Tag: bicycle touring

The Sweet Shore of Sleep

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“Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.”
~ Pooh’s Little Instruction Book, inspired by A.A. Milne

[/fusion_text][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”10″ bottom_margin=”200″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][/one_fourth][three_fourth last=”yes” spacing=”yes” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”” padding=”” class=”” id=””][imageframe lightbox=”no” style_type=”dropshadow” bordercolor=”” bordersize=”0px” borderradius=”0″ stylecolor=”” align=”center” link=”https://neilhanson.com/pilgrim-wheels” linktarget=”_self” animation_type=”0″ animation_direction=”down” animation_speed=”0.1″ class=”” id=””] [/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]Day 7 of my trip. A good day to rest. This seems to be a popular opinion at any rate.

Late in the morning, sitting in some shade close to the pool, I’m enjoying my little slice of life. I’ve got my book with me, but I’m not reading it. I’m languishing in the shade, soaking in the hot air. Kids laughing and splashing in the water around me is a sweet melody, bringing back memories of when my children were young.

I notice a small bird moving around the desert plants, and reflect on how the wildlife has changed along with the plant life as I’ve moved from the coast out to the desert. In just a few short days I’ve gone from lush rainforest, through wine country and grassy savannah, now onto a high desert, about to drop into deep and dangerous desert.

One thing I didn’t count on when I planned this trip was how full of blooms the desert is in June. The spectacular Datura grows everywhere along the highway here, with beautiful big white flowers that look iridescent in the bright morning sunlight. As the day heats up, the flowers must close or fade, because I don’t see them in the afternoon heat. (Of course, they might be there and I’m the one wilted in the afternoon heat, no longer paying close attention…) Their large leaves and flowers spread out over the side of the road, spilling their sweet fragrance through the morning air as I’ve pedaled past them on the road.

Leaning back in my chair, enjoying the shade by the pool, that sweet fragrance infuses my memory. I can surely recall a few frustrating incidents I’ve had as I’ve approached this rest day, some bad wind and deadly drivers for example. But along with those moments of frustration has come a long list of moments of pure sweetness.

There’s some measure of sweetness in nearly every moment, along with some measure of bitterness. Life is so much better when we learn how to sniff out the sweetness in each moment, distilling any bitterness away.

My eyes close as I wander through these thoughts. The kids have gone in, leaving behind a pristine quiet to keep me company as I sit alone in the warm shade. Drifting along the quiet surface of deep relaxation, sneaking gently along the shore between sleep and wakefulness, I feel a smile in my soul. My mind quietly laps up against that sweet shore of sleep, like a log might roll gently back and forth against a shady bank at the edge of a quiet pond.[/fusion_text][/three_fourth][fullwidth backgroundcolor=”” backgroundimage=”” backgroundrepeat=”no-repeat” backgroundposition=”left top” backgroundattachment=”scroll” video_webm=”” video_mp4=”” video_ogv=”” video_preview_image=”” overlay_color=”” overlay_opacity=”0.5″ video_mute=”yes” video_loop=”yes” fade=”no” bordersize=”0px” bordercolor=”” borderstyle=”” paddingtop=”20px” paddingbottom=”20px” paddingleft=”0px” paddingright=”0px” menu_anchor=”” equal_height_columns=”no” hundred_percent=”no” class=”” id=””][one_fourth last=”no” spacing=”yes” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”” padding=”” class=”” id=””][imageframe lightbox=”no” style_type=”none” bordercolor=”” bordersize=”0px” borderradius=”0″ stylecolor=”” align=”none” link=”https://neilhanson.com/pilgrim-wheels” linktarget=”_self” animation_type=”0″ animation_direction=”down” animation_speed=”0.1″ class=”” id=””] [/imageframe][/one_fourth][three_fourth last=”yes” spacing=”yes” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”” padding=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]

Pilgrim Wheels Excerpts
This post is part of a series of posts, representing excerpts from Pilgrim Wheels, a story of a cycling journey across America. Pilgrim Wheels will be released in early March, let me know if you’re interested in doing an advance review.

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Pedaling Past The Grim Reaper

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“For what is it to die, But to stand in the sun and melt into the wind?”
~ Kahlil Gibran

[/fusion_text][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”10″ bottom_margin=”200″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][/one_fourth][three_fourth last=”yes” spacing=”yes” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”” padding=”” class=”” id=””][imageframe lightbox=”no” style_type=”dropshadow” bordercolor=”” bordersize=”0px” borderradius=”0″ stylecolor=”” align=”center” link=”https://neilhanson.com/pilgrim-wheels” linktarget=”_self” animation_type=”0″ animation_direction=”down” animation_speed=”0.1″ class=”” id=””] [/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]Pressing up a gentle slope into the headwind, I hear the roar of a car engine ahead. Coming toward me a Mustang pulls out to pass another car. Expletives explode from my mouth as I make a split-second decision to stay on the road rather than diving off the shoulder and down the two foot drop into the rocks below. Pulling out right behind the Mustang is a pickup truck.

Rocketing head-on at highway passing speed, they pass me at a couple feet, though it feels like inches. I’ve got no shoulder. Nowhere to retreat. I’m completely exposed and vulnerable, left to trust completely, trusting both the drivers and the wheel of karma.

The terror of the moment grips me as I continue pedaling, and I begin shaking. Luck is with me this morning, but just barely. So easily, that close encounter could have gone the other way, pedaling past the grim reaper so closely.

There are moments in life that come down to a tiny fraction of fate or fortune, and can go either way. There’s a new lens that opens up to us suddenly when this happens, and we see the world a little differently. We realize that we just stumbled past the doorstep that takes us out of this life. Stealing a glance into the doorway as we pass, death’s merciless scythe reaches out to leave a little scar on our soul, reminding us just how closely the door follows us through life.

What we see when we glance in as we pass does much to define our spiritual outlook. We look back on these moments, basking in the mercy and grace we feel at being still on this side of the doorway. From these moments we decide whether we believe there’s any rhyme or reason to which way we stumbled. We wonder if we’re somehow favored by the Universe, or somehow invincible, or deserving of some special treatment.

