and hour – 50,000 times in the day. That’s a bunch of times to be doing something that irritates a place that’s already raw and open. Need I say more?

As I’m riding north on one of my favorite highways on earth, enjoying the wonderful wind that we’ve put at our back, I’m finding myself working to keep the discomfort of the saddle sores out of my mind. And it’s becoming more and more work all the time. I’m really looking forward to being off the bike tonight.

On a normal day, I probably stop more than Dave likes in order to take pictures. I’ve actually gotten pretty handy at just pulling the camera out of my jersey pocket, pointing it in the right direction, and taking pictures as I ride. Today, though, I’m finding that I’m looking for every chance to stop the bike and take pictures. And it’s kind of a neat little thing that I’m discovering – I’m actually enjoying the additional stops. Sure I’m enjoying the few minutes of breaking that interface between me and the saddle, but I’m also enjoying the ride a lot.

We’re back to that “journey vs destination” discussion, aren’t we?

Today I have a tailwind, and I’d thought we’d get in some high miles. I’m struggling in my mind to balance a few things right now. First, like a fire that just won’t go out, the voice of a few tender saddle sores is increasing in volume. Second, after only about 70 miles of actual riding today, we’ll be at a quaint old historic town that many consider to be the heart of the Flint Hills, a place that would be a great place to take a day off. There’s a big chunk of me that was kind of hoping we’d find a place to stay here for 2 nights and enjoy a day off tomorrow. Third, there’s that destination spirit inside of me that wants to get something over 100 miles in today. I’m accepting that it’s unlikely that we’re going to find a way to do 100+ miles today and still stay in the heart of the Flint Hills, but I’m finding it hard to stop after only 70 miles. On the other hand, the Song of the Saddle Sores is trying to get me to see another point of view on the “only 70 miles” thing…

One of the things that I’m surprised by today is the how much of K-177 winds its way through the flat bottoms rather than rolling up and down the hills. This doesn’t match my memory at all. I’m thinking that this must be due in large part to the fact that the riding I did in college was generally further north in the Flint Hills, and that I’ve just forgotten this section. I’ll find out in the next couple of days that this is generally true, but riding along today I’m reminded once more about the selectivity of memory.

After many miles of generally flat riding along a creek, we finally start to climb again. I didn’t realize until now how much I’ve been looking forward to these hills, and this first real opportunity to climb gets me up out of the saddle and into the rhythm of climbing that I love so much. The effect of the tailwind that is essentially blowing at the same speed that I’m climbing, (which means that I have no air moving across me), and the very humid air, is that the sweat is flowing off of me. I mean this very literally. It’s not that there are drops of sweat drip drip drip, but that there is this almost constant flow of wet stuff falling from my face and head. I keep myself leaning well over the bars while I’m climbing, so that the stream of sweat is falling on the pavement in front of me rather than running down my bike. I don’t recall ever having sweat pour off of me at quite this rate while riding before.

At the top of this little hill is a scenic turnout – this one with some signs describing the Flint Hills. We pull into this little turnout to enjoy the scenery and read the history.

I should note here two things. First, Dave and I never missed one of these scenic turnouts or historical markers – we really enjoyed them. Second, we both commented many times that there should be far more of these markers and turnouts than there are. There’s history all along the road. Every “place” has it’s story to tell. These stories should be told.

Of course, when it comes to telling stories and relating history, it’s always a matter of perspective, isn’t it? The storyteller always gets to tell the story the way he wants it told. The winner of the wars always gets to write the history. This was evident in the signs that we read – without a doubt is was plain to see. It was frustrating in some respects, revealing and thought-provoking in other respects. Just like my own memory, and the mythology that it’s created in my mind, we build our history and our mythology in a way that makes us look like the people that we want to be, ignoring the warts and smelly parts, highlighting the nice parts.

There’s a side of me that’s pretty beholding to a sense of justice. (A wise mentor once pointed out to me repeatedly that this little piece of my personality could be viewed as either a feature or a flaw – sometimes as both – and that it is important to understand clearly at any given time the degree to which it was a feature or a flaw. See Dale, I was occasionally listening…) This side of me gets pretty outraged when history get’s written that shows only a tiny slice of the truth – ignoring huge swaths that create an important context for the facts that we want to remember. In our culture generally – and we certainly saw it on this trip – the history that gets written largely ignores the people and the habitat that existed here for thousands of years, and concentrates instead on the last 150 years – the years when this land has been controlled by our own culture.

There’s also a side of me that’s more curious and academic than outraged – a side that understands a bit about human nature, and enjoys learning more about it. This side of me sees our tendency to be selective in the history that we tell, and understands it for what it is – a cultural coping mechanism. This side of me is fascinated rather than outraged. Today as I’ve ridden a road that I’ve ridden in the past, I’ve been reminded of how selective my memory can be – how it can easily push aside information that doesn’t fit into the “memory image” that my mind wants to paint, and highlight those pieces that fit well into the picture that I’m trying to maintain.

