Short sleep. The hospitality of Hudson Kansas beats all.

I was up and at 'em after a short fake sleep punctuated by many, many train whistles. I jumped up and packed quickly when I became aware of an incoming storm. Sleep was impossible for anything over twenty minutes or so - the busy train crossing was a few hundred yards from the park. Instead of putting up a rainfly, I decided to pack the whole operation and get into town. I was quick enough to miss the rain, but the shower didn't last for long anyway. My new phone told me where breakfast was lurking. I laid waste to a breakfast buffet that was better than you might think. I was impressed by the volume and quality.

I have a plan for Kansas, and it's now in full effect. When conditions are favorable: I go far. The weather is unpredictable, and I don't need to dilly dally and dig for difficulty. Today I planned to reach Hudson Kansas, a tiny town 86 miles from breakfast. Not a huge distance, but a good chunk considering that I'd just ridden forty miles the previous night and only got a short strange style of sleep. I set off.

It was a long hot day, but the winds were mostly in my favor. The winds were also 20+ mph and steady. Long sections were thankfully smooth sailing. Head winds and strong wind from the side made life interesting.

All day, I used Stuart's policy of asking people questions whenever I had the slightest hint of wonder - or just wanted confirmation. I flagged down a couple cars to confirm which road I was on, or confirm that a certain road was just ahead. People were invariably happy to help.

I was hot and exhausted when I reached the tiny town of Hudson. Upon arrival I asked a porch-sitting lady if there was a place to get food - a grocery or a cafe. The cafe was closed, and the store had shut down years ago. She invited me to sit and have an iced tea. I happily obliged. I asked where the park was, and she gave directions: two blocks further. She offered to bring some food later, after she picked up her husband from work and they grilled something. Her name was Cheryl. We finally introduced ourselves before I rode the two blocks to the hot and noisy park.

I spent a miserable hour or so in the park. The wind got stronger and the grain tower across the street was humming like a massacre. It's wheat harvest, the sun was beating down, and wheat-loaded semis scrambled everywhere like giant meandering ants. Also, a storm was brewing. My new fancy phone said so.

The clouds grew dark, and I decided I'd better get a tent up now. It looked more like I was flying a big kite on a short string. The moment I had it set up and staked down, a nice elderly lady named Sally pulled up in a minivan. She offered to open the community center directly across the street. I couldn't be more thankful. This is exactly what I was hoping for. I packed up and walked over. It was air conditioned - a luxury that hadn't even crossed my mind. Too good! And quiet!

Sally showed me around. Memorobelia from the now-closed high school is on display inside. The town of Hudson is shrinking, and soon the post office may close as well. There is a much-loved cafe run by Sally's son, but it was unfortunately closed today and has a sporadic schedule.

It's my understanding from what I've read that the school closes first. Then when the grain tower goes... that's it. I wondered if Hudson had a future, or whether it was only this calm dwindling present. Day by day, not counting hours. The photographs on the walls of the community center reminded me of the youthful photographs of a hospitalized cancer patient. I wasn't sure how to feel. I had the indifference of a passerby, but the interest of someone who has read a bit about the decline of small mid-western towns. I was now witnessing the precise play-by-play. It was by the book. Who will bring cookies and milk to the cyclists when all of these towns are erased from the maps? Like a diver exploring a coral reef, I was looking at scenery that might not exist in fifty years.

I was all set up inside the community hall. My situation had impoved markedly. Mercifully, Zumba class was cancelled due to a lack of attendance. Talk of Zumba quickly fizzled, and the couple people who had shown up were happy to get back home to beat the storm. Cheryl and her husband brought a plate of food - a steak hot off the grill and some sides. I was starving, and this was a major improvement over my Rice-A-Roni contingency plan. No sooner did I finish my dinner, then Sally showed up with homemade ice cream, cinnamon rolls, and a gallon of milk. It's a deal. I had two offers for a hot shower, and I went with Sally because she offered me a ride up the street and back. The weather was looking bleak to say the least.

I had food, I had a shower, and I had shelter. Everything was perfect. I sat around for awhile to chat with Sally, her husband and her son. We watched the storm warnings on the television, while they told me about other notable cyclists who had been passing through Hudson since 1976 when this route was established. Looking at the warnings of tornadoes and hail on television made me feel even luckier that I would be sleeping indoors. As soon as the rain began to fall, I was given a ride back to the community center, and a key to lock up when I was done.

I drank about half a gallon of milk and put a big dent in some cinnamon rolls and ice cream.

Alone and onward. Natty Light and ride at night.

I expected to wake up early, ride 25 miles to Eureka Kansas and say goodbye to the folks I've been riding with - then goof around till Lee showed up in a Jeep. But the Jeep was not to come. Between Army meetings, a pending divorce and moving, it's not a good time. He could have said so, but nobody is anxious to be a spoil-sport. It put the slightest hitch in my expectations, but realistically my life is still made out of cake.

I had a nice breakfast in town with Graham, Wendy and Matt. (The Eds disappeared and have not been seen.) We said our goodbyes and exchanged numbers. Then I went to the library for many hours. I was planning to seek beer when Lee gave me the news that a meetup was simply not possible.

I cut some pages out of my guidebook and hit the road. As I banged out some distance between myself and disappointment, a new plan formed in my head: just ride the fucking TransAm. No trains or buses or hitchhiking or shuttles. Just a long ride from Philadelphia to Astoria, and don't complicate it. I was looking at shuttles and options to go off-route to Denver to meet Tara in a couple weeks. Instead of paying for that and dealing with schedules, I'm just going to ride some longer days to give myself plenty of time to get to Denver first - on my handy dandy Hoopty. Like a real man.

Other than the heat, conditions were favorable. By that, I mean the wind wasn't against me. It was more or less behind me. Moments ago, I had been feeling a level of stress. (big surprise...ha.) It melted away.

I pedaled vigorously onward, and reflected on how ridiculous it was to feel stress! My worst day is another person's euphoria! People would beg for the chance to pedal over this vast expanse. I should feel nothing but exaltation. And with this thought, I began to.

I was pedaling alone, and I was happy. I dictated my own pace, and as usual, it was fairly fast. I exited a busier road, and took a right on a small farm road. Mi amor. Over the few hours since leaving Eureka, I cycled a vigorous 40 miles. I listened to music, and saw hundreds more cows than cars. At the tops of small inclines, I could see for miles.

I arrived in Cassoday - the next inhabited place. I saw Graham walking along the road to get a beer, and I pulled over to surprise him and compare notes. I was planning an additional 40 miles to take advantage of the favorable conditions, but when I saw the kiwis relaxing in camp, it was difficult to keep pedaling. The town park was shaded and pretty. I decided to stay.

I ate a pizza and drank a long row of 16oz beers. I went back for a sandwich and more beers. I leaned my back on the gazebo and satisfied all of my appetites. I think Graham was concerned about the number of cans lining up, but I didn't have much to explain. I set up camp, listened to music, and was unable to locate sleep. It was time to go.