The jitters and shakes eventually subside with my regular pedal strokes. I realize how dang lucky I am to be alive. With passing weeks and months I’ll look back on the panic and dread of the moment, and I’ll remember that dark door through which I stole a glance in passing. I’ll remember the sense of overwhelming grace and mercy I felt when my stumble kept me on this side of that door. I’ll realize, over and over, that at any moment “there but for Grace” I could easily fall.

There’s no deserving, or plan, or roadmap, or anything like that. There’s no bartering or negotiating. Lean just slightly the wrong way, at the wrong time, and the door will swallow us up if we happen to pass too close.

Reach out and hold hands with Grace, give Mercy a hug. Today and every day of this lifetime. That’s the image that will come back to me over time as I remember that stolen glance into darkness. Not because of any debt. Not to buy insurance for the next stumble.

Just because. Those moments introduce us to Grace and Mercy. The gift is the chance to reach out and hold their hands. Nothing more, nothing less.[/fusion_text][/three_fourth][fullwidth backgroundcolor=”” backgroundimage=”” backgroundrepeat=”no-repeat” backgroundposition=”left top” backgroundattachment=”scroll” video_webm=”” video_mp4=”” video_ogv=”” video_preview_image=”” overlay_color=”” overlay_opacity=”0.5″ video_mute=”yes” video_loop=”yes” fade=”no” bordersize=”0px” bordercolor=”” borderstyle=”” paddingtop=”20px” paddingbottom=”20px” paddingleft=”0px” paddingright=”0px” menu_anchor=”” equal_height_columns=”no” hundred_percent=”no” class=”” id=””][one_fourth last=”no” spacing=”yes” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”” padding=”” class=”” id=””][imageframe lightbox=”no” style_type=”none” bordercolor=”” bordersize=”0px” borderradius=”0″ stylecolor=”” align=”none” link=”https://neilhanson.com/pilgrim-wheels” linktarget=”_self” animation_type=”0″ animation_direction=”down” animation_speed=”0.1″ class=”” id=””] [/imageframe][/one_fourth][three_fourth last=”yes” spacing=”yes” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”” padding=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]

Pilgrim Wheels Excerpts This post is part of a series of posts, representing excerpts from Pilgrim Wheels, a story of a cycling journey across America. Pilgrim Wheels will be released in early March, let me know if you’re interested in doing an advance review.

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Silent Wind

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“Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation.”
~ Rumi

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Day 6 – Victorville to Twentynine Palms, California

The earliest hint of light finds me wheeling my bike out of the hotel in Victorville. Following Highway 18 east into the little town of Lucerne Valley, I stop at what will likely be my last available water supply for 50 miles. Here, I leave Highway 18, and head further east on Old Woman Springs Road. (It’s also called Highway 247, but that’s a boring name…)

With no shoulder on the highway, I’m thankful for the very light traffic early on this beautiful Saturday morning. A fickle wind swirls in the mounting heat of the morning.

The wildlife along the road has changed with the landscape as I’ve moved further into the desert. For several miles, I pay close attention to chirping along the side of the road, assuming it must be some sort of ground bird. Eventually, I come to the conclusion that the chirping comes from small lizards (or maybe geckos) dashing across the road from one scrap of vegetation to another. I suspect they hole up in the shade as the day heats up, but here in the early morning, I can barely see them as the scurry across the pavement.

I also notice something less. Less noise. It’s really quiet. A mesmerizing quiet.

I pull over to have a little snack in the deepening quiet. A fierce and piercing sun scorches the desert floor around me, pushing the temperature upwards. I can see for tens of miles all around me, and it feels like the quiet reaches out across all those miles of baking desert. The light and silent wind swirls around here and there, playing across my skin, swirling dust in the road, hinting of a big wind to come. Continue reading “Silent Wind”

Desert Meth Dogs

“I learned later that the Lancaster area is known as a real meth making mecca in California. In that context, this little experience with the “desert meth dogs” makes a little more sense…”
~ Q: What do you call a dictionary using meth? A: addictionary.

My wheels are rolling across a broken road this morning. I think it’d be hard to find a ten square foot section of this pavement that isn’t fissured with cracks large enough to swallow a bicycle tire, so riding takes more concentration to stay upright than it would on decent pavement.

I’m well past Lancaster and Palmdale, concentrating on keeping my tires out of fissures in the road, when angry barking catches my attention. I haven’t noticed the high-fenced yard around a dilapidated house coming up on my left. The angry barking coming from the dogs on the other side of that fence has my full attention now. These are clearly mean and nasty dogs. They know they’re mean and nasty, and they want everyone around to know they’re mean and nasty.

Approaching their territory, I’m comforted by the high chain link fence running along the road, keeping the dogs in. The dogs are pouring toward the fence as I pass the front of the house, and I notice they’re headed toward the gate, where there’s a big gap in the fence.

It’s rare that I worry much about dogs. I get along great with them for the most part, and it’s usually clear they’re just letting me know I’m passing their territory. But right now, there’s no doubt in my mind these dogs mean business. They have no interest in scaring me off; they want warm flesh.

There are six or eight of these guys, snapping at each other for the honor of drawing first blood. Before I’ve even thought about it, I’m out of the saddle, and the adrenaline has cranked my output up into the red zone. I’m pouring as much coal as I can to the pedals, and the 35 miles per hour I’m able to reach keeps me just ahead of the fastest of the dogs.

After a few seconds of slow-motion terror, I see I’m leaving them behind, so I start to back off the speed. Normally, once a dog chases you out of his territory, he’s fine if you slow down. He’s done his duty, and moved you along the road. He’s not in this for blood; he just wants to keep the peace in his territory. He’s the sheriff, and he’s moved the vagrant out of town.

