Cattle Trucks and Cheyenne Bottoms

On the first day of our ride, Dave’s morning began with a flat tire before he even got on the bike. Here on the final day, he’s greeted again by a flat tire as we roll the bikes out of the hotel room before dawn. Like a pair of bookends, a flat to begin the ride, a flat to end it. This one, however, we’re changing under the lights outside the hotel door, on a humid morning, with hungry mosquitoes all around us. Needless to say, we’re as quick as we can be getting the flat fixed, into the saddle and headed down the road.

One of the things about today that’s even nicer than most days of our ride is that Carol is schlepping our stuff to our destination. She’s going to tour Lindsborg in the morning, then meet us in Hoisington around noon, which is when we figure we’ll get there. Not that we have a lot of stuff to schlep, but it’s nice to lose the 20# sitting on the back of the bike.

The ability of the human mind and body to adapt to and “meld with” a tool is more than just interesting to me – it exhilarates me when I experience it. On this ride, the degree to which my mind and body are connected to my bike has become increasingly evident, and I notice it again this morning as we take off. The loss of the trunk on the back of my bike makes the bike feel fast and responsive beneath me. I’ve become adjusted to the heavier bike, and the way it responds, but now getting the bike back closer to the balance that it has when not touring makes me smile, and touches that place in my mind that loves to meld with tools.

I grew up in a time when all the boys played baseball. I played baseball a lot, and loved it. Earlier in the summer, I met my brother to fish for a few days, and we both brought baseball gloves. We stood out in the street and threw that ball back and forth for 15 minutes or so. There was something absolutely magical about what was happening during those 15 minutes.

Before we threw the ball the first time, I started to feel that magic as I slipped my hand into my old mitt. Even though it had essentially been 40 years since I’d put that glove on, I could feel the leather welcome my hand like a dear old friend welcomes a best friend after a long absence. The familiar smell of the worn leather, the look of it, the weight of it on my hand, everything about the glove on my hand brought my mind into a zone of familiar harmony that can only happen when you experience that integration of body, tool, and mind that is so uniquely human.

Picking up the baseball, feeling the perfect size of it beneath my fingers, feeling the stitches fit perfectly beneath my fingertips as I handled the ball. All these sensations heightened my already keen sense of harmony. I threw the ball, and that familiar arc and release of the arm brought a warm smile to my heart – I suspect my face was smiling as well.

While the 40 years of absence disappeared in an instant as it relates to the feel and sensation of the glove, and of throwing the ball, other aspects of the experience had, shall we say, lost a bit in the period of absence. 40 years ago, I could throw the ball pretty hard, and with a good deal of accuracy. When Erik and I played catch that day, I was shocked at how many times the ball fell short of the mark I was aiming for. This inability of the body to perform to the standards that the mind/body interface remembers is humbling for sure, but frankly I felt a strong drive to start throwing the ball more, so that I could either approach the standard that my mind recalled, or reset the standard, so that I could find that complete delight that I yearned for.

This melding of human and tool happens when we spend a great deal of time with a particular thing. Our mind/body coordination adapts to the exact dimensions and weight and shape of the thing we’re using, and it becomes wired into us. The “thing” becomes part of us – almost like an arm or a leg is part of us. I really think that our mind develops an attachment to the thing, much like it would to an arm or a leg. At some deep level, the “thing” becomes a part of “me”.

I’ll bet there’s an evolutionary advantage to the delight we gain when we meld with a “thing” in this way. Our march toward dominance of the planet has been largely enabled by our ability to use tools so effectively, so it makes sense to me that finding delight in extremely close harmony with a tool – a fascination and exhilaration with “being one with” a tool – would make us more likely to find ways to use tools more effectively with each generation.

This morning, what I know is that I’m delighted by the light and responsive feel of my bike. Just like I smiled when I slipped my old baseball glove on when I played catch with my brother earlier in the summer, I’m smiling at the familiar feel of the bike I love beneath me. I love my bike, I really do.

