Sunday, November 11, 2007
Onward Chicken: Indiana and Ohio
I didn't expect these states to be part of this trip but here I am. Go figure.
Eastward and Upward
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Last I chimed in with a note to you all I was getting back on the roads of eastern Missouri on Halloween after sustaining a partially broken bike and spirit. My bike was repaired quick and cheap with the help of a super family who hosted me overnight and gave me a ride to the closest shop (an hour's drive). And my spirit... What did I say in the end of that email? Something like, don't question the road? Well fucking-a-right!
The use of expletives has their place. Like punctuation's exclamation point, the sparing use of a 'bad' word also works to accentuate the dramatic, the illusory, the rarity or sheer dumb luck of fate/chance (give it a name) that circumstance sometimes presents. I had no way of knowing when I wrote that last email that my downed spirit would see a repair similar to the one paid to my busted axle. But such turned out to be the case just later that day. Happy Halloween indeed.
With the sun drawing down on the western horizon on a crisp day over more shoddy Missouri roads, I raced south in search of a way across the Mississippi into Illinois and hopefully easier territory. Coming down a hill and around a corner opened up a view of a long road ahead, one I will never forget. Not because I was either daunted by the sight of a gargantuan hill or relieved to find a wide-open vista able to be cruised all quiet, smooth and with ease. Those are the extremes to which I'd grown accustomed. No, what caught my eye in the distance was a sight on the shoulder neither mailbox, trashcan, nor car. The two dark dots were taller than wide and, though stationary, irregular in their composition. I knew what they were on first sight but couldn't quite believe. I hadn't seen another touring cyclist since Idaho and here I was coming up on two of them together--and they were heading in my direction.
Now as much as I like to talk to passersby about my trip, and they with me, the explanation and fascination are greatly one sided. I'm pretty much answering questions and enjoy doing so only out of the recall of past experiences and in the joy at their reception by an astounded or perplexed audience. But in the case of fellow touring cyclists--much like that with fellow war vets--the connection is real, instantaneous and very enthusiastic. Especially when you're standing aside the road.
Valerie and Guy were making a pit stop at the house of a friendly local so that Valerie could take care of something that Guy and me have less of problem with on the road. They'd been cycling eastbound across America more than a month longer than I had and were following the same TransAmerica maps that I've only been flirting with and that we were both heading back to. The local told us about a Mississippi ferry crossing in a small town just ahead and, with a loose agreement to stick together, we rode out for Ste. Genevieve.
Coming into town I approached a pair of policemen in front of their station and asked them about the city's park. Sure enough, camping was OK and I waited for and told my newfound friends. Wanting to tour the town a little, I left them to go set up. The park was sizable and at a good distance with only brief directions from where I last left them. But sure enough, they'd found my tent while I was away enjoying Halloween in Ste. Genevieve. Not wanting to mistake their own enthusiasm for an invitation into their trip, I left them room to breathe. But as it turned out they were more than happy to have me along.
I was amazed. Unlike me, neither Guy nor Valerie had done any cycle touring before embarking on their cross-country adventure. Though fairly traveled, I couldn't dig out any previous experiences that would give me reason to bet on their success--yet here they were more than two months and 3500 miles across America. Hearing their accounts of places we'd both traveled brought out laughs and feelings of relief. Forget certain local establishments, we'd met some of the same people. We'd both had ominous feelings in Jefferey City, WY after meeting the bartender of the area's sole service provider. No gas station or grocery store, but the place still had a bar. Yeah, I really slept soundly that night after asking these guys where to camp in their nowhere town. It was the only place I'd set up noise-making trip wires to ensure I had time to grab my knife and dial 911 before being [a gruesome violation, past tense].
So from just west of the Mississippi, over the southern tip of Illinois and into Kentucky I was no longer riding alone. And this was the most welcome surprise. Also mentioned at the end of the last email was my realization that it's important to stay focused on the road just ahead and not let your mind wander on the greater realities of the adventure. It's just like Iraq. Get through the day and eventually you'll be done with the deployment. Think about it the other way around and you'll have your daydreaming or depressed head blown off before you can take it home. In this regard it sure helps to have companions. With one sure turn of unlikely events my whole trip was healed. These were some great miles.