I don’t think these guys are wearing badges. They’re the desperadoes, and they are in it for blood. I’m 50 yards ahead of them, and they had backed off when they realized they couldn’t catch me. But when they see me slowing down, their interest in the chase renews with vigor. Immediately they begin sprinting up the road toward me again, hopeful that their prey might be faltering, fighting to be the one to bring me down. Of course, I crank the effort up again — this time leaving them far behind before slowing. I’m several miles up the road before I stop checking over my shoulder from time to time, to see if my desert meth dogs are keeping up the chase.

Pilgrim Wheels Excerpts This post is part of a series of posts, representing excerpts from Pilgrim Wheels, a story of a cycling journey across America. Pilgrim Wheels will be released in early March, let me know if you’re interested in doing an advance review.

A Bad Road – Cycling US40 in Pennsylvania

Day 34 – St Clairsville to Grantsville – Cycling US40

118 miles, 13:05 elapsed time, 9.5 hours pedaling, 11,400 ft elevation gain, 8400 calories burned

The pre-dawn morning air chills us, up high on a hill overlooking the area surrounding St Clairsville, mounting up for another day in the saddle. The coming sunrise spills warm orange and rich reds across the sky. The view across the hilltops is breathtaking, and we take a few pictures, knowing full well these aren’t the kind of shots that translate into anything other than “ho-hum” if you’re not standing there.

With this chilly air, I’d love to have bit of climbing to warm my joints and muscles as a beginning to the day. However, as soon as we leave town, we begin a two-mile descent steep enough to require quite a bit of braking. It’s cold enough I’m uncertain about potential icy spots on the road as we fall into the coldest air at the base of the descent, where the road crosses the old Blaine Hill Bridge over Wheeling Creek.

The old Blain Hill Bridge after descending through the chilly morning air
The old Blain Hill Bridge after descending through the chilly morning air

It won’t be the last time today I’ll wish for another layer of warmth…

The road follows Wheeling Creek for several miles, meandering through old towns and past 200 years of history few people remember. It’s early in the morning on a Sunday, so traffic is extremely light, giving us a chance to stop and take lots of photo’s as we cross the Ohio River twice. The second crossing uses the old Wheeling Suspension Bridge.

Dave As We Follow The Creek
Dave As We Follow The Creek
Dave Crossing The Old Wheeling Suspension Bridge
Dave Crossing The Old Wheeling Suspension Bridge

This is a beautiful old bridge, built in the middle of the 19th century. It spent two years as the longest suspension bridge in the world, and was the first bridge across the Ohio River. Dave and I walk the bridge, taking lots of photos, soaking in the history and beauty of the place.

In Wheeling, we begin to rely heavily on the maps I planned and loaded into my Garmin. Prior to this as we’ve crossed the country, we’ve just used these maps as a backup – something to get us back on track if we stray to far from our route in our meandering. Here is Wheeling, we just take whatever turns the Garmin tells us to take, and are rewarded with a wonderful ride through town, following an excellent bicycle path for several miles along an old railroad grade, dropping us off in Elm Grove east of Wheeling. Continue reading “A Bad Road – Cycling US40 in Pennsylvania”

Columbus to St Clairsville in Ohio – Cycling in Ohio

Day 33 – Columbus to St Clairsville

Eastern Ohio

Next morning it’s about 200% humidity as we roll our bikes out of the Comfort Inn at Obetz and saddle-up. I slept nearly zero last night, as there is apparently a softball tournament in town, and there was lots of party spirit all around us. All night. Suffice it to say that I’m making zero effort to be quiet as I’m getting ready to leave at 5:30 in the morning…

Meandering east and north through the suburbs east of Columbus, we eventually make our way back up to Old 40 as it parallels I-70. It’s a four-lane highway that’s essentially deserted of cars. I realize it’s a Saturday morning, which could account for the low traffic volume, but it looks like a highway that doesn’t see much use. After a few miles, the road narrows back down to 2 lanes, and begins to feel very much like The Old National Pike.

Historic OhioIt strikes me that right here, this morning, the road around me has shifted a bit in historical time. It was the early 1800’s when this old Pike was commissioned by a young nation, and the remains of history that old is becoming evident. Back then, this was considered “the West”, being “tamed” by this new road reaching out and offering a path for commerce and expansion. Today, as I ride my bike along the pleasant old road, up and down the increasing hills, I’ve entered “the East”.

Continue reading “Columbus to St Clairsville in Ohio – Cycling in Ohio”

Bike Paths in Ohio

Day 32 – Richmond to Columbus in Ohio – Bike Paths in Ohio

Ohio Sunrise

It’s a low foggy mist as we roll our bikes out of our room at the Knight’s Inn at Richmond in the pre-dawn darkness. Riding east through town along the Old National Road, we stop for calories at a c-store at the intersection with I-70, lamenting the late starts that go with cycling in September.

While traffic is heavier than we’d like, the fog lifts it’s skirts a few miles out of Richmond, and we’re treated to a rich and lustrous sunrise over the fields of western Ohio. The thick air adds a muted quality to the beauty, and the traffic shrivels in my mind as I let myself fall into the unfolding wonder along the horizon. I’m at the top of a rise, with a long, gentle downhill slope in front of me. There’s a farmstead on the right side of the road, a modern silo and grain machinery reaching up through the light mist that lays across the field. The rich reds and oranges of the morning sky pour themselves over this bucolic scene.

A sailor might take warning at this red morning sky. In the back of my mind I know it could foretell the rainy day the forecasters are predicting. In my heart and soul, this unforgettable morning sky is one more reminder of how lucky I am to be out here, in and amongst the universe as it unfolds.