We stop at the c-store on the way out of town, and grab some fluid and a quick bite of fuel. As I’m stepping out of the door, I notice Dave using his cell phone. I’ve seen him messing with his cell phone before at the beginning of the day, and never really thought about it – I guess I assumed he was checking messages from work or something. But this morning, I come to understand what this cell-phone ritual is.

It’s slick really, and I’m impressed. The computer on the bike keeps track of when we’re rolling and when we’re still, how far we go, how fast we go, and all that. But Dave is applying a little technology to a much more simple approach to how far we go in a day, and how long it takes us to do it. First thing in the morning, as we leave the c-store and hit the highway, Dave sends himself a text message, which records the time. Then, at the end of the day, when we look at each other and decide to call it a day, Dave sends himself another text message. When the trip is all over, we have an official beginning and ending time for each day.

While this might not sound like a big deal, it’s actually quite useful. The bike computers recorded our average times while we were riding, but this doesn’t account for all the time we spend messing around, eating, taking pictures, all of that. Dave’s method allowed us to bookend the days with start and stop times, and just count the miles in between.

Just one more of Dave’s “counting” things. And as is often the case with these counting things that he does, this one lifted the veil from an interesting little piece of information. That is, our average speed across days was almost identical, no matter what we did and no matter what the wind did.

Of course, any logical reader just re-read that last sentence a couple times, and is dead certain that I either typed it wrong, or somehow or another I just don’t know how to add and average. But I’m tellin’ ya’, it’s absolutely true. In the next chapter, I’m going to talk about some of the expected and unexpected lessons we learned on this ride, and I’ll detail out our daily stats. For now, let me just say that regardless of wind, road,humidity, heat, mileage, mood, moon phase, or anything else, our daily speed including both rolling time and stopped time averaged about 11 mph. Amazingly, the days with tailwinds were NOT the days with the higher averages.

It’s completely counter-intuitive. However, our final day highlights something for me that – as I’ll look back on it later – will help me to get my head around what I think is going on.

On this final day, as we leave the c-store and head out of town, the weather is wonderful once again. The humidity feels good on my face and in my lungs as I ride, and the weatherman promised a NE wind today – a quartering tailwind for us as we ride pretty much due west. Leaving town before any wind has started at all, I’m once again sitting up in the saddle, spending a good deal of time watching the scenery around me, enjoying one more perfect morning.

We’re deep in the heart of cultivated land, surrounded by young beans, ripening corn, and freshly cut wheat fields. I watch several groups of whitetail deer on the edges of the fields. In some cases they’re using the last few minutes of low light to grab the last snacks before daylight, but generally they’re moving quietly along the edge between the trees and the field, or rapidly across the field headed for that edge where they feel comfortable. In the low light they’re hard to see, but once you find the pattern in your mind’s eye, they start to pop out at you in quite a few of the fields. By the time the sun has crested the horizon and started to shine into the fields, there isn’t a deer to be seen anywhere.

I stop to take pictures several times along the highway. The air is heavy with humidity, painting the landscape with a soft, attractive blanket. This is one of those conditions that I find tough to catch with the camera, so looking back on the pictures later I’ll be disappointed. But this morning, I’m enjoying myself.

We assumed there’d be some good breakfast options along the way when we started out this morning, but we make an early tactical mistake. We pass the turnoff to the little town of Marquette as it’s still pretty early, assuming that we’ll be able to find something else within the hour. If you check out Marquette with Google maps, you’ll see that they’ve got a nice cafe downtown, as well as a c-store. The savvy rider will stop here for a meal, as it’s longer than you expect to the next place to eat.

There’s a certain rhythm that we’ve come to expect along the highway with respect to when we’ll find services, and as I ride this morning, I’m coming to learn a bit about how this rhythm is determined by the nature of who uses the highway, and what they use it for.