I have a headlight; I have a tail light. The moon was a close approximation of full. I looked at the tiny sign next to the small farm road beside the park: Newton 38. Let's do this!

I packed quickly and filled my water bottles. Conditions could not be more perfect. I spun quickly and began burning off all of those cans of Natural Light. I kept a fast pace with a large moon rising over my left shoulder. The road was a straight line, and wide open fields assured full illumination. Corn to the left, wheat to the right. The wheat was practically glowing, and lightning bugs flashed toward me at the edges of the crops.

I covered the distance, and found myself pedaling on the streets of Newton by 1am. I was in a cookie-cutter banality of hotels and gas stations. I continued to sneak through, seeing only one person. A man on a folding chair watched me pass from his perch beside the bricks of a gas station. I emerged from the fields to his left as he watched the blinking hotel advertisement to his right. I snaked my way into a residential district and arrived at Main Street. The actual Newton, not the newfangled homogeneous interstate version. Half a mile later, I found the town park and put up a tent.

I found a nest of van-supported cyclists, and set up quietly on the periphery.

Ground down and northward bound.

I started the morning early, feeling apathetic with a twinge of melancholy. I decided after the first stretch of the day to ride along with the others once I caught up. I matched pace, turned off my brain, and ignored my directions. I went into auto-pilot follow-mode. I was happy to do this. The morning was full of winds gusting from the sides and a little from the front. It's a slugfest. There's not much to focus on, and more than ever you can just get wrapped up inside your own brain.

I haven't had a great shower and sleep in awhile. There is sun and wind to spare. The wind whips my shirt against my back, and it feels like I'm getting slapped with a cactus. The sunburn will remain for a few more days, I think. At night, my skin sticks to my mattress. When I turn over, I pull myself up carefully. The action of turning over feels like pulling the backing carefully from a bumper sticker so you don't rip it.

Like Jeff was saying back in Kentucky, whenever something feels worthy of complaint, he reminds himself that the trip is not a compulsory one. He chose to be here. That line of reasoning works. Each day has beautiful moments, and even though I'm tired and a little bit ground down, I recognize these moments as visions with value. I will some day be well rested, and the difficulties will be the first forgotten figments of my memories.

In Toronto Kansas there is a one-block business district. It's laid out like a picture of a town from an old western movie. The first business on the left is the "What-Ever Store." The second adjoining building has a crooked rainbow instead of a sign. I took this as a symbol of acceptance. There are two places to sit and get some food delivered to a table. One is closed on Tuesdays, and the other is closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. Unfortunately, this was a Tuesday.

There were two Kiwis, two Eds, one Matt and me. We would all have gotten food, but this was not enough to convince the Tuesday-closed cafe to open the door for a couple hours.

My friend, Lee, is stationed 160 miles north of here. I convinced him to come down and get me with his Jeep. I'll be leaving the trail for a few days, and hopefully getting a new lease on a different reality. I'll be in Denver by the 30th to hang out with Tara, and maybe I'll talk about that later. Respite will be nice, and I'll take it where I can.

I am almost to the half-way point on this trip.

Breakfast in Kansas, bitches!

The thing everyone seems to know about Kansas is that it's flat, windy and not very scenic. All true, as far as I've seen. I rode the first 35 miles into the state, and it only took me about three or four long yawns. The wind was behind me, and the creaking from my tainted bottom bracket was the only evidence that I was doing any actual work. "Keeeeeeeep going," I begged, "keeeeeep being a tailwind." Just another week of this, and I'll be in Colorado! But I doubt many people are that lucky.

I stopped for cheap breakfast, and got an out-of-body experience for free. The space was vast and dim. The tables mostly matched, but one of the large round tables in the middle was a considerably more regal yard sale find. A folding table fit for kings of the 1970s. The panels of the dropped ceiling were evenly water-stained and yellowed from decades of cigarette smoke. The walls were particle board, screwed into place with some nice pine strips nailed in to cover the seams. It was quiet when I entered, and the staff of three were made of smiles and stares as I entered the silence. Three ceiling fans looked like upside-down roulette wheels, hurtling and yanking at their motors like dogs on a leash. The fourth had evidently made a run for it, it's wire tethers hung limp and ashamed. My body took a seat at a booth, as the rest of me watched in awe.

The cook doesn't make a bad breakfast. He told me this himself after we had a discussion about how unable he would be to ride a bicycle any meaningful distance. I believed him. We compared tattoos: eggs n' bacon vs. a giant cartoon turtle.

The cook was friendly, and he reminded me of the comedian Doug Benson. They look identical, and this guy was a sort of comedian as well. And a singer. He popped a quarter in the Compact Disc jukebox, selected some 1989-era Cher, and belted it out. I sat sideways to watch him read his own menu and sing until he was admonished by the kind waitress who was smoking at the counter. Also: the coffee didn't taste like coffee.

Most of the day, I had winds blowing from the side. The rest was heads or tails.

Kansas, bitches!

Burnt backs and bottom brackets. Plus pie.

My morning started out lazy and hazy. I missed a morning rain storm by not waking up too quickly. By the time the rain had passed and I paid the bill for breakfast, it was mid-morning.

My shirt felt sweaty, disgusting and un-wearable. Knowing better, I took it off anyway and got a terrible sunburn. That's the level of smartness that I'm afraid to be riding with sometimes. Plus, my bottom bracket has been screeching and squealing for a week, and I'm a good enough mechanic to know that it'll be fine if I just keep being lazy until a bicycle shop appears out of the mist some morning. It only makes noise most of the time. I've seen enough bum bikes to know that it can technically go for another year or two. It's loud, but I've got time before it catches on fire while I'm riding.

I'm sticking with the Kiwis. Wendy and Graham don't try to push over long distances. And being sensible people, they usually have a good day's ride planned out. I'm continuing my policy of shadowing the ideas of others. For life. I still mostly ride alone, but I'm pretty sure that sharing camp is a mutual benefit for most everyone. In fact, at the day's end in Golden City we had quite the convergence of cyclists.

When I pulled into town, I caught up with the Kiwis right before rolling into camp at the city park. Already there were two other groups - Matt (another Matt, but he also rides a brand new Long Haul Trucker in blue) and the team of Ed and Ed on matching Bilenky touring bicycles with S&S couplers. Fancy stuff, gentlemen.

Ed and Ed are older guys who apparently roll around all over the place together carrying tons of gear and cooking five course meals. I assumed they were gay, but they claim to have families and kids.

Matt was a bicycle mechanic before he started flying planes for a regional airline. He seems to have brought most of the tools and spare parts with him from his bicycle shop days. He literally had a spare bottom bracket to sell me. I am literally not making this up. I gave him $5 for it. Then I ate pie. I am not joking that I ate rhubarb pie and bought a bottom bracket, and it cost me less than ten bucks. That also includes coffee.

This is how Golden City got its name.

Random Camping; Random Reggae.

A little bit of rain last night detracted nothing from a glorious styrofoam coffee cup this morning.