Ohio Sunrise

Every day the sun rises, often in the sort of spectacle I’m witness to this morning. If the sunrise isn’t particularly wonderful, then perhaps it’s the sunset. If not the sunset, then maybe some other magical nugget the world is sharing. Soaked in the beauty of the morning, I realize that beauty like this only feels rare to me because my life keeps me focused on the little details in front of me every day. I get up, have my breakfast, commute to work, pour my energy into something there… Continue reading “Bike Paths in Ohio”

Covered Bridges and Bed Bugs

Day 30 – Terre Haute to Indianapolis

I’m feeling a little vulnerable to the traffic as I head east on 40 through downtown Terra Haute. I’d hoped to be out of town by the time the sun rose to avoid the dangerous traffic behind me and sun in front situation, but “town” goes for longer than I expected. The traffic is pretty heavy for the twenty or so miles to Brazil, where I stop for breakfast at the Sunrise Family Restaurant.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAToday’s a short day by design. I’ve got some lollygagging and detouring planned that will take me up around some covered bridges, and I want to have dinner with an old friend tonight in Indianapolis. While I’m still on US-40, I’m presented with many chances to detour for short distances along what appear to be old versions of the highway. These are sometimes in such bad shape I need to walk my bike over small sections, but I get to see some pretty cool old road ruins.

 

Hauck Covered Bridge
Hauck Covered Bridge

Just past the little town of Reelsville, I start meandering my way north to visit a couple of covered bridges. – the Houck Bridge and the Oakalla / Shoppell Bridge, both of which cross the Big Walnut Creek. These old treasures feel strong and mellow to me as I explore them. The quiet of the remote countryside, broken only by the trickle of the creek below, intoxicates me and holds me close.

Engineering and design tells us so much about a culture. The solid wood and meticulous construction of these bridges speaks of a culture that cares about doing things well and right, about doing things in a way that lasts. The design – covering a bridge to be sure the creek can get crossed even in deep snow and ice – speaks of a culture bound and determined to live life fully day and night, every day of the year.

In the hour or so I spend exploring and enjoying the bridges, I think two vehicle cross them. Clearly they get very little traffic these days, and we’re lucky that somebody cares enough to preserve them. This speaks clearly about the culture that has evolved from those people who built the bridge in the first place. It tells of a people who care about where they came from, and care about wonders of engineering and design enough to preserve them for future generations.

BridgeI spend a good deal of time exploring them, taking pictures, and enjoying the countryside, then make my way toward Greencastle on a dirt and gravel road along the Walnut Creek. I stop in pone place along the road to watch a couple fawns playing in the road ahead of me. They don’t seem to view the bicycle as much of a threat, and I spend 10 minutes or so enjoying their antics.

 

 

Fawns

Greencastle is a college town, home of DePauw University. I didn’t know that, but figure it out as I ride into town. I’m delighted by the old town square and college town feel of the place. I find the Almost Home Restaurant right off the town square, and enjoy immensely what appears to be flirtatious behavior toward me on the part of a pretty waitress 20 years younger than me.

Now really, is it likely that this 40-ish woman, beautiful and seemingly very intelligent, would be taken by a 58 year-old guy in spandex? Not to mention that I probably smell less than handsome… But to the male ego, none of that logic matters. This gal has probably learned through the years that catering to that male ego will earn her a bigger tip.

Part of me feels a bit guilty, but most of me feels smug, knowing that my tip won’t be influenced at all by whether or not she flirts with me. I’m a pretty good tipper anyway, and especially at diners and little places like this. She’ll get the same good tip she’d get if she was just friendly and took good care of me.

But I enjoy the flirtatiousness nonetheless. Who knows, she might really be flirting. It’s not something I’ve ever been very good at evaluating well when it’s aimed at me. That’s probably why it’s so effective when women flirt with men – we’re terrible at understanding it. I guess we always figure that there must be a catch if a smart and attractive woman wants to flirt with us…

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWith a full belly, I mosey on out to the sidewalk, where I meet a fella who’s also just passing through town. He got off I-70 to drive up here and have a small-town meal. He’s from south of Dayton, (close to where I once lived), and is headed out to Colorado. He’s looking for work I think, and we chat it up and trade email addresses. I saddle up and head east toward Indy, taken again by the serendipity of these folks I keep meeting who are headed west to Colorado, coming from somewhere I’ve been or somewhere I’m going.

A brief road note here for cyclists: Highway 240 runs straight east out of Greencastle until it meets up with US-40. On a map, this looks like a really good way to meander toward Indy. If I had it to do over, I’d probably look for some other country roads to cover those miles. 240 was very busy when I rode on it. There’s little or no shoulder, and a lot of the traffic is from trucks. It’s probably only about 10 miles of riding, but it’s a pretty unsafe 10 miles.

In Indy, I stay at a little motel at the Plainfield exit off I-70. It’s one of several motels there, and will remain nameless in my writing.

Let me first say, as I said in my earlier book about the western half of this journey across the nation, that I’ve stayed in some pretty low-rent motels in my life. My bar is pretty low when it comes to what I need from a motel. A relatively clean room is all I want, and quiet.

This place is neither. The management is apparently accustomed to some pretty unsavory behavior or tenants, as the bed is covered in a waterproof mattress pad. I discover this after I’ve been laying in bed a few minutes, and couldn’t figure out why I was sweating. I get up, strip the bed down, and re-make it sans the waterproofing. Then come the fun times in the rooms around me, people coming and going and walls so thin their snoring keeps me up once they finally do go to sleep.

I know it’s an unfair characterization to use this hotel and management as an example of the people of Indianapolis. I am positive that the good folks there are just like the good folks everywhere, in the same measure. But as I lay awake listening to the sounds around me, I’m struck by the contrast in cultures that a few miles on my bicycle bring me through.

From the quiet world of well-engineered covered bridges, preserved and maintained by people who clearly care about things well-made, through a fun little college town where a smart and attractive waitress feels confident enough to flirt openly with a traveler she finds attractive… (I’m sticking with that version of the story, btw…) From that, a few short miles down the road to a modern exit off a superhighway, where people have no courtesy at all for those around them, and must care nothing about the quality of the product they provide.

At some point, there’s a break in the snoring and other noise, and I’m tired enough, so I drift off to sleep for a bit. I’m not one who remembers my dreams, but it wouldn’t surprise me if tonight they take me on a journey where I transform from Harrison Ford in an idilic world like the one found in “Witness”, to a bronzed Mel Gibson in Mad Max.