Along US-160 across the southern part of Kansas, folks who are traveling are a combination of local residents running errands and doing business, as well as regional residents who are traveling many dozens of miles – maybe 100 miles or more in many cases. In addition, there are a few travelers who are using the highway as their route across the state – traveling many hundreds of miles. Consequently, it’s likely that there’ll be folks who want to stop for refreshments now and again, so in each little town we were able to find a c-store and generally a place to sit and eat.

However, along K-4, you’ll find only local traffic. Anyone traveling east and west for any significant distance will be traveling along I-70, which is not that far north of K-4. Folks on the road are just moving along from point to point, with no need for stops between. Consequently, it’s unlikely that a business would spring up along the way to support those travelers who’d want to stop for some reason – nobody’s stopping.

Tip for the savvy rider: When riding from Lindsborg to Hoisington, it’s probably a good idea to stop in Marquette for breakfast…

It’s not long after passing Marquette that I get the inkling that we’re not going to have our tailwind today. For a few miles we’re headed SW, and it’s definitely a headwind along that stretch, though a very light one. Turning back due west, it feels like when the wind varies from the S, it varies so that it comes slightly from the W. Again, it’s a very light wind, but I’m feeling a little cheated that the promised tailwind has become a crosswind, with a tiny flavor of quartering headwind every now and again.

My reaction is predictable in the face of a wind – I put my head down and go to work.

My mind readjusts quickly to the new events, and resets the expectation for the speed that I’ll ride and how much work it will take to ride. While slightly disappointed, I’m real OK with things – it’s a short ride today, and the wind is light, and it’s a crosswind not a headwind. It’s OK.

But that initial reaction – that “putting my head down and getting to work” – is the key to understanding the fact that our average daily speed was essentially the same regardless of how hard the riding was. Maybe it wouldn’t be the same with everyone – maybe it’s unique to Dave and I. Maybe everyone reacts to things much differently. But I think this little quirk explains why our average daily speed was always the same.

Here’s what happens, (to quote Mr. Monk).

When the wind’s at my back, and the riding’s easy, then I sit up and relax. I spend my energy enjoying my surroundings, being a part of where I am. I fall into the “moment” by reaching out and connecting to what’s around me. I see more, and stop more, and ride easier. I consciously take it easy in order to enjoy my surroundings, and let myself connect.

When the wind’s in front of me, my mindset changes completely. Now, the component of the “moment” that becomes foremost in my mind is the wind, and my need to put my head down and work against the wind. I still find little places where my head comes up and I appreciate what’s around me, but my primary focus is finding and maintaining that sweet spot where my body’s producing efficient work. I fall into the “moment” by reaching inside of me, and finding the harmony of efficient output.

I suppose most folks would scold the second scenario – the condition where I put my head down and work. Most folks would probably say that its better to find a way to enjoy your surroundings even when the work is hard, or maybe to ease off the pedals and just go really slow to avoid too much focus on the work. But I don’t buy that.

I think there’s real joy in hard work. I think we’ve lost touch with that real joy in our culture. I’m certain there are many readers who focus on what I’m missing when I put my head down and work hard. And they’re right – I am missing quite a bit when I do that. That side of the equation is easy for any of us to see, and easy to understand.

But there’s a balance to everything. Every time I give something up, there’s something that comes back to balance what I’ve given up. Every time I take something, there’s something I’m giving up. If I reach to pick something up, I have to empty my hand first, right?

And that thing on the other side of this balance beam is the pure joy that comes from hard work. While we’ve come to think of hard work as something to be avoided, we’ve been missing the joy and benefit that it brings into our life. Our culture has built this myth that doing manual labor is a bad thing, and that if we’re successful in life, we can avoid the need to do hard physical labor. While our economy richly rewards executives who sit on their ass all day and wouldn’t know the business end of a shovel if it hit ‘em across the side of the head, it punishes those who spend their days using their hands and their backs to actually produce something – to actually do productive labor.

This balance beam feels to me a bit like that balance between giving and taking. When I sit up and relax – taking in my surroundings – it falls more on the “taking” side of the equation. There’s joy in it for sure, and I love it when it happens. But there’s more to life than just taking it in.