Let me bitch about Verizon. I want my contacts. I got a new phone, but the one employee couldn't transfer contacts. She suggested that the next store on route would definitely be able to, and I should have smelled the runaround. The next store was similarly understaffed. One employee, and it took 45 minutes of gawking and squawking before I started talking. He tried and he failed to get my contacts transferred. A strong percentage of my phone contacts are people whose numbers live in the phones of nobody else who I know. I have numbers of people who I've met while horsing around who I might not talk to for years, but I might want to call them again. The contacts are more important than the phone. Verizon sold me a phone that they can't put contacts on - this literally happened. Then the employees had the audacity to paint the situation as something other than it was. The guy at the second store tried to blame it on five things other than the simple truth. These guys are professionals.

After a boring stop at the town's boring pool with terrible communal shared showers, I was back on the road. The pool was a bust. I paid $1.75 for what I thought would be a much-needed hot shower with a private stall. No doin'. There was a dirty communal shower with cold water - not conducive to private washing, and unsatisfactory to the max. There was a press-and-hold button for a cold blast, and in that way it was actually a step down from a spray out of a garden hose. I declined to ask for my money back on these grounds. I "swam" for 10 minutes in a pool stocked with kids with squirt guns. Next...

I rode on - happy to just be making space between myself and Marshfield, Missouri. It looked like a long day, but by the grace of goodness, I saw Graham about twenty miles later. I shifted to a low gear, and bombed through a grassy ditch to arrive in a pavillion where he had set up camp. I only intended to say hello, but the fortitude to continue simply didn't exist.

Graham and Wendy are the Kiwis from yesterday and before. I was in Fair Grove, Missouri, and this was the surprise end to the day's ride. My days tend to end much better than they begin.

Graham and Wendy are middle-aged Kiwis with kids. Semi-retired. They've done some serious bicycle touring, but I have yet to hear more about it. They're riding an aluminum Giant Iguana and Rincon respectively. Those are a ubiquitous mountain bicycle and hybrid respectively. Good folks, and I'm more than happy to share a sleepy grassy area for our tents.

I took a walk around town and found two scoops of strawberry ice cream. In the same place later, there would be live reggae.

I drank two cans of Tilt, and that was an early mistake. The right plan would be to quit drinking and wake up at 5am - to ride before the sun murders me. I am far from disciplined, and the rash decision to buy two tall cans of idiot-booze proves that readily. No thanks on the intervention.

Reggae! In rurah Missourah! What a treat! I sat with Graham and Wendy, and we enjoyed it. Beers and wine. Many beers for me, and they had tall glasses of wine. I was feeling the music, and I got vocal with some 'hup!' and some bird calls. It was a fun show where I least expected it. What a great situation.

I walked back, made some calls (gotta stay connected), and fumbled with my tent. Once again, I rested my head with pride in the distraction of this bicycle trip.

Boasting of Secret Sodas.

I landed in a diner in Houston Missouri to hear a fat pasty kid whining. He was way too big for the high-chair, and he was America's great disgrace. I slept in the park across the street.

I cooked noodles and poured in a can of low-grade beans. In the midst of this success of self-sufficiency, a cyclist arrived by motor vehicle. He was riding west to east with his girlfriend driving a support car. I was camping here; he was camping here. I was talkative and bubbly, and he was sheepish and rushed. He wanted to be done, and he was whipping himself to do long days. Whatever floats your boat. There's a measure of self flagellation to be recognized in all of us on this trail - my goal is to bring away some beauty, enrichment and enlightenment. Choose all three. We'll soon see.

The guys called me at half-nine last night to check in. They were on speaker phone. We talked a bit and compared notes. They let me know that they missed me too. I let them know I was glad to hear from them. It will take the next couple of days to ease myself into a new reality.

I woke up to a goosed phone. White screen; killed by dew. It was on it's way out long before the trip. I called my parents, and tried not to cry about it. More accurately, I just had pent up general emotion, and it's probably not an unhealthy way to spend my summer. I love my family, and I take these small moments as an excuse to hear friendly voices who love me too. My mom used the internet to tell me where a Verizon store was - about nine feet to the south.

I got riding at the hottest part of the day. Twenty miles in, I bought refreshments at a feed store where cowboy hats converge. I rode some more and stopped in the quaint and lovely town of Hartville, Missouri. (Missouri, bitchezzzz!!! - I can hear Stuart exclaim this in a Scottish accent as we crossed the border on full steam. It brings me happiness.)

I ran into a couple touring cyclists from New Zealand who I passed several days ago. Every library is a slice of home where I don't pay rent. The New Zealanders had put up a tent out front - where you're allowed to do that - and the final 28 miles of my ride melted away from my careless itinerary. This looked good. Another short day, and I'm feeling great.

It's nine minutes until half-seven in the evening. I'm at the Casey's gas station and convenience store a short walk from downtown Hartville. I am confident on foot, knowing that I have a couple of kiwis stationed near my bicycle. On the counter, I've placed one Mickey's 24oz, One Clamato 24oz, and one empty 32oz cup that I am willing to pay up to 25 cents for. (Eight liquid ounces is just enough to account for head.) The point-of-sale system is down and I am waiting as the senior boss employee adds my total on one of those old calculators with the small solar panel. No charge for the cup.

I got groceries and secret sodas. I have a Clamato in a cup and a pot of Rice-A-Roni on simmer. I would literally rather be nowhere else.

Butterfly wings and a dead cyclist

I woke up in Emenence Missouri, and I ate breakfast with Matt and Stuart at the inn that we'd camped behind. It was a delicious breakfast prepared by the proprietor, and it felt like we were sitting in a home rather than a business. I sheepishly bummed a couple bucks off of Matt to pay, and noted that it was a shitty way to part ways. Contact information was thoroughly exchanged, and they were off. I stood alone in the grass with a head full of fuzz and apathy. I packed my tent away slowly, and planned my day: bathroom at the gas station; ride some miles after that. I began to pedal in the lethargic trance of a man without a motive.

Images passed through my head. A jar of deceased butterflies sitting sideways on a windowsill; found and collected carefully from where their fragile lives left them. A loose colorful bundle of delicate wings, maybe fifty or so, were framed like a ship in a bottle. The image was honest and heavy in the hot early sun. The dusty wings were beautiful in unison; a silent chorus.

It's a rare opportunity to see water this clear. Cold mountain springs run together to form rivers, and the rivers have calm pools where you can see crisp detail at the bottom. I've often seen water from the tap with more color. A few lucky times I've seen a body of water this pure. To be submerged here is a gift which we all deserve.

I contrast this with an image that Stuart experienced early in his trip. A dead cyclist burned an image stronger than those butterfly wings. For him it was difficult. I might have decided to go home. He traveled from Scotland three days after finishing university, and thank god he found Nick a few days later. I believe their meeting was one of life's humble apologies.

A long push to Eminence Missouri where I met some local folk.

We got going at around half-seven. That's how you say 7:30 in Scotland. We're all saying half-this, half-that. I never do anything, or talk about anything happening right on the hour. I don't want to miss my chance to say half-seven. Forever on bicycle camping trips I will be using this method of dictating time.