I might point out that in either case, my waitress friend in Greencastle would probably find me attractive – for real…

Along US 40 - The Old National Road
Along US 40 – The Old National Road

 

Cycling in Illinois – Greenville to Terra Haute

Day 29 – Greenville, IL to Terra Haute, IN

Mary and the Hippies

It’s a chilly 39 degrees in Greenville as I bid goodbye to Cheryl, and make my way through the sleepy little college town. The sun breaks the horizon as I pedal through campus, bathing the road in front of me with brilliant orange sunlight broken by trees showing just a hint of fall color.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

It’s a little later start than I usually like, but Cheryl was insistent on making breakfast in the morning, and I didn’t want to make it too early for her. The breakfast is wonderful, and I enjoy her company and conversation before saddling up and heading out onto the quiet road.

Today I meet US 40, which will be my path for the rest of the journey across the nation. Not that I will follow the exact current route of US 40 all the say, but I’ll follow the general path, often getting off the current route and following an older version of the highway.

Old roads are the lifeblood of a culture and society as the society grows. They connect one little tribe to another, one village to another. In our world today, it’s easy to lose perspective on just how important roads were in times gone by. Today our “roads” are telephone wire, cell towers, internet routers, and TV screens. These are the things that connect us today. But for thousands of years prior to the last 100 years or so, it was all about roads.

US 40 is called “The Old National Road”. It’s called that because it’s “old” – an old concept. Up until a few decades ago, it was just called “The National Road”. But then highways started getting built all across the nation, and a vast system of interstate super-highways replace those highways… Now, “The National Road” is just a historical idea.

The National Road was the first nationally funded road in the nation, funded in 1806. US 40 was one of the “highways” designated and designed in the early part of the last century to accommodate the automobile, and when it was designed, it used the path of the National Road, as well as several other “roads” to make its way from the west coast to the east.

For much of its current path across the nation, US 40 is the same highway as I-70. If you look at a map, you’ll often see that I-70 and US 40 are both the same road, but parallel to that highway is another highway, usually called something like state highway 140, or highway 144, or something like that. Generally, this is the “old” version of US 40, and when I-70 got built, then just moved the name US-40 to the new highway, and gave the old highway a new name.

There are a few places where the new I-70 highway just paved right over the old highway, and they became the same – there is no “old” version of the road. There aren’t many of those, though. For logistical reasons, it was best to leave the old highway there until the new highway was built – gave folks something to drive on while the new highway was under construction.

When I was a boy, my family would drive from Kansas up to Wisconsin to visit relatives. In those days, the Interstate Highway system was just a dream starting up. I remember my dad was always engineering new combinations of highways he could take to get us up into the backwoods of northern Wisconsin where his family lived. We’d always start by following US 69 north, then we’d start inching our way east onto other roads as we went. I remember very clearly him talking about the giant ribbon of construction that we’d meander past all the time as we went north. A new interstate highway system, where there were no stoplights and you could cruise along without traffic or anything else.

That ribbon of construction became I-35, running from Kansas City to Minneapolis. In later years, we’d follow that interstate for most of the trip. Running alongside I-35, US 69 is still there. I see it now and then when I drive that highway, and remember those days half a century ago when it was the “main” highway, relegated now to the status of a secondary road, it just happens to run alongside the “real” highway.

Road

I’m thinking of that as I ride along an old highway this morning. In Mulberry Grove, I ride briefly on “old 40”, before turning off again to stay on what I think is highway 140, and crossing under I-70. Here I encounter the first of many little “road moments” that I’ll have in the coming days as I make my way toward the east coast. I’m pretty sure 140 is the “old 40”, that was replaced with the “new 40” which now owns the name of US 40. I-70 is really the main highway now, having replaced US 40 a few decades ago.

So I’m on the “old old” highway, as I make my way along the twisting blacktop into a bright and beautiful autumn morning sun. There are old curbs on this road in places, and the only traffic is local traffic making its way to the bigger and newer highways. The sun is starting to warm the air a bit now, and my fingers are finally feeling a little less frozen.

The ruins of the "old old old" US 40 - probably the original National Highway.
The ruins of the “old old old” US 40 – probably the original National Highway.

Rounding a bend, and crossing a little creek, I’m taken by another little “road moment”. Here I am, on the “old old” highway, and 20 yards to my right is a very old one-lane bridge crossing this little creek. I suspect this old bridge – nearly covered now in growth from the creek – was where the highway crossed the creek when it was first laid down nearly 100 years ago. It’s the “old old old” version of the highway. Just a narrow single lane.

I smile, take a sip of water, and decide to enjoy a granola bar beside this old old old place. Has anyone even noticed this in the past year? The past 10 years?

I doing research and writing this story, I’ve come across other folks who like to research and write about old US-40. Frank Brusca administers a web site where he posts all things US-40 here. Matt Murphy is a fella from out east who posts on his blog about the eastern part of the road here. If road history is an interest, I’d recommend checking out their sites.

Stopping for lunch at Joe Sipper’s Cafe in Effingham, I realize it’s likely to be a longer day than I expected. In my mind, today’s ride is going to be just a little over 100 miles, and I’m only halfway there at noon. It’s a nice little cafe, and while I sit and eat, I watch a great big wind building outside – looks to be from some flavor of east and southeast.

Old Covered Bridge in Greenup
Old Covered Bridge in Greenup

A quartering headwind to face for the second half of the day. Delightful.

Selfie while riding with covered bridge in background
Selfie while riding with covered bridge in background

 

 

 

 

In the town of Greenup is an old covered bridge. While I’m riding on “old 40”, I veer off 40 to get onto Cumberland Road to cross the covered bridge. I’ve decided to try and check out a few covered bridges along my route, and this one in Greenup is easy since it’s very close to the road. After a few pics of the old bridge, a granola bar, and a selfie, I head on up the road, snapping a selfie looking backwards at the bridge as I ride along the old road.