Not that I’m actually “making” anything when I put my head down and ride harder into the wind. It’s still a very selfish action in many ways because in the end it produces joy for me. It’s just that I’m pouring something of myself into what’s around me, and this is what produces the joy inside of me. At the end of the day, there’s surely a sense of accomplishment that comes with that sense of exhaustion, and I’m sure that’s part of what creates the joy in hard work.

But there’s more to it. Earlier I talked about that sweet spot that occurs when the heart rate, respiration rate, and cadence all seem to come together into a sweet harmony. That’s a harmony that only happens at high work output – I’ve never found it otherwise. There’s no waiting for a sense of accomplishment in that case – the joy is right there in the moment – right there in the “doing”.

At the end of the day, for all those who criticize those of us who put our heads down and hold our nose to the grindstone rather than sitting up and relaxing and enjoying the moment, I say I get it, and I think you’re right in many cases. However, I’d also say I think there are other ways to enjoy the moment, and other shades and complexions of joy. I’d recommend you find some ways to do hard work whenever you can, and begin to look for the joys locked up in those places where we put our back into the work and let the work carry us away.

Today is a mix, with some moments spent enjoying what’s around me, and some moments putting by back into it and enjoying the work.

Why Aren’t Cattle Truck Drivers As Courteous As Other Truck Drivers?

This might not be a fair question. It’s an over-generalization for sure. But here’s the deal: 35 years ago when I rode on these same highways, it seemed pretty consistent that the truck drivers who were the most dangerous were the ones driving cattle trucks. For years, I figured that wasn’t a fair generalization, and that it probably just seemed that way since so many of the trucks in this part of the country are cattle trucks after all.

In the interest of full disclosure, I need to say that I spent a few years as an over-the-road truck driver in my 20’s. I have no axe to grind with truck drivers – my experience as a cyclist and as a truck driver has been that truck drivers are generally the most safe and courteous drivers on the road. They have to be – their livelihood (and their life) depends on how safe they make the road around them.

But to this point in our ride, the pattern that I’ve been seeing supports my observations from the past on these roads. For whatever reasons, if there’s dangerous behavior on the part of a truck driver, the odds seem pretty good that the truck is a cattle truck.

And this morning is no exception to that “rule”.

The highway along here is much the same as it’s been since we turned onto K4 back at Alta Vista. There’s no shoulder, but the road itself is in pretty good shape. The traffic is so light that nearly always, when a car or truck is passing, they move all the way over into the oncoming lane to pass. I can’t tell you how appreciative a cyclist is when a driver does that. Especially when the driver of a truck does that.

It just makes sense to do that, doesn’t it? Weren’t we all taught as youngsters to respect and take care of the little guy? Aren’t most of our traffic laws designed with that ethic in mind – for the bigger to yield to the smaller? It’s just a matter of common sense, courtesy, and respect. I work hard to maintain that ethic of respect when I drive a vehicle. Even when I ride my bike, I work hard to always yield to a pedestrian or a slower bike.

I’ve noticed as the miles have rolled along on this ride that my ears have gotten quite good at predicting how much space a vehicle is giving me from the sound as they approach. I do wear a mirror, but as a vehicle is approaching, I like to focus all my attention on staying straight and predictable on the road. Twice this morning already, cattle trucks have passed quite close – barely moving over at all as they pass me. Behind me I hear a truck approaching, and it sounds like it’s not going to give me much room. I focus intently on holding the wheels right on the white line, and am nearly blown over as the cattle truck passes within inches of me rather than feet.

There’s no reason he needed to do this. If he moved at all from the center of the lane, it was over to the right to crowd me even more. There was no oncoming traffic, and the road ahead was free and clear for him to see that he had all the road he needed. Purely and simply, he was being an ass. Worse than that, it would have taken only a small variance in my line and he could easily have killed me. I watch ahead as he does the same thing to Dave.

