The Medicine Hills

Day 4 of our ride was the only day where I spent any significant amount if time riding ahead of Dave. I’m not sure how or why it happened. There were a few other times where I ended up setting the pace, but this was the only day where it happened for a fairly big chunk of the day. I don’t think that I was actually stronger than Dave was that day – I think I just ended up with a little more go-juice in the legs early in the day.

I’ve always wondered at the physiological ins and outs of why this happens – why we feel really strong on some days and not others. I don’t understand it at all, but it’s something I’ve watched and felt happen many times. On those days when you feel strong, it’s a real high – both physically and mentally. And spiritually – how does spiritual strength fit into those days of high physical strength I wonder? Where’s the chicken and where’s the egg?

We ride out of Coldwater before dawn, after the morning routine at the local c-store – filling bottles with water and ice, wolfing down a few calories. We have about 40 miles to ride before breakfast, and I’m looking forward to this section of the ride as much as any other section that we’ll do. This morning, we ride through the Medicine Hills of Kansas.

These hills are called by several names. The name that shows up on the road signs is “Gypsum Hills” for the gypsum that’s mined from them. I’ve heard that the Americans who lived here 200 years ago had other names for the hills, many of them translating to something like Medicine Hills. For hundreds of generations I suppose, the folks who lived here considered that these hills had some sort of magic – of medicine. There was something inherent and integral to these hills that was sacred and honored. There was even a river called the Medicine River, as folks believed that that water had curative powers as it flowed from the hills. I believe the river carries that name still.

This is an interesting juxtaposition to me – this difference in how we name this Place as a snapshot of the difference in the way that we see it.

On the one hand, we name the hills Gypsum Hills, because we take the Gypsum from the hills, and haul if off to be used elsewhere. Gypsum is primarily used to make wallboard – that material from which essentially all interior walls in our country are constructed. To the eyes of our culture today, the hills are a place where a mineral has been left for us to take, and use to construct things elsewhere.

To another people, the hills were named for the medicine or magic that they felt when they were here. When they came to this Place, there was an expansion and connection of Spirit in some way. After coming here, I can imagine that they felt enriched and enhanced in some way. When they left, there was something that they took with them as well – but it was a richness of spirit rather than a mineral. Perhaps they left something of themselves behind as well – I’m only imagining. The net effect, though, was that rather than taking something away from the hills, they brought themselves to the hills, and became something larger as a result. Nothing was taken – it was a symbiotic – maybe even synergistic – relationship. An ability to grow and gain without taking anything away.

In the first case, we find a thing and we take it – we haul if off in trucks and use if for the things that we are building elsewhere. In the second case, the Place gives a thing to us, but the Place is not depleted as a result.

One is taking, the other receiving a gift. One is redistributing a resource, the other discovering synergy.

I’m not suggesting that it’s somehow evil to mine the gypsum from the hills – that’s not what I’m saying at all. I think our culture and our mindset is very dependent on materials like gypsum in order to continue to build the world that we’re building. I don’t think that we’re evil in our outlook.

I’m only observing a difference in how Place is perceived by us today, and how it seems to have been observed by the Americans who were here before we were.

I choose to refer to this Place as the Medicine Hills. I suppose it’s because whenever I’m here, I feel that magic and that medicine. Out of respect for the magic in this wonderful little slice of Creation, I call it the Medicine Hills.

The first 20 miles or so of the ride keeps us in terrain much like we were riding through yesterday – rolling hills of green grass and rocky outcroppings. We see many places where ponds have been created at sites that appear to be springs, as there is no windmill feeding them water, and they lie just outside of watercourses. The traffic is light – as it has been generally all along our ride across US 160 – but we’re disappointed that a pretty good portion of what traffic does exist is comprised of big trucks – associated I assume with the gypsum mining.

The further we move into the hills, the deeper the hills become, and the wider they open beside us. The outcroppings changes their nature a bit, and “rises” or peaks can be seen in the landscape – sometimes they look almost like distant volcanos. The early morning light is perfect for revealing and highlighting the deep reds of the landscape beneath the green of the pasture. Most trips that I’ve taken through these hills have been in winter, or in dryer times, and I’m delighted to see the rich and lush green of the pasture covering the hills this season.