Mary - Riding from Annapolis to Denver
Mary – Riding from Annapolis to Denver

It’s early afternoon when I meet Mary. She’s cycling from Annapolis to Denver. Amazing coincidence. I’m from Denver, cycling to Annapolis, and we meet as she rides from Annapolis to Denver. We talk a lot about routes, and I give her my best advice for roads she should consider or not. We hang out and chat for a bit, exchange email addresses, and head on down the road. Mary’s roughing it a bit more than I am. She’s carrying more gear, camping part of the time. She’s having the version of this adventure that a 25 year-old seems, while I’m having the 60 year-old version of the adventure…

Mary’s journey seems to be a “coming of age” story. She’s recently completed big milestones in her life, and this journey might be her way of transition into her next chapter. Maybe it’s her way of discovering what her next chapter needs to be. In any case, it’s a young person’s journey of discovery.

My New Best Hippie Friends
My New Best Hippie Friends

I’ve really not met that many other cyclists as I’ve been riding, and I’m not quite over the serendipity of meeting Mary along the road, when I spot what might be another cyclist coming toward me on the road. I stop and wait for him at the top of a little rise, trying to put the image together as he slowly makes his way up the hill. It looks like a 5 gallon bucket, with a bicycle strapped to the back of it, all sorts of junk hanging off the sides, and a hippie standing on the pedals pushing it up the hill.

He stops to chat. Soon after comes his buddy, followed a few minutes later by a gal. They’re all on similar machines, dressed in rags, big smiles on their face.

These folks are headed to Colorado as well, though they’ve just begin their journey in Indianapolis. We chat a bit, and I tell them about Mary who’s just a few miles in front of them. Mary’s traveling faster than these folks are, and I can’t imagine that she didn’t pass them. As we talk though, I come to understand that they really just started riding for the day an hour or so ago.

Hmmm. Late sleepers. Seems they were up late last night in the campground, making merry and making music with other folks there. It all kind of fits together, and I’m really taking a shine to these three. They’ve fashioned bikes out of old clunker machines. With 5 gallon buckets duct taped on to their handlebars, sleeping bags roped to the back of their bikes, and fiddles or mandolins tied to their stuff, they’ve struck out on their journey west.

They’re hippies, on the modern-day version of the VW microbus. Long hair, ragged clothes, the scent of a recent j wafting from them…

We exchange stories, and I give them my best advice on routes to CO. They really don’t know what routes they want to take – they’re just headed west, hoping they’ll be able to find their way as they go. We snap a couple pictures as we part, and I wish them the very best.

Really. They’re gonna need it…

HippiesI stand there and watch them meander down the road, my first thought that there’s no way they’ll make it. They’re so ill-prepared for the journey really. They have old clunker bikes that aren’t maintained and will probably break down in some way, not to mention that they weigh a ton. They know nothing about how to fix them or take care of them. Their clothes flap in the wind and get caught in bicycle parts. Starting their days at after noon, when the wind is high, they’ll be lucky to make 30 or 40 miles a day. They’ve done zero preparation to be in shape to ride, and don’t even know what route they’ll be taking.

I contrast them to Mary, who’s pedaling steadily toward Colorado with both purpose and planning on her youthful quest. I can’t help throwing myself into that mix, contrasting all of us.

I suppose we’re all on a journey, aren’t we? We go out and get in our car and drive to work in the morning, and maybe it can be a bit of a journey. We all have different notions of what we might find on the journey, why we’re there, and how we travel. Who am I to criticize another person’s bike or pack?

Mary seems to have purpose and drive. She wants to find something, though maybe she just hasn’t figured out what yet. She prepared herself for a journey, packed well for it, and is making her way methodically across the country. She’ll find her next purpose in life, I’m sure of it. When she gets to Colorado to spend time with her folks, I can picture conversations where they share big dreams and ideas, and plan ways to make that happen.

My hippie friends are on the same road with Mary, just a few miles back. (Well, by now Mary has gained a few more miles on them…) Their target isn’t as pinpointed as Mary’s – they just know they want to get to this state called Colorado. Their route isn’t as well thought-out as Mary’s – they just know they need to keep chasing the setting sun. But for now, they share this road we’re on.

I share it with them too. They’re all young, and headed toward something that must feel like the “heart of life”. They see big things that life probably holds for them further down the road. They’re headed toward the middle of life.

Finally, as my hippie friends disappear down the road, I turn my back and climb back into my saddle, coasting down a little hill before turning the pedals and finding that nice steady cadence I like to maintain as I ride. I think the wind has died down just a bit for me.

The middle of life is behind me, not in front of me. I must be one of the luckiest guys on earth, able to pedal my bike along this road, meeting folks like Mary and the hippies as I go. I’m at an age where I only survive this sort of ride with a lot of fitness preparation, and the planning gnomes in my tiny little brain insist that I have my route planned, and that I’m aware of alternate routes in case of a problem. I’ll use this magical little plastic card in my pocket to buy a warm shower and a soft bed every night.

More than anything else, I feel lucky that I don’t have an ounce of envy for Mary or the hippies. I took the time to have misadventures when my body was built for it. I spent many nights sleeping on the ground in those adventures. I had my moments of hippie-ness, and I spent my time in purposeful pursuit of far-away destinations.

The World's Largest Wind Chime
The World’s Largest Wind Chime in Casey, IL

I think there was a time when I was looking for the biggest or best or longest or tallest. I’m learning to find good and nice these days, and liking it very much.

I can look at my hippie friends and wish them the very best. I’m not optimistic they’ll make it very far, but wherever they make it to, it will have been an adventure for them. I’m sure Mary will make it to Colorado, and that she’ll do much to change the world in good ways – I wish her all the best too.

I like the direction I’m going in life, and I’m happy to have met them on this road, headed in a different direction. Not that I don’t have destinations in mind, or aspirations, or expectations. I do. They’re just different at this point in life. More relaxed I suppose, with the middle of life behind me now.

I’m a happy man, and a lucky one…

Marthasville to Alton in Missouri

Bicycle Trip People
On my recent bicycle journey from Kansas to Annapolis, I met quite a few really interesting folks. I’m doing a series of posts on these wonderful and interesting people, and this is an installment in that series. While there are others I met along the way as well, these are the ones who I was able to spend enough time with to get a feel for their story.