As it turned out, Illinois was a pleasure to ride through. In praise of the people at Adventure Cycling, my trip may have been easier had I followed their route more closely. Of what I've ridden, the roads on the Bike Centennial route (so called since it was created for a summer of ‘76 ride across America in celebration of her bicentennial) are less trafficked and especially scenic. To critique my method, sometimes the quick and short may burn you out faster than the roundabout. Remember, my night caught in the rain spent under a bridge was the day I chose to run the gamut of the freeway. (Yeah, but to digress, we do like to suffer the elements now and again in temptation of the fates and under the ever-watchful eye of the gods now don't we? Is it a secret to some that we never truly leave the child in us behind? It's the risk of censure that makes us feel alive.)
And so with the perspective of other riders at my side I took account of all aspects of the trip. My methods and techniques took new light when seen in contrast to those of others. And some of my habits have proven a little self-destructive. Though I was used to riding faster than my new companions, I was by no means any faster than them. They simply had a different way with the road. And though I adopted their pace for a time I never really embraced it even though I did witness its reward. My legs felt more relaxed and I had less off-bicycle pain when I followed their routine, yet I still tended to run ahead. On the super-rural farm roads like those we traversed along some of Illinois ' levies, we could ride side-to-side and talk uninterrupted by the road. But in places where a car would interject an unwelcome roar every minute or more I preferred the solitude I was used to and would jog ahead alone, always grateful to meet Guy and Valerie at the end of the day.
And camp together we did continuously from the evening we met. It helps to have a female presence on the road. Maybe our hosts would have been equally responsive to my own inquiry for sanctuary but the two of them had told me that some people they'd met had specifically said they were happy to help her and not necessarily Guy. But still, roadside help has continued to be forthcoming as I/we delved further east.
On our first day together we completely ran out of sun before finding a place to camp. An unsuspecting couple answered our knock on their door and allowed us to set up behind their house. Curiosity and their good nature turned a simple place to sleep into a warm cup of co-co and slice of cake to cap off a cold night. And in the morning the three of us were again invited inside for a full breakfast--despite the fact that John and Sylvia didn’t eat that early. All together we probably spent three hours around their table laughing and telling stories and I’ve already corresponded with Sylvia online. (The picture of we three cyclists is from her camera.)
Good company, good weather, good roads. Along with the obligatory no-frills stay at the-side-of-the-road-you’re-on
This is not to say that we don’t recognize the dangers inherent to our undertaking. The starts to my other trips were always tinged with an acute trepidation and dread. Weather, traffic and people can all cause us problems spanning the annoying to the catastrophic. But just a few days down the road the realization of the good overtakes these feelings when you see hands outstretched to help you along and those steep climbs and wet days give way to spectacular views of a lush, vibrant land. Above the thickest clouds and just around the corner from the darkest night shines a sun that will return to warm you. And contrary to this trip--though equally relevant--a pounding sun will equally subside as shadows grow long in an always-spectacular conclusion to the natural day. Now if only the heavens could take care of all those pesky dogs, overall life on the road would be perfect.
Yep, my mongrel problem grows as I continue east. Heckled, chased, downright hounded, my opinion of dogs is ever diminishing. But I did come across one I would have liked to send home if only to make traveling safer for the both of us. He was a cute little guy and was playful from the start. I stopped right when he started to follow me so that hopefully he’d satisfy his curiosity and return to the house he came from the vicinity of. Sans collar, however, I quickly determined he must not have had a home since this stupid dog wouldn’t give up the idea of following me.
He was a problem. He’d run next to me, either forcing me into traffic or running in the lane himself. When I’d race ahead he’d stray all over the place and I would hear approaching cars honk at him to get out of their way. After about a mile of him giving chase I came upon a sizable downhill and bid him goodbye. Boy was I wrong. He turned into a white speck in my rear view mirror but didn’t give up. As is common of Illinois roads, my descent turned into an ascent and he eventually caught up to me and continued to tag along. This happened over three such big hills and over the course of eight full miles. The damn dog crossed a county line with me. Twice I stopped to give him water but no food, all the while trying to reason with him to leave me alone. I think the little guy was mute because he would only bark a horse cry of the most abandoned distress when exhausted and trailing far behind. On those occasions when he would voice his pathetic howl I’d feel horrible thinking he’d been hit by a car or was about to collapse. Twice I tried to flag people down and get them to adopt the dog or simply call him away from me. No dice. There’s no happy or sad ending here. Upon pulling into a town after a long descent I made a stop to get a beer and see some scores (it was a Saturday). I spied the little guy making a wrong turn looking for me, tongue practically dragging on the ground as he caught up, but then I never saw him again. I hope he found someone nice to care for him in that town. Had those eight miles led us to my home I surly would have adopted him myself.