It’s common on the hills that Dave will pass me as we go up the hill, and then I pass him on the descent. I outweigh Dave by about 20 pounds, and that manifests itself very predictably in my slower ascents and faster descents. At the bottom of one of these early descents, I notice how strong my legs are feeling, and decide to go ahead and power up the ascent, finding that by the time I reach the top, Dave is still quite a ways behind. Since another descent is approaching, I decide to let my body set the pace that it likes, while I enjoy the scenery and the magic around me.

The first few hills this happens on, I’m not sure what to make of it. The combination of the frequent stops that I make while I ride – mostly to take pictures, but also because of aggressive hydration – and Dave’s greater strength always translate into Dave being out if front of me. I stop to take some pictures, and Dave catches up and pulls alongside me. I can tell that he’s working hard, so it’s not like he decided to just hang back and relax – I seem to be setting a pace that he’s good with.

We start rolling again, and I find it easiest to go ahead and pull away in front, and a nice gap opens between us. And I feel really good. Really good.

Many things seem to be in tune to make me feel so good. First, my body really seems to have hit it’s stride this morning. Second, my spirit is filled with good feelings as well, riding through these hills filled with good medicine. Third, I feel emotionally good about being in front for a change.

I’m not sure which is the chicken in this equation, and which is the egg. I recall as I ride hiking trips with my kids when they were little, and what a difference it made to put them in front. If they were following, the pace was much slower, and the complaining spirit rose easily in them. But put them in front, and let them set the pace, and they always set a significantly higher pace. Is that what’s happening here? Is Dave letting me set the pace so we’ll go faster? My gut says Dave isn’t consciously doing this, but the realization that this “leading” effect might be part of why I feel so good gives me great food for thought as I ride.

I wonder if this is a universal phenomenon? I wonder if the opposite happens with some people, depending on personality? I know for certain that when I’m in front and setting the pace, I feel a sense of responsibility that I like – that someone behind me is depending on me to set a good pace. Being in front is also more invigorating – making me feel like I need to keep the pace high or I’ll get caught maybe. Being in back makes me wonder if I’m holding people back. Being consistently in back is discouraging, as I’m constantly reminded that I’m not as strong as the guy who’s consistently in front.

I wonder a lot about the whole chicken and egg thing here. Did being in these hills this morning make me feel good and strong in spirit, and this then translated to physical well-being and strength, which put me in front, which made me feel good? Or was there some other order to what happened? Or maybe things just needed to come together harmoniously – a good day just formed by all things coming together?

This has pretty broad implications to me. If filling and feeding my spirit can result in such start physical results, then I need to modify my training program. Or if I’m able to glean strength of spirit from strong physical performance and good emotional feelings, then I need to modify my prayer routine.

I’m thinking through this stuff as I ride, interrupting my thoughts often with broad appreciation of the beauty of the place that I’m in. All this psychological stuff makes sense to me, and it’s fun to wonder how it might translate to the population as a whole, but something even more significant strikes me as I’m enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of this Place through which I’m riding:

How insignificant it all is in the big scheme of things. My selfish little thought games about what makes me feel good and what doesn’t make me feel good don’t amount to an itch on the ass of a flea within the context of this Place. Millions of years ago, this Place was a big inland sea. It dried up, and the geology of a shifting earth has pushed it up as rain and wind have eroded it. The result is some really cool landscape to the eye of a human.

For thousands of years, humans have related to this Place. Who knows the many ways that we’ve related to it, but we know that in recent history the hills have been revered as sacred and magic, and that right now we’re stripping the gypsum out of it and hauling it away to use all across the country. Tiny little humans moving around on this vast and beautiful Place, that’s been forming and evolving for millions of years.

And here I come, worried about why I feel better when I get to ride in front. Silly human…

There’s a pullout up at the top of the hill that I’m climbing, it’s marked as a scenic overlook. After all the great scenery that we’ve been immersed in over the last 20 miles or so, I figure this one must be really spectacular! I pull out, and stop there on the pavement at the top of the hill. Not long afterwards, Dave pulls up next to me. I’m really disappointed in the view – it’s not nearly as good as much of the view we’ve been moving through. Dave comments that if you were in a car, you wouldn’t have been moving through it as slowly as we were, and you wouldn’t have been stopping so often on the road to take pictures, so this spot where you could pull the car off the road, stop and take pictures, would feel like a really good spot.