An Old House, Loved, and Discovering My Place in The Butler’s Quarters

Breakfast at the Concord House B&B is quite an affair – not something to be skipped. Everyone was up late the night before, making music and making fun, so it’s not an early affair. While we’d love to eat at 7:00 and be out riding by 8:00, it’s clear as I roam around the house in the morning that breakfast isn’t happening early this morning.

The kitchen at the Concord House is hard to avoid. It’s really the center of the house. It’s one of the things that makes this such an inviting place to stay. I find myself wandering through the kitchen many times as I rattle around early in the morning, hoping to see signs of impending breakfast taking shape.

I’m a breakfast guy. Lunch is nice, and I miss it if I don’t get it. Supper is something I can take or leave – usually I sleep better if I just skip it altogether. But breakfast? That’s my essential meal of the day.

I love breakfast. The day is ahead of me, the food is food I like, I’m full of energy, looking forward to what life has in store for me. Sometimes, at a diner, I’ll actually order two breakfasts, and have no trouble at all getting both of them down.

And the thought of missing breakfast? Well, I just don’t miss breakfast, of if I do, I’m not a happy guy.

Most B&Bs that I’ve stayed at serve an early breakfast. Now, my version of early and most folks might be a little different, but still, it would be unusual to have to wait past 8:00 for breakfast at most places. With Maggie and George, after a Saturday night filled with fun and music, 8:00 is clearly not a target time for “forks up” at the breakfast table.

Eventually, however, George is in the kitchen. He doesn’t seem particularly happy, and he certainly doesn’t want any loud noises around him, but I sense he’s searching for some zen harmony as he begins to orchestrate the components of what is to become our breakfast. Ingredients from the garden and the refrigerator come together like tributaries flowing toward a rich river, and Maggie assures us that this will all flow into something worth the wait.

We do our best to stay out of George’s way. He gets grouchy whenever someone invades his space in search of water or coffee, grumbling and scowling, but magic is happening – it’s in the air.

Turns out Maggie is right. Breakfast is truly great cuisine. A little down-home midwestern fare, a little southern delight, and a whole lot of magical mojo. I’m not sure if George’s hangover is a requirement for his breakfast to be this wonderful. I suppose it’d be worth a little experimentation. However, if I go back, I’ll be sure and do it on a Saturday night when some good music and lots of drink will flow, hoping for a repeat of this unforgettable morning dining creation.

George’s breakfast at the Concord House is made for a guy like me. It’s not only good, but there’s LOTS of it. Simply stated, I make a pig of myself…

DCIM101GOPROBellies full, smiles on our faces, we climb on the bikes and head down to the Katy Trail to continue our journey eastward. This section of the Katy Trail east of Marthasville is more of the small-town farm country we’ve been riding through for the last 20 or 30 miles. My friends ride with me to Augusta, where they turn around to head back to the Concord, and I continue alone riding east on my journey toward the east coast.

It’s been an enjoyable 3 days of riding with good friends who I’ve known most of my life. We dawdled a lot, riding at a real easy pace all the time. I’m reminded of the value of old friends – folks we’ve known most of our life. Rick and I have known each other since we were 10 years old or so. Realizing that we’re nearing the place where we’ll part, I wonder how long it will be until I see him again. I don’t want it to be long, but the last gap was several years. Why do we let so much time pass?…

As we exchange hugs, I’m sad to be leaving them behind. Like so many times in life, I turn and face east, continuing my journey. Behind me I feel the comfort of people I’ve known well and loved deeply for so long. Ahead of me a breeze is in my face, unknown adventure calls.

Seeking…

I’ve been chomping at the bit all morning to let the legs loose a bit, and put some miles behind me. As I wave and start riding east on the trail, I kick the pace up to a high level, keeping it there for hours. My legs are rested, full of energy, and ready to work. This flat and windless trail is the perfect place to open them up and let them run as hard as they can.

It’s a Sunday, so there are folks out on the trail. The closer I get to St Louis, the more populated the trail is. I live in the Denver area, which has one of the best bike trail systems in the country, so I’m used to riding on well-used trails. If you’re looking for remote and lonely, this eastern section of the trail on a September Sunday probably doesn’t fit the bill.

However, the people make it nice in many ways. Lots of happy folks, enjoying a beautiful day. The air smells great, a hint of autumn on the edges. It’s warm and sunny.

Once again, life is good.

At one point, the trail goes right past a Ted Drew’s, which is a local St Louis frozen custard place that folks love. Normally I’d stop and enjoy a cone, but I’m feeling so darned good with this hard riding that I don’t want to stop – I’m making great time!

I should mention that there are a couple fairly congested places as I get closer to St Louis. And without a doubt, folks are less openly friendly the closer I get to the city. But I never feel like it’s dangerous.

It’s mid-day by the time I reach the old river town of St Charles, MO. I’ve covered about 30 miles since leaving my friends, and my water bottles are empty. I’m not sure if there will be any other services between here and Alton, so I want to start with full water bottles and good hydration.

I eat lunch at a cute little cafe just off the trail. There are several cyclists hanging out, and I ask several about the trail continuing east – toward Alton. Nobody appears to ride that way – everyone seems to use St Charles as the trailhead. I strike up a conversation with a couple gals from the area who are out enjoying the trail. One of them has a boyfriend in Boulder, so we talk a lot about the trails around the Denver area. They’ve never ridden further up the trail here either, though they ride the trail often starting here in St Charles.

It feels like I’m headed into the unknown as I mount back up and head further east on the trail. From here, the trail is actually continuing on the northeast bearing it’s followed for a while, skirting to the north of the St Louis area. Immediately, it’s clear that this section of trail is rarely used. It’s well-maintained, but from St Charles to the end of the trail, (about 12 miles), I don’t see a single rider on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.

At the end of the trail, well, it just ends. There’s no big trailhead parking lot or anything. In fact, I buzz right past the last road – a place where there’s a little parking – and end up along the RR tracks in a bunch of fist-sized gravel. I find my way back to the road, and head north on Machens Road until I get to highway 94, where I can continue east.