Today was like yesterday, but we're officially in the Ozarks now. The Ozarks are steep as hell, but when you start a climb you can usually see the top. If I can see the top, then it's more likely that I can stand up and stomp until I reach it. I've gotten stronger, but I'm still barely crawling on some of the steepest hills. They can be rough, and we're riding through the hottest hours of days with record-breaking heat.

It's amazing how much liquid I can consume. I can just chug and pretty much pour in an endless supply. My skin has been scorched many times over. I'm adapting to being outside. I know the difference between 95 and 100 degrees, and 89 is starting to feel reasonably cool.

We pushed to Eminence, Missouri. Mark that down as another loaded 90+ mile day. It was rewarding to arrive. Stuart and Nick secured us a place to set up tents behind an inn. We had dinner at Maggie's Place, and the beer was good. Then I bought more beer, and that was good too. Then I decided to stay up late and cruise around the "town." I made my decision to finally let the group move on without me. I'd figure out my plan tomorrow. No reason to hurry; no reason to plan. Back to basics. Back to riding alone.

I tried to get beer, but everywhere was closed. The gas station waved me away. I met a guy on the street who was headed there, and he assured me they'd let him in. They did. We split a twelve pack and talked about bullshit and nonsense. We walked down a dirt road, and I got to see some houses that sparked my interest. The homes were spaced evenly, and nothing was crowded. Each house had a driveway and mailbox. But the houses were small travel trailers on slabs. It was quaint and cheap. It didn't look like squalor, but it used many of the same ingredients.

Dude banged on his friend's house at half-past-ass o'clock, and let himself in. He introduced me as a guy from Philadelphia who was riding a bicycle across the country. Imagine that. His friend was in bed in the front of the trailer, and not too pissed about being woken up. He seemed amiable enough, but he had to get up at some ridiculous time. Something like 3:30 or 4am. I got going after all that. I figured that was enough for one night.

Rebel yell over the mighty Mississippi. Long athletic push into Missouri.

These dudes like to ride long days. We rode what my guidebook was calling about 2.5 days of riding. We rode through the Illinois section and into Missouri. I've been telling these guys that they're covering too much distance too fast. I've also been telling them that I'm going to hang back and do shorter days. Last night at Joe's house I had a change of plans. Fuck it. I'm along for the ride. At least another day, anyway. The decision was made.

I'm split. Part of me loves the long distance fast-paced days. I like the exertion and the feeling of success when you accomplish the goal. I like beating 90+ degree days to go 90+ miles over steep hills. I like in the 80th mile when I can still stand and push fast off the front over steep climbs. I like feeling strong and building endurance. I also like having people to talk to and eat with. It makes the miles easier. It makes me happier.

... but the pace is too fast for my mission. My mission was to see the country spending a long time and going slow. A fast pace could also mean wearing myself out, but after these few days, I don't expect that would become a problem. Still, I want to slow down and meet people. Traveling few miles means having time to meet people, and riding alone helps with that as well. I've been having a ball, but I think my days with this group are numbered. They all want to get somewhere too fast - I just want to keep being somewhere, and anywhere is fine with me.

We stayed in Farmington, Missouri. We stayed at a cyclist hostel called "Al's Place" and it was amazing. I'll be perfectly honest. The suggested donation was $20, and I didn't pay. It's a donation, so that's technically ok. The place was incredibly spiffy. There were new couches and appliances, and it looked more like a nice hotel than a place for dirty travelers to crash. I don't know where the money came from. Maybe I didn't donate because it looked like it was being run by someone rich, and the money would just be a tiny drip in a vast invisible pool. I'd rather pay $20 to feed some people. But I don't usually do that either. I probably should have slept outside, but instead I used the whole array of services without paying anything back into the system. Just a thought. I don't think anyone is too broken up about it in either case.

I mentioned that I'd be parting ways. I at least made a casual mention that I was on the fence about continuing with the group. I was told to shut the fuck up, because it was obvious that I'd be riding with them the next day. It was pretty funny. I let that moment make the decision to continue. These guys are too fun to hang out with.

Rest day at BMXJoe's house.

Yup - definitely needed a rest day. It was another hot bastard today, and I was up at 7am. Before breakfast was over, Matt had a call from a Warmshowers host called BMXJoe. We were welcome to stay, and I was happy we'd be doing that. Stuart and Nick and I chose to stay at Joe's place; Matt decided on a cheap hotel.

Joe's roommate is permanently stoned, but highly physically active and healthy. I've seen this type before. To Joe's embarrassment, the first question was "how's the weed in Philly?" I told him it's about the same as anywhere else that can get FedEx from California. Then he referred to me as "Philly" and said that he knew I wanted a hit. It was the middle of a hot day and I was planning to hang out with people who I barely knew. Weed was pretty far down on the list of stuff I felt like dealing with. I said maybe later.

I was happy to have a low key day. Joe took me and Stuart out to an old 1930's lodge for endless plates of fried chicken and fixin's. It started to get funny to see how many times Stuart got the waiter to return with more chicken.

On the way home we got 40s, and back at home I had the opportunity to get ridiculous with Joe's roommate's vaporizer. I'd call the entire day a win.

Morning hell becomes a day spent well.

This morning was a challenge, to put it mildly. It was me against my brain. I wasn't riding well, and I wasn't enjoying myself. I cussed at the hills, and I had a poor attitude. There was too much heat, and I felt weak and stressed.

I reached a gas station with a convenience store. I drank a quart of orange juice in a few gulps, and fell asleep on a picnic table.

Nick and Stuart rolled up after I'd been asleep for about 20 minutes. They barged in and managed to improve my attitude. They marched onto the scene, and I could tell that their morning was in no way a disaster. I realized that mine shouldn't have been either.

I need to learn that mornings are just tough sometimes. It was about 100 degrees, so sweating and feeling a bit uncomfortable are par for the course. Shut up and take it like a man, Chris. I'm getting there.

Those dudes were thinking about going to Carbondale. I thought to myself "have fun with that..." It was a long ride that they proposed - nearly 100 miles for them, and it would be double what I'd planned personally. Matt showed up about ten minutes later, and I learned that he was planning to do a long push as well. Strangely, his morning was great. He claimed he felt good, and that reaffirmed that I needed to slap a grin onto my face and stop the whining voice in my head.

So all those dudes are riding to Carbondale, Illinois. Fuck it. I have legs, and I know how to use them.

Done and done... Carbondale it is. Stuart is awesome to ride with. We keep a good pace and attack a fair number of hills. But more importantly, he will ask people directions at a moment's notice. He's flagged down cars to confirm what road we're on, and he's flagged down people to ask where to get a good sandwich. His Scottish accent keeps everyone extra interested and friendly. It's a major boon. Riding along with a question-asker is useful in many ways.

The first thing we did in Carbondale is go to the police station and the fire station, where Stuart asked for a place for us to set up our tents. The fire station obliged, and offered us showers, too. Free camping was secured, and we were off to get food and drinks.

We got food and drinks, and then went to a bar to get more drinks for $1 each. I had several.