The truth is that the America that we’ve become did some rotten things to get where we are. That doesn’t make me or you a bad person. I don’t think that I’m responsible for the actions of my ancestors. I am, however, responsible for my own actions. Telling the truth, and taking the time and energy to understand and acknowledge the truth about the past is something that I’m absolutely responsible for. Failing to do this – denying the wrongs of past generations – this is something that starts to draw me into some level of culpability. I think we learned that quite well when we spent so much energy making sure that the atrocities of the Nazi’s were very public and were acknowledged. Even today you see those who desperately want to re-write history into something that whitewashes the evil that occurred.

In my opinion, most successful entities did some pretty rotten things in the process of becoming more successful. In America today, we’re part of a culture that wiped out entire cultures and civilizations on our way to conquering the lands that we eventually consolidated into this country that we now call ours. We hunted and cultivated entire ecosystems into extinction or near extinction in our hunger and greed for yet more farm and pasture land. That’s all in the past, and I can’t go back and un-do what happened. The truth is that I realize many benefits in my life today because of the evil of previous generations. I’m not afraid to recognize this, and I’m not willing to whitewash the past – it is what it is.

I think that there’s a healing that can only occur in the arms of the truth. Embracing the truth of the past – even when it’s not a pretty truth, or a flattering truth, can liberate me from bondage to that which is evil and ugly in that past. Through this liberating embrace of the truth, I open paths to the future that remain closed so long as I am a slave to lies of either commission or omission regarding the past. If the story of the past is a lie, you see, then the road that I claim as my past is not a road that leads to where I really am. By accepting the truth of the path that leads to where I stand today, I’m able to move honestly toward the future that I truly want.

This “truth about the past” thing is heavy on my mind as I enjoy the rest stop at the top of the hill. All around me are ancient hills and valleys, once covered in a sea of prairie teaming with giant herds of animal diversity. The earliest white folks who came into this area spoke of vast herds of antelope, bison, elk, and other animals. They spoke of native grasses so tall that you had to stand in the stirrups of your horse to see across the top of the prairie. This was prime habitat for many tribes of people too – a crossroads of sorts where the land of several nations of people intersected.

But there’s very little talk of this on the signs that I read. The words that I read on these signs minimize the impact of white civilization on this ancient land, blaming the demise of the Bluestem prairie to things like “wind”, as-if the wind started blowing out here on the prairie about the same time that white settlers arrived. In fairness, many things are mentioned on these signs, but the overall effect is to minimize the bare and essential truth. The truth tells us that when European style civilization arrived here, the existing civilizations were wiped out. In addition, the Eden-like vast savannah was subjugated, plowed, cultivated, and fenced. The native flora and fauna were decimated, replaced with domesticated animals that could live in pastureland, pasture grasses that were more to the liking of those domesticated animals, and in the bottom-lands the land was tilled for farm production.

Plainly spoken, we changed this place to be what we wanted at the time, and in doing so, we decimated the wonder that was already here. We need to say this plainly. And in saying so, we need to move on – what’s done is done – it can’t be undone. But by realizing what we’ve done, perhaps we can make choices and decisions moving forward that are less destructive when possible. You see that happening on much of the land around this area, as more and more the ranchers and managers move back to native grasses and management practices that are more in line with the “will of nature”. It’ll take generations to repair much of the damage, but you see great progress already.

I mock the words on the signs – probably more than I should – as Dave and I coast out of the turnout area. It’s a long, sweet coast down toward Cottonwood Falls, and I’m really looking forward to filling my water bottles with ice and liquid. We reach a c-store at the edge of Cottonwood Falls, and ask the clerk whether she knows of any good B&Bs in town. If we’re going to stay for a rest day, we want to stay somewhere nice. She doesn’t really know of anywhere, so we saddle-up and get back on the road.

It’s easy to pass right by Cottonwood Falls. As is the case with so many rural towns, the highway doesn’t go through the middle of town – it skirts along an edge of town. There’s a doctoral thesis that someone should do on this someday – this notion of the evolution of a rural town and how the placement of the highway route through town impacts the development of the town. Like everything, there are many factors that will surely be involved, but I can easily imagine that this placement of the highway is a critical one. Of course, 150 years ago, towns were made or broken by the route that the railroad company chose. Later it became the highway, though I don’t think that the highway decisions have gotten the attention that they deserve.

Dave and I almost ride past Cottonwood Falls, but decide at the last minute that we should at least ride through the downtown area to see if there’s something to our liking for a place to stay. We take the old carriage road across the river and into town, and just on the other side of the bridge, we see a place that captures our attention immediately – the Millstream Motel.

When we were googling around for B&B options in Cottonwood Falls, this motel always came up, and I never checked it out. It sounded like a regular old motel, and I kept picturing something out along the highway. While this would have been dandy for any other stop, we really hoped for something out of the way and quiet for a rest day.

I couldn’t have been more wrong about the Millstream Motel. We can tell immediately that this is a great place to spend a rest day. The place has a good feel to it – a nice energy all around it. We call it our home for a rest day.

My destination focused mind is a bit disappointed, but it’s all alone. Everything else about my heart and mind are delighted with where we’ve stopped for the day.

And the part of me that has to put up with some blazing saddle sores is ecstatic…