It strikes me once again just how much more intimately we’re able to experience the places that we’re rolling through. The sounds beside the road wrap our ears in the music of the place, and the wind across our face drenches us in the smell of the place. Whenever we see a windmill or a pond that strikes us as particularly nice, we stop and enjoy it – take a picture of it.

I remember many years ago, when as a young man I’d been hiking in the northern Georgia mountains on the Appalachian Trail. I’d had a really beautiful day hiking, and at the end of the day, had descended down a long ridge to a low spot on the trail. Here we crossed a highway, where there were folks stopped and taking pictures. It struck me that my “low spot” for that afternoon – the place where the nice views and wilderness had been interrupted by this highway – was the high spot for the people in the cars. This was as good as it was going to get for them – this was their best experience of these wonderful mountains. I couldn’t wait to get across the road and start climbing back into the good stuff, while they wanted to spend as much time as they could soaking in this high point.

Perspective. I remember my appreciation that afternoon of the beauty that I was experiencing, and my gratitude that I was able to experience “the high road” – the one where the good stuff was.

I have that same feeling this morning as we look across the view from this pullout. I’m sure there are even better ways to experience the real depth of a place like the Medicine Hills, but it’s plain to me just how great the bicycle is as a mode of experience for this great place. Once again, I’m grateful to be on 2 wheels this morning.

I think we’re both feeling this, and without a word, we mount up and head down the road.

Coming in to the west side of Medicine Lodge, the landscape changes dramatically and suddenly. Swooping down out of the wide hills, the final mile or so into town is down in a lush and flat river valley. We ask someone locally where a diner is, and we’re pointed again to the truck stop. A part of me is sure that there’s a real diner someplace in town, but we settle on the truck stop – I think we’re both good and hungry this morning, and don’t really want to dilly-dally around looking for the right place.

Our breakfast is chicken-fried steak and eggs, round 2. With hash-browns and lots of gravy. Throw in a diet Pepsi, and you’ve got a breakfast of champions. Eating our breakfast, I watch as several of truckers and locals look our bikes up and down as they walk into the diner. As usual, we’re quite the spectacle in town. Bikes aside, sitting in a truck-stop diner in tight spandex shorts will make a guy stand out any time, any day. I kid around with a couple of the guys in the diner, and before long, we’re all kidding around together. The table next to us is a biker (the kind that makes noise) and his buddy. HIs buddy is hard of hearing, and when the biker tells the buddy that “these 2 guys are riding their bicycles across Kansas – that’s something else isn’t it?”, the buddy responds, (not too quietly), that we ought to have our heads examined.

Hard to argue with that…

Outside, the horsing around with the truckers and biker continues, until we mount up and head down the road. We aren’t but a few miles out of town when the biker pulls up alongside me as I’m riding, and we chat and kid just a bit more, then he hits the throttle and heads on up the road.

The country we’re in is now pure farming country. The change that occurred at Medicine Lodge is large and abrupt, from hilly, dry rangeland to flat, moist farmland. The humidity is rising noticeably as we move east, and I notice that this high humidity seems to have kept that sinus infection that I felt starting a couple days ago from blooming into something worth treating.

In the little town of Attica, we watch as a Peregrine Falcon makes a short but blazing fast dive at a bird. We can’t tell for sure if he hits it or not, but we’re amazed at the speed of the dive so close to the ground. I figure that we’re getting close to Wichita now, so the manner and friendliness of the people will likely change, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find that the open and friendly sense that we get from folks continues, even though traffic levels have picked up just a bit.

We stop for lunch in Harper, and have what Dave and I both agree is the best sub sandwich yet invented. It’s so good we order a second one and split it. We’ve observed on our ride that there seems to be a correlation between how good a meal is, and how easy on the eyes the waitress is.

Neither Dave nor I consider ourselves to be connoisseurs of much – certainly not food. While I enjoy a good meal as much as the next guy, the fact is that eating is a task – one that’s nicer when the grub is good. Our observations (purely academic just for the record) regarding the attractiveness of the waitresses gets me thinking more about the interconnectedness of the senses.