What’s this about? Why on earth does he want to risk the lives of cyclists on the road, and his own ability to make a living driving a truck when he eventually kills someone – because eventually it’s likely he will? This selfish aspect of human nature, this ugly piece of who we are that wants everything for ourself rather than looking for ways to share what we have – especially when sharing costs us nothing, is a piece of our evolutionary makeup that it would sure be nice to find a way to get rid of…

Because at the end of the day, isn’t that what this is most likely about? If you drug that guy out from behind the wheel of that truck, and beat the snot out of him and asked him why he’s being so stupid, most likely he’d have some response that would sound something like, “bikes don’t belong on the highway”. We’ll argue the ups and downs of that later, but for now, let’s let him think he makes some sense, and ask another question: If he saw a little old lady walking down the middle of the road, would he try and run her over? There’s no question she shouldn’t be walking down the middle of the road, but there’s plenty of road, and it’s no big deal to move over a bit and avoid running her over. Just common sense and common courtesy – there’s more road than anyone needs. Now expand that to the bicycle, which does, in fact, have a place on the road, and try to justify attempting to running a cyclist off the road. Pure and simple, that’s what he was doing – trying to run us off the road – his road in his own mind.

Let’s talk more about that later…

We’re approaching Hoisington, and we can see the grain elevators in the distance. We pull out at the last highway marker of the trip, and read about the Cheyenne Bottoms Refuge, which we’re now on the edge of. We take the final picture of the bikes there at the pullout, saddle back up and head into Hoisington. It takes us no time at all to find a bar that’s open for lunch downtown, and call Carol and Peggy and let them both know where we are. It’s no surprise to either of them that we’ve found beer and fried food…

After we’ve had a beer and some fried bar food, we pack up the bikes into our respective vehicles. We make the acquaintance of a fella’ who might be traveling through Hoisington, and who might just be a local homeless guy, depending on which complexion of his story you believe. He’s carrying a veritable junkyard worth of old bike gear with him on his old mountain bike, including a couple of extra wheels. It’s tempting to believe that he really is making his way across the country as he says, and that our paths just happened to cross here on Main Street in Hoisington. But as is sometimes the case with folks who find themselves outcast and homeless in our culture, this fella’ seems to be a sandwich or two shy of a picnic.

Regardless, we enjoy the little conversation we have with the guy, and have fun pretending his story is true. It might just be true, but either way, it’s a fun story to listen to. We smile and nod, and he enjoys telling the story.

We make up stories about ourselves that fit the image that we want to believe in about who we are. We’re prone to stretch the truth of these stories a bit here and there to make ‘em fit better. So long as the story we tell is a good one, then people find us interesting, and we feel good about ourselves, right? Just a little grain of truth – that’s all it takes for a story to be a good one. I suppose the only difference between this homeless fella and me is that the stories I make up about me are a little more grounded in a believable reality – but probably only slightly so.

Peggy’s cousin Steve is a world-class storyteller. It’s truly a gift. He’ll tell ya’ straight up that a good bit of what he tells might stretch the truth here and there, or might embellish a spot or two that needed embellishing. But it’s part of a good story – fillin’ in the spots that need fillin’ in, and pullin’ out those pieces that don’t fit that well.

Because it’s about the story we want to believe, and the story is always about the journey we’re on. Whether our homeless friend is headed where he thinks he’s headed, or even if he has no idea where he’s headed, he’s building the story of who he is, and we wish him good luck and many blessings on his journey.

Our adventure is over for now. We’re feelin’ pretty good about the trip we just took. We’re already starting to embellish the stories we’ll tell about the trip. We’re 100% positive that we’ll continue this wonderful tradition with another adventure next summer, but time will judge that promise.

Like all journeys, ours between this ending and the next beginning might take many unexpected turns. When we hit Winfield, we turned our back to the wind and decided to ride where the wind took us. No doubt some of that will happen on our journey to the next adventure. Whether we’re headed where we think we’re headed, or even if we’re completely doped up on where it is that we’re sure we’re headed, we’ll hope for good luck and many blessings between now and the next adventure.