That story happened on a day I was still traveling with Guy and Valerie but raced ahead so I could watch some football. They caught up with me later at that bar but hadn’t seen my four-legged friend. Anyway, that was a week ago and since then we’ve parted ways. I always considered deviating from the TransAmerica route in favor of warmer weather to the south. They knew our journey together was a day-to-day operation and sure enough the day came I decided to change course--in a direction I shouldn’t have even considered.
My first thoughts about making this trip centered on the people I might be able to see along the way. Of primary focus, I’d wanted to visit some of my army buddies from the 110th Infantry whom I’d served with in Iraq. They’re scattered across southern Pennsylvania, a state just to the north of the TransAmerica route. Also of concern was some sort of eastern contact person who could provide a base camp of sorts where I could pack up my bike and aid me in transitioning home. Friends in Philadelphia and Atlanta both answered that call, offering to pick me up at whatever spot on the coast I ended up in their vicinity. So until last week, I was still undecided as to where I was going. Now I know. And if you’ve taken a look at the map, yes, I’m headed deeper into the winter’s cold.
Upon my late start I assured my northern contacts I would not be making a visit. By mid November the conditions in their area would not be good for riding. But two things changed my mind on the matter. On Halloween night in Ste. Genevieve I stopped into the local VFW to have a drink at the bar. There I got into a long and great talk with the Vietnam Vet who ran the place and we swapped stories about our wars. In the end, Ali reiterated something I’d known yet hadn’t put much weight behind since coming home; never lose contact with the people with whom you’ve served. With that on my mind, last Monday the prevailing winds were blowing north and apparently that was all the further encouragement that I needed. After a couple quick stops aside the road to open some doors along my prospective path, I altered my route. I spent one last night with Guy and Valerie camped under an enclosure aside a racetrack at the outskirts of Ford City, KY and then bid them a fond farewell. I was sad to be leaving their company but excited at the prospect of a challenging but rewarding finish to this already amazing trip.
Damn if it hasn’t been cold enough at night, now I’m riding in it by day. I quickly hopped out of Kentucky after camping in the yard of a nice family who kept me warm with a bundle of firewood and a huge bowl of chili. Stretching out my days in order to make good time I found myself in position to check off another goal of sorts just north of the Ohio River. Along with the cemetery, I’d always wanted to sleep in an abandoned house. 
With the sun just above the horizon and not a car to be seen around the place, I found myself that home. Beat up, totally deserted, and isolated enough for no one to notice, I circled around back and found my way inside. Just off the back entrance was a room with a decent couch inside which I settled in for the night. The place was in decorative shambles but structurally intact. Playing with the breaker I was amazed to find it still received electricity. No heat. But outside air that was surly in the low thirties overnight never dropped below 44 inside. Cold enough to keep the cold-blooded in hibernation but I was awakened periodically by the footsteps of some four-legged roommates. I barricaded my doorways to keep them at bay and the rats scratching around in the walls behind where I lay my head never made it through over the course of the night.
Besides southern Pennsylvania, western Ohio is home to two places of friendly sanctuary that helped make my detour north appear more doable. I had to fight ill conditions similar to Denver’s to get across Cincinnati to the home of some longtime friends. After a great night with the Stieglers I enjoyed a relaxing ride north on the Little Miami River Scenic Bike Path, a flat rails-to-trails conversion. From there, I had some trouble with the winds riding west to Tipp City but it was worth a little back-tracking to spend another night indoors with the Shirley family. (I’m writing this over a rainy weekend spent here at their house.)
Rain or shine, I need to start crossing Ohio tomorrow. I’ll have ten days to polish off the 600 miles from here to Philadelphia. It’s going to be rough. I’m sure to have some very cold and wet days ahead over terrain spanning the north end of the Appalachian Mountains. But with friends along the way and what may prove to be the most rewarding Thanksgiving I’ve had yet waiting for me at the end, this should be no problem. Friends make it easy. And I’ve been so fortunate to meet up with them--and make them--all along the way. Thanks everyone. I wouldn't be here without you.
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