It’s as flat as flat can get, riding along the Mississippi flood plain here. I wind my way through some back roads to avoid the highway, ending up in West Alton after about 10 miles. They’re having some sort of small-town fair this weekend, and I stop for a couple minutes to admire some of the old tractors hanging out – presumably participating in a tractor pull.

I pick up highway 67 here. For the first couple miles, there’s a bike path that parallels the highway, but eventually I have to get up on the highway to cross the bridge. There’s a good shoulder on the highway, but it’s full of glass and crap. The view of the bridge across the Mississippi is fantastic as you approach it like this from the west, and I find myself slowing down to enjoy it and snap a few pictures.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Although most if my days are pretty well-planned along this trip – at least my starting and ending points – today is a little loose in terms of planning. I’d originally planned on taking all of today as a rest day in Marthasville, then having a big day of riding tomorrow to end up in Greenville, IL. However, when I found out my friends had to leave on Sunday to get back home, I decided to get some of the miles done today. As I cross the bridge into Illinois, and look back over the last few hours of riding on this beautiful afternoon, I realize how glad I am to have made this choice. I had a tremendous breakfast with really interesting folks, spend a couple more hours riding with friends who are dear to me, then enjoy a few hours of hard riding along a great trail on a warm autumn afternoon.

As I cross the bridge into historic Alton, IL, I consider finding a historic little hotel to stay in. It’s a beautiful old river town. But decide to get a few more miles in and just find any sort of little motel. After a mile or two headed down the bike path along the river, I feel a few drops of rain so I decide to try using my Garmin to see where hotels might be along my path. I spend enough time to realize that I’m not likely to come on a motel for quite a while on the route I’m taking, so decide to turn back and find a place in Alton after all.

The first place my GPS suggests looks like it might be an old historic hotel, so I ride there, discovering that it’s old for sure, and might be historic, but certainly isn’t a place I’d want to go into. Bed bugs would be a given, and probably the least of my worries in this place.

So I look for a B&B, finding a place called The Beall Mansion that sounds pretty cool, even it if’s a little pricey. I talk to them on the phone, and head their way.

The Beall Mansion is one of several large mansions along what they call “Millionaire’s Row”, up on the hill. I suppose these were the homes for the barons and tycoons that amassed wealth back in the 19th century, maybe running riverboats or other shipping operations?

Depending on your point of view, these folks might have been robber barons or titans of enterprise. Either way, they had most of the wealth, and had the big houses up on the hill. Tonight, I get to stay in one of the big houses up on this hill – as-if I were one of those robber barons or titans of enterprise.

I find that the only room I’m willing to pay for is the Butler’s Quarters, way up on the top floor. As I schlep my stuff up the stairs, I find it interesting how you can see the division of classes as you rise up through the house. My little hovel can only be reached via that “back stairs”, but even here the division is evident.

Our culture has changed a bit now, and we don’t like to have that division quite so evident in the same ways. As the “lower class” continues to expand in numbers in our economy, and the tiny “upper class” continues to amass more of the wealth with each passing year, I wonder if we’ll soon be moving to these more blatant signs of class division. Back in the middle of the 19th century, folks accepted that there were the very wealthy, and that these few held all the power, and that they were probably “better than” the rabble in some way. That they somehow “deserved” to be wealthy. Kind of like the old notion that the King is King because God wants him to be King. This seemed to be OK with everyone. As we moved into and through the 20th century, the wealth distributed itself out, and we moved further toward this American ideal of equality, those notions of blatant class division became less popular.

How long will it stay so, I wonder as I climb the servant’s stairway? At the very top of the stairs are two rooms. One is my “Butler’s Quarters”, and the other must be for the head housekeeper or something like that – the head of the female staff perhaps.

Walking into my room, I find I actually like it quite a bit. It’s cozy, but not cramped. Of course, it’s been decked out as a nice room in a modern B&B, so it’s certainly nicer than it would have been for the butler who lived here 150 years ago, but nonetheless I find I like the room a lot. On hot summer days, I imagine this room is more than just a little warm, way up on the top floor of this mansion. But on this cool late summer evening, with the windows open and the birds singing outside, it’s heaven for me.

By the time I get showered, wash my clothes and hang them to dry, it’s too late to find supper anywhere close. So I wander down to the main floor, where there’s an absurdly large assortment of chocolates and candies of all sorts. There’s a little “almost healthy” food too, but mostly I just chow down on chocolate. Oh, and there’s a snifter in the corner with brandy too, which I help myself to as well.

This place is GREAT!

Loaded up on a chocolate high, mellowed by some delicious brandy, I drift off to sleep in my butler’s room, delighted that I happened on this wonderful place. I don’t know if Jim and Sandy will be able to make a go of this in the long run. It must be a TREMENDOUS amount of work to keep it up. But they clearly love the old place, and it shows.

I wish them the absolute best, and hope I can get back through here another time to stay in one of the nicer rooms, though I do love my little Butler’s Quarters. In many ways, I think I prefer the Butler’s Quarters. Sitting back and thinking about it, this feels like a good place for me. We’ve all got our place, or maybe a set of places that work well for us. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t like it one bit when a few people “lord” their power over other people, and “keep them in their place”. I’m a stubborn SOB who’ll argue with a rock if I think the rock is trying to tell me what to do.

We all need to decide and figure out for ourselves what and where “our place” is. I suspect it changes a bit as we move through life, life happens around us, and we mold ourselves into our ever-changing self with life’s help.

But I do think I have a place – or set of places – that suits me well. I’ll bet we all do if we think about it. I like being in a “place” where I can provide service – where I can help other folks in some way. I see this reflected in many aspects of my life. In my career now, I like positions where I can sit in the background and be a quiet advisor to folks – usually younger than me and full of ambition – to help them do their job and advance their career. I’m done with big corner offices, and prefer the quiet place to sit, observe, listen, and be of service and value when I can.

I like the Butler’s Quarters – it’s a good place for me at this point in my life.