Back at the tent, I couldn't sleep. I got up and walked back to the bar. We had a planned rest day, so I planned to give myself something to rest about. I got dollar drafts, and put a couple bucks in the juke box. The juke box was rough... I won a small battle using TLC and RJD2, but I definitely lost the war. I talked to a cute married girl with kids - fun talking; no pressure. Great. We tried to help a girl who was passing out and peeing herself in the parking lot. It was pretty eventful, so I called my cool cousin Bethany at an obscene hour to talk about it. Gotta stay in touch, and it seems like this is how we do it.

I got to the tent around 3:30am. Once again, the day ended loads better than it began. This is becoming a trend that I'm happy with.

Disliked dogma. Met some fast cats.

I woke up in an air conditioned firehouse. I made oats in my small camp pot, and used the station's coffee maker to make coffee. I shared with Matt, and we set out at different paces. Matt and I decided that Cave-In-Rock was a good destination. It was a reasonable distance, and it was in Illinois. Crossing a river on a ferry and getting to a new state would be a proud goal; a morale boost.

You can kill a man with this heat. This is something notable. Don't forget that nature can grind a human down like a bowl of grits. We humans have gotten weak in our evolution.

I got to Clay, Kentucky - a pitiable distance from where I began. I sat in a white gazebo, and consigned myself to books and sleep. The sun was beating on the borders of this timid edifice, and under the small roof I found respite that was merely adequate. Matt rolled up about ten minutes later. I had my shirt off, shoes off, socks drying, shirt drying. Clothes and I were all soaked in sweat. The humidity was turned on high, and I had my legs spread out all over the place. My bicycle was propped outside, and rays of sun were bringing my water bottles close to a boil. We got food at a cafe next door, and I ate stuff I barely enjoyed so that I could sit in the AC and drink Coke after Coke after Coke.

I wanted to spend more time. Matt and I stayed in the gazebo as I read many pages of a book, and slept just a little bit. Matt slept for a few winks, and decided to hit the road. Convinced I'd catch up soon enough, I continued to attempt sleep and hide from the sun.

I was done with sleep; done with books. I picked up the phone and called Dreamane; picked up the phone and called Kat. Two other cyclists pulled up, and it turned out to be a game changer. I was on the phone, and in my own world. Two young cats rolled up in go-mode. They hit the cafe, got water, and we talked a little bit. We exchanged abbreviated notes. I still wanted to lay around, but realized I was done. Five minutes after they left, I set out myself - following the same guidebook pages cut from my book.

I caught up about ten minutes later. I was rested, full, hydrated, and I felt better. The sun was a bastard, but I was alive. I caught up, and we rode together to the town of Marion about 20 miles down the road. There were hills and flats, and our paces were well matched. It felt great to ride with people to talk to, and it was great to climb hills with someone else who's good at it.

Stuart is from Scotland. He races some kind of bicycles over there. I don't race, and I was happy that my Hoopty found its way up the hills while we talked about some shit. Nick is from Connecticut. They're riding together for now, but they both started this trip alone. It's a good pairing - two solo cyclists who like to ride long miles. I think they were both happy to cross paths. After hearing what was up - and knowing from personal experience - I can say that I'd be happy with the same random pairing as well.

We parted ways in Marion, Kentucky - they stayed at a great church. I cruised to town and got slimy food and dessert. I rode to Cave-In-Rock, as planned to meet up with Matt at an official campground.

I drank a proffered beer on the ferry (thanks, Crazy Mitch), and I dealt with mosquitoes in the park. Matt was there when I arrived, and we made plans to cruise into "town." Before leaving the campsite, we learned that - even in Illinois - we were in a dry town. Fuck these assholes. (I'm sorry, but pleeeeeease). The town is dry, and their dry dogma decimated my demeanor. Fortunately, we acquired some windfall beers-in-a-bag. That's karma. (I've bought people beer-wine-liquor so much, and now I'm being paid back in kindness. The world is great, and life is in my favor.)

Utica Kentucky. Hospitality continues to abound.

Matt and I agreed that Utica, Kentucky seemed like a good goal. It was about 75 miles of rolling hills punctuated by flatter sections, and there was free camping available in a school yard at the end of the day. I breakfasted on a sausage biscuit with gravy at the shop. I put a box of spaghetti and a honey bun on the counter. I paid a paltry sum, and got on my bicycle.

My iPod on shuffle mode is the best radio station in America. I spun over hills, and raced down descents that were long and slight. I powered over short steep hills, standing up on the pedals and keeping momentum. I felt good, life was an oyster, and I was loving oysters all day.

I'm still not a fan of pace-matching. When you're riding together for a long distance, then somebody probably wants to go faster or slower, and maybe they don't want to announce it. I rolled ahead early, rode for a good distance, and stopped for food. Before entering the humble restaurant with frog legs on the special board, I talked to some locals. I love it. They were two old guys. Good folk. The guy in the fishing cap was punctuating his statements with a stream of tobacco spit that was shot and dribbled close to the wheels of the 70-something man's full Dura Ace antique Trek OCLV bicycle. There was a banter and a back-and-forth. Predictions and assumptions were tossed on the table like playing cards. I took leave to get some eggs, bacon, toast and three hot coffees.

On the third mug-fill, Matt walked in. Great! I watched as he ordered my identical breakfast (right down to "over medium"), and I sat there and watched him eat it. We talked shop and compared notes. I enjoyed the surreal surroundings a far cry from any place I might call home.

I set out first and punched into some hills. 95 degrees was predicted, but it was still early. It was muggy, and you could feel the heat coming. I knew if I punched hard enough - which my brain and body instructed me to - then I might miss most of the blast furnace of the early afternoon.

We were in dry fucking counties all day except for one brief corner of sanity. In the corner of one wet county that I passed through, there was a store called "Black Cat." I marched in with a grin to see a man about a beer.

"Do you carry the Blast cans?" I asked. He wasn't sure what I meant by that. As I said Blast I held my hands the exact distance apart that would be taken up by an standard-issue 24oz can. (Pull out the micrometer - my gesture was pointless, but the measurement nearly exact.) "They're made by Colt 45," I explained "There's a bunch of'em now. They come in different flavors..."

He stopped me there. "I don't carry the flavored stuff." (We were getting closer though...) "I have a 32oz Bud Light" he offered.

"Do you carry 40's?" I asked. I was ready to give a long list of potential candidates, but he told me that he only had up to 32oz bottles, and my options were Bud or Bud Light. We discussed the 24oz can options, but that was another dead-end. Not even a goofy Clamato. "How about a six'a Bud?"

A crossroads. We had a winner. What beer place in 'Merca can't provide a simple six of the (formerly) 'Mercan beer? It was a deal. As he rung it up, I added a "cheap small whiskey" to the bill. Like a librarian locating some James Patterson, he tossed in a bottle of Kentucky Tavern.

"Be safe," he advised as I made a satisfied exit. I don't know what the fuck he was talking about. Don't I look safe?