I think real connoisseurs of food recognize this, and go to great lengths to “plate” food in an attractive manner in order to please the eye. But the degree to which all the other things that are in my “field of vision” as I sit down to a meal can effect my perception of that meal is pretty big. How delicious was that sub sandwich really, and how much was my enjoyment of it enhanced because my eyes, (which were probably sore from the bright Kansas sun), were soothed and comforted by a pleasant visual environment?

Our trip to this point has been a really nice one – even with winds that I’ve not liked, I’ve enjoyed the trip even more than I thought I would. The entire “trip” experience is a collection of all sorts of little factors, and trying to come up with how much each one has contributed to the overall positive feeling is tough to do. Before the ride began, I would have bet good money that the wind would be the single biggest factor. Clearly I would have lost that bet, because the winds have not been good, but I’m enjoying the trip more than I thought I would.

Sitting in the cool A/C of the restaurant, enjoying a sandwich and a wonderful view, I realize that I’m more effected by the little side components of a journey than I’ve realized in the past. The solitude of the road, the friendliness of the people, the company of a good friend – these things sit on the positive side of a scale, and on the other side of that scale sit the fact that it’s hot, the wind isn’t kind, and we aren’t progressing at the pace that I’d hoped we’d progress.

The balance of the scale makes it clear to me that I’ve changed quite a bit since 30+ years ago when I drove people nuts with my obsession with getting from “point A” to “point B”. I’ve changed more than I’ve realized. I’m far more focused on the “moment of the journey” than on the end point.

Good or bad? Probably a bit of both I suppose. The “moment” of this journey hits me square in the face as I step out of the A/C and into the sticky July heat. Depending on where we stop for the night, we’ve got at least another 40 miles left to ride today, and it feels like we’re in a steam bath.

The next 40 miles – from Harper to Wellington – is a stretch that I expect will be pretty busy, and starting to feel a little more urban. We’re fairly close to Wichita after all. And once again, I’m pleasantly surprised and wrong. This stretch must be one of the most quintessential rural farmland areas in the state of Kansas. All along the roadside are picturesque farmsteads that look like they were put there for Norman Rockwell to paint. The corns is healthy and tall, the wheat’s been neatly cut, the kitchen gardens are all neat, trim, and well-tended. The drivers give give us the entire lane at nearly every opportunity. Folks are as friendly as they’ve been the entire trip.

Reaching Wellington, we feel plenty strong and have lots of gas left in the tank. We’re at 114 miles for the day, and WInfield is only another 20. While we feel good about getting to Winfield, we’re also pretty worried about the storm clouds that are rapidly building all around us – especially off to the SE. We decide to stop in Wellington for the night rather than risk getting caught in a thunderstorm.

To this point in our trip, we’ve stayed in cheap but acceptable motels. One of the nice little “features” of rural Kansas is that most towns have a little motel that won’t cost you much, and will be acceptably clean and quiet. (I should note that “acceptably clean and quiet” is a relative term. I’m not the pickiest guy on earth, but I do have reasonable “guy” standards. If you’re a princess, you won’t like most of the places that I find acceptable. In fact, most gals probably find my standards to be a bit low. All I want is reasonable cleanliness and comfort.)

But in Wellington, we’re introduced to a motel that neither Dave nor I will find acceptable. It’s called the Sunshine Inn, and I suspect that the other one or two motels in town might be just as bad – I’m just guessing. The proprietor is a nice enough person, but when we call and let her know that the A/C isn’t cooling the room, her solution is to offer to provide a fan for the room. I’ve grown accustomed to A/C units that are loud on this trip, but this one might have violated some OSHA standards – again I’m just taking a guess here. She did have another room that she’d let us try if we wanted, but the A/C unit was even louder in that room, and by this time the trouble of moving wasn’t worth it unless we were sure we were going to improve the situation.

It does storm as we feared, so the old “any port in a storm” adage carries a little weight with me as I listen to the thunder outside. We might have made it all the way to Winfield and stayed dry, but we might also be rolling into town like a couple of drowned rats. We’ll find out the next morning that the road from Wellington to Winfield is busy and dangerous at any time, and during a rain-storm it would have been a really bad place to be.

I’m glad to be dry.