Utica, Kentucky was the destination, and the school yard looked less like a cyclist's oasis, and more like a bunch of hot shit. It would be campable after a guy finished with endless rounds of seated mowing - but it wasn't exactly Dorney Park. I went to the gas station to esacpe the sun's hottest hours, and mentally regroup.

A touring cyclist was talking a lot and beating at flies with a battered rolled-up newspaper. I'm usually the talker, but this guy stole my seat. He talked quickly and a lot. He was 52, had an incredibly-loaded old Fuji, was in AA, and had a pack of Mediums resting on the table. His plans seemed haphazard, and his demeanor and financial status were incredibly confusing. I tried to put the pieces together, but was left with questions that I didn't feel like asking. Eventually, I looked down at listings of local trucks for sale, and only looked up for short calculated responses to sporadic random input. I left just in time to see Matt arriving on the scene.

"School yard looks like shit," I offered. He had just been there, and agreed. He mentioned that the local volunteer firehouse is listed on the official maps. He made a call, and within ten minutes we were sitting in airconditioning in a place that offers showers and the use of laundry facilities to traveling cyclists.

It's just the two of us here. I'm drinking secret beers from a cup (gotta be respectful), and I'm about to cook up some dinner. I'm clean, and so are 100% of my clothes. It's nice and cool in here. Like I said yesterday, it's a joke. I'm almost chuckling that anything could be this good. I'll run into adversity in good time - the earth has its balance issues - but I will never forget the fire station in Utica, Kentucky.

Perfect situations materialize. You can count on it.

Touring on the ACA route is approaching a level of comedy. Perfect situations routinely materialize from nowhere. When I expect the least, I get handed the most. Sometimes I step right into a pile of the best.

I broke camp and rolled out solo. As I spun slowly through the lazy morning miles, I decided to change my approach. I'm going to wait for Oregon to come to me. All this thinking, riding, cruising, mashing, loafing... it's unnecessary. If I just keep existing, then Oregon will eventually make its way over to me. No use working too hard. I'll just ride a bicycle sometimes, and try not to blow $3,328 on scratch-off lottery tickets.

I rode solo, and expected it to stay that way. Some people in the camp last night seemed to think that going off-route to save a few miles was a good idea. I'm not interested. The route is nice and pretty and there's not much traffic. If I wanted to shave off miles, I'd hitchhike - or better yet, find an air-conditioned place to watch Law & Order. So it was unclear if or when I'd be seeing any other riders.

I stopped in Hodgenville, Kentucky where my guidebook listed some free camping. It was about 40 miles down the road, and that seemed like a nice lazy distance. I got there by 11am - a little early to end the day, but I was still considering it. But the hills are getting easier, and the temperature was comfortable.

I sat outside a store with shade and rocking chairs. I ate a bland turkey sandwich that looked like a box of meat. I fed some turkey to a small cat, and I pet the kitty's head. I considered taking her along in my pannier, but dismissed the idea as impractical. I drank an orange drink, read a book for hours and started to wear down the rails on the rocking chair. 2pm rolled around. It was time to hit the road.

I rode 25 more miles before I got an appetite for questionable fried chicken. Fifteen minutes down the road, the question was answered: get to a bathroom, or find some trees before something bad happens. I checked my notes and saw that a store was maybe ten minutes down the road. I would make it if I was careful.

I rode up to the store and saw a blue Long Haul Trucker. It was Matt from the day before! I thought he'd be staying in Hodgenville after his previous 95-mile day, but instead he was here. I was thinking about finding a stealth camp, and my plan was to put in some more distance before sneaking into some trees.

I asked Matt where he was planning to stay, and he said "here." I thought he meant at a spot nearby, but then realized that he meant "here" in the most literal sense. The store is listed on the official ACA map as a place that hosts touring cyclists! Matt said Hodgenville was too easy a destination for him also, so he pushed on as well. He told me that the owner of the store was a great guy, and they'd already been talking. I went in and introduced myself. I talked for about a minute, asked for the bathroom, went inside, sat down, and went crosseyed. I emerged ten minutes later with a whole new identity.

Showers were to be had! Dinner was to be prepared! I went from thinking about upset stomaches and hiding in trees to a comfortable luxury. This kind of change in fortune is almost becoming familiar. It's amazing. I had a big smile.

The store is owned by Arnold and his family. Arnold was the only one there when I arrived, and he had a practiced and dry sort of canned humor. Super friendly guy. He told me his wife was the meanest woman he ever married. He imparted this with a grin which assured me that after many years of marriage he was happy and in love. Very funny stuff, indeed. I don't usually know how to respond to this brand of humor, but damned if I don't give it a shot. I hit close enough to the target, and I'm given a pass.

"Do you cook?" he asked. Clearly he was going to joke about having me cook dinner.
"Noodles" was my response. "I can make pasta." I offered this knowing it would disqualify me from actually doing anything. One awkward round handled.

Arnold is one of the top genuinely good-hearted people I've met in Kentucky. Clearly. He's on the Adventure Cycling maps (which I now wish I owned), and you need to ask to be put on there. He and his family are going out of their way to provide free showers and dinner for random cyclists. I was reaping the benefits of this in the form of cheeseburgers, fries, corn on the cob, green beans, and pickled beets.

Arnold, his wife Lucy, his daughter, Matt and I held hands in a circle around the food sitting at a table in the store as customers still filtered in at intervals. Lucy said a prayer over the food, and we all started to fill out plates. Our actions were slow with a measure of reserve and deference. The daughter was great. "Don't be shy!" she urged. They were all great. It wasn't a Norman Rockwell painting, but it was a picture of an honest American reality that I don't see often. It was a privilege and an honor to be a part of this painting.

I set my tent up behind the store, and I slept well.

Jeff leaves the route; Touring cyclists abound.

I wanted to sleep until at least 10:00am. I could use it. The air conditioning and quiet inside of Alicia's house made me want to hover around for a long, long time. As it turned out, I was up at 7am, the first to rise. I borrowed a beard trimmer for some grooming, making sure to clean up afterward - no little hairs left in the sink. I'm a good guy, in that regard. I stayed for long enough to eat cereal and click around on a computer for a little bit. This was truly a full service stop. I got my clothes out of the laundry, packed, and prepared to go. I couldn't stay forever. So I went.

Today's destination was Bardstown, and the sun was nasty. I made it, surely, but it wasn't without effort. Upon arrival, I chugged a bottle of Gatorade and went directly for food and air conditioning. After cooling off with some food, I pushed my loaded Hoopty up the street wondering if I would find the library or need to ask. First I found a loaded bicycle with yellow panniers, and went in to see what Jeff was up to. Apparently eating Mexican food. I ate half of his free chips and salsa and watched him eat a big flat piece of meat. He has a smart phone, and I knew from experience that he would be headed to the library. Smart move. I aimed to follow.

Mission accomplished. I sat at the library charging stuff and typing. The heat was brutal, and I didn't mind giving the sun some time to disappear.

Jeff is outta here. He needs to take a flight to Seattle for a surprise meeting of some sort. He's got a job. We said our goodbye-maybe-forever, and he rolled out. Jeff has been fairly instrumental in helping me find some wonderful locations for sleep and hospitality. He made a challenging section of this trip appreciably easier. My guidebook and the command center on my bicycle are capable and useful, but sometimes my head is still too far in the clouds to get down to the business of planning or forethought.

"So where do you think you're heading tomorrow?" I would typically ask, playing casual, but taking detailed mental notes. He'd tell me, and I'd sort of pretend to consider, while knowing full well I'd be there reading a book when he arrived. He usually knew of something good, and often it was the first I'd ever heard about it.

I'm perfectly ready to ride and camp alone, but Jeff will be missed. I'm certainly unsure to what degree the feeling is mutual. I hope he enjoyed my company, but I might be like the dog that followed those hikers back in Damascus. (It was a truly awesome dog - one of the best I've seen - but they couldn't care for it. She was adopted by one of the town's police officers.)

Adam and Megan arrived in the library. Of course, I asked where they were staying. They mentioned the park. I looked it up, and there was legitimate camping - for $20. I offered to split a site, and that seemed agreeable. We went out to get some food and talk before rolling out to the campground. They're both going to go to med school, and it's unclear how far they'll be going on this trip. Maybe not all the way to Oregon.

The campground had many touring bicycles! There were eight of us in total, and most of us knew each other, or knew of each other. Everyone traveling within a few days of each other is familiar with all of the others on the same approximate schedule, so we had greetings and note comparison. There's the group of four 60-somethings from Erie, PA. (Wayne and Ken who I met before Booneville, and their two other companions, Leo and Sandy, who somehow caught up). There was Adam and Megan as another group. There was me. Then there was another lone cowboy, Matt, who rode a 95-mile day from Berea. I took all of the bags off my Hoopty, and sprinted back the store for 40oz of beer.

I came back with a forty and a Coke for Ken. He tried to pay me in a convoluted manner, but we settled on the concept that he would just owe me a Coke. I talked to the folks who I hadn't talked to yet, and soon went to bed feeling happy to be part of the goofy little tent village.

Cycling with heat. Feeling variously bad, good and blessed.

Maybe it's dietary. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe I'm just not strong sometimes.

I set out from Ben's house in Berea, and my legs weren't exactly the powerful pistons I'd expected after a day of non-cycling. Maybe it's the heat. I was dripping sweat everywhere by 9am, and the sun enveloped me with a brutal omnipresence. The only fun I had was on the few shaded descents. The good news for me is that Berea is a separating point between the steep hills and coal trucks of eastern Kentucky, and the rolling open hills of western Kentucky. When you're talking turkey about Kentucky, you need to differentiate between east and west. They're completely different places.

I made it to a restaurant in Burgin, KY, and had a cheeseburger and fries. Maybe it's dietary. I should probably be eating better food and more of it. My meal was free because the cook dropped my ticket behind a counter, and my burger didn't come out until people who came in after me were already eating. I drank a pitcher of Coke. Jeff walked in looking like he was coming off the slide at a water park. I was happy to sit in the air conditioning and watch him eat.

On to Harrodsburg. There was another six mile stretch before a big air conditioned public library. Sounds great. I was revived enough to be ready.


I rode off into the heat feeling like a funny kind of great. I zipped to the library feeling like a beat up donkey on a spit - countenance mitigated by an asymmetrical smile. Half of an authentic grin. I was getting away with something - like when the police ask questions and you don't leak a syllable. Justice. I felt like a confident piece of toast in a toaster. Alive and well in western Kentucky. Tell your mom I'm doin' fine! I asked for directions to the public library as I stood almost inside of its book return. I entered the air conditioning smiling like the elected king of the dirty-prom.


I sat in the library catching up on business. Jeff was there soon. Then, out the window, I saw loaded bicycles and yellow jerseys. They walked in and went between the stacks of books. I didn't have my glasses on, and had to confirm with Jeff - Yes! It was Adam and Megan! I went over to catch up and see if there were any notes to compare.

A few minutes into hushed conversation, a young and proper looking woman with straight red hair and glasses walked over. "Is one of you Chris?" she asked. Feeling famous as hell, I beamed "that's me!" just within an acceptable library volume. She introduced herself as Alicia, the person who had invited me to stay in her home about 15 miles away in the next town. She was dropping off a book, and saw touring bicycles peppering all of the entrances. She's great. She invited everyone! This was quite good.

In the spirit of being a social ambassador, I packed up my junk, filled my water bottles, and raced to Mackville.  When there's a friendly destination at the day's end, I'm like a moth to a light bulb. Suddenly motivated and erratic. I did what I do when I feel good late in the day. I tied my shirt onto the handlebars and mashed the pedals. I wove my way down the rural road, and shifted just right to scientifically maximize efficiency on the hills. I was chased by yet more dogs, but I have a new approach: "Come on, buddy! You can do it!" I cheer for them as soon as they bolt from the porch. There's usually no malice in the chase, but sometimes they're more intimidating and determined. Now I go faster and root on their ambitions. Then they get a boo hoo when they can't make it. Poor little slow dog! I felt light and strong, and I crossed the distance between towns in an hour flat.

The first thing I did was take a shower. I was pouring sweat like a bucket of it had been dumped over my head. I showered and felt great. I talked to Alicia for an hour or so while she prepared dinner. She has a nice tidy house. Her husband is the pastor of one of Mackville's five or so churches. It seems like there's a church for every two houses. Though this seems implausible, there actually is a Methodist church with a congregation averaging eight attendees.

Alicia asked if I have a blog. "Jeff has a great blog!" I offered in a somewhat verbally evasive manner - sheepish about my content in such innocent and pristine surroundings. Her husband and kids are away at their grandparents. It would just be her and the group of cyclists. She hosts a lot of people. She admits that she will approach people with loaded touring bicycles and try to see if they need food or shelter. Of course they do: all of them. Growing up with a father who was an Army chaplain, she moved about every three years. She's relatively open minded for the small town, and many people are aghast that she would invite strangers into her home. But she seems to love it.

Food was on the table, and Jeff was showered. Alicia said a nice grace, and we began eating a delicious and welcome meal. There were cookies, too. I also had some orange juice. I could eat everything in the world.

Adam and Megan made it a little bit later. They showered and ate before we gathered clothing for a group laundry load. We were invited to sleep inside, and not asked to leave in the morning when Alicia woke up for work. This is it. This is a real twist on the American dream. People like this should be the ones we aspire to be. Not because she's a Christian, but because she is a wonderful person who loves to help others.

It hasn't escaped my notice, however, that some of the people most ready to host traveling cyclists are also Christians first. From Matt in Manassas to Will in Charlottesville, to the string of churches offering hospitality along the route. You don't have to pray or get baptized - they just seem to smile and offer lodging. No catch, nothing to fear. I don't know what to call myself, but I think "incredibly ambiguously spiritual" comes close. I have a personal code that keeps me in my own good graces. I'm skeptical and alienated by most organized religion I see. But I know what it's like to feel blessed.

A Rest Day Offering Little Respite.

Waking up was brutal. Boy am I glad I ain't got no job. The phone alarms began at 5:30am, because some folks had work two hours away. I was in a crowded bed, and when the alarm sounded it felt like I'd just laid down my head. I picked up someone's phone and could not figure out how to shut off the alarm. It shouldn't have taken much science, but my brain had no electricity.

Work was cancelled for Ben because another guy couldn't make it. The girls still had to check on chickens and do a few hours of farm-ish and greenhouse labor at the college. Me personally? My rest day was full of activity.

I got the exact right couchsurfing host. Ben is good to talk to, low key and active. He knows plenty of interesting people, and that's how I got to meet them too. We went on a short hike and later went to see a waterfall. A group of four of us packed in Eagle's car and drove to Jackson County. (It was Eagle's rented cabin last night, and his real name is Eagle.)

The waterfall is a known swimming hole, but not known for being busy. Being Memorial Day, the spot was packed with kids from Berea College. You're not supposed to jump off the falls, but that activity was in full effect. On the drive up, I thought I'd give it a try, but as soon as we walked across the top of the rock formation to reach the path leading below, I knew I was out. Nope - didn't feel like taking that leap. Plus, you have to land in a certain spot to make sure your legs don't break. Nope - not down for anything anymore.

Really, my day only had about an hour of down time, when Ben and family went to pick up a bicycle for his younger brother. I sat in the kitchen with my guidebook and computer trying to figure out where the hell I might be sleeping in the upcoming days. There's some good stuff in Missouri and Kansas - a lot of free camping at city parks - but until then I might need to make some cowboy maneuvers to camp for free. Either related to this, but most probably not, I had anxiety. The big picture blurred the immediate one, or maybe the other way around. I sat at the table feeling small and alone. I sent out a couple emails through the Warmshowers list. I was more than pleased a few hours later when I was invited to stay at a home the perfect distance from Berea.

Hungry. Ben and I went to town to split a pizza. It was delicious, and we were most of the way though when Jeff walked in. Ben had some work to do, so I sat with Jeff to compare notes. He was welcome to - and took advantage of - camping in Ben's backyard. While Ben worked a few hours, Jeff and I went back to his house to discuss a little touring and logistics, and talk to Ben's mom.

Later, a group went to dinner at Kate's, which nicely rounded off an extremely long day. We sat around on the floor eating the food that she had prepared, and we talked. I was asked what my trail name is. I was just thinking about this. I told them I was just Chris, but if I needed to have a trail name I would offer up "Sassy Larry." Well, you can't give yourself the trail name - it needs to be given to you. I didn't know this, but it makes the entire practice seem less macho-goofy-escapist. The subject changed, but a few minutes later, my trail name came to light. Party Socks. If I ever need to introduce myself using a fake trail name, Party Socks is it. I actually like it, which I guess is probably requisite. It's a good name from several angles, but for now I'm still just Chris.

Down for anything. Berea is Kentucky at it's best.

I started the day with oats and coffee. I think that's what it takes to feel great and start riding. There are too many variables to be sure. Correlation is not causation, but I have a feeling I've found my power-breakfast. Further experimentation probably couldn't hurt. My alcohol stove is great.

The morning became warm, and I decided to listen to some percussive gritty vocals casually bouncing up to a crying soprano. I put some Sizzla through my headphones. As I cranked quickly through miles of rolling shady roads, I understood just what he was talking about. Jah, love, marijuana, and peace. He's right. That's all we need. Everything was roses. All of my senses were filled beautifully - the planets were all in line. Then I missed a turn.

I missed a turn at a crucial point, and rode right over a mountain before I knew that something was definitely wrong. Backtracking took me down a few rungs. I said 'fuck' literally hundreds of times as sweat poured into my eyes. Why? Why does this only seem to happen when I have an inviting destination and I want to meet someone by a certain time? It seems to be the case.

I got back on track, and proceeded to grind out the remaining distance unhappily. I finally convinced myself to quit being a pussy, because I was even starting to annoy myself. I arrived in Berea beat up and shell-shocked enough to amuse Jeff, who was sitting in the air conditioned coffee shop looking distinctly calm and gathered. It didn't look like he needed to beat anybody up to get there.

My Couchsurfing guy, Ben, was already hanging out in the coffee shop. I introduced myself, and pretty soon we were on bicycles heading for his home. That's when the page turned, and everything started looking up.

There was a party at an intentional community called "Egret's Cove," where Ben is building an earth bag house. One of the community residents just had a book about leaves published, and the gathering was a celebration. I got to see the earth bag house, which is much nicer than it sounds. It looks like a huge concrete igloo. There's plenty of space, it's well insulated, and it's incredibly sturdy. I saw a frame and straw bale house as well, and it's similarly unique and impressive. A large Army tent made another home, and as communities go, this is the best I've seen. Everyone is living well within their means. Finding an easy sustainable way of living is the focus. Plus, they're in the woods - but on the outskirts of an absolutely wonderful town. The reservoir - a big lake - is across the street. That's where we went boating.

Ben, me, Ben's girlfriend Saxon, and her friend Kate all took some boats out for a cruise around the clean water of the reservoir. Poke boats. They're kayak-like. Maybe they're just kayaks. In any case, paddling around was more fun than expected. And swimming felt great. I was starving, but I figured I could go a little longer without passing out. Science says so.

Then there was a plan agreed upon. We'd eat, leave, and go to a party two hours away. The activity level was impressive. I was tired, but I'm also determined to be DFA. I'm borrowing this acronym, but I'm using it to it's full intent and potential. I'm down for anything. Bring it.

We ate delicious food from tables full of potluck options. We got in Saxon's car. We got camping gear. We got on the road.

It wasn't a large gathering, but never do I mind. There was some Maker's Mark being passed around in a hot tub, and everyone ended up naked. If I'm not naked in some water at least a few times every summer, then I know that something needs to be adjusted. Eventually, I introduced Quizmo, which quickly devolved into nonsense and silliness. Which is basically the whole point of the game. I got a side spot on the commodious bed, and slept well for what felt like about 45 seconds.

Dry counties and more touring cyclists.

I woke up, broke camp, and pooped next to a tree. I found a pile of ancient Budweiser and Pepsi cans with the antiquated pull-tab method and thin pie-shaped drinking hole. I haven't seen these cans and labels since I was a kid horsing around in the bushes by the Red Clay Creek.

Today started rough. As it turns out, my camping spot wasn't quite as level as it looked. It was close enough to allow apathy, but I've gotten more sleep before. Many times on this trip, I've missed my simple bivy sack. The setup could not be easier, and repositioning is a cinch, even when you're inside the bag. More experience with my tent will reveal whether the added space is a true boon, or an unnecessary luxury. When stealth is a factor, it can be an encumbrance. When heat and bugs are a factor, I would prefer the tent - that night hasn't happened yet. I hope I'm not carrying a full-sized tent for purely hypothetical situations. I try to keep it in perspective: minor mental gear quibbles like this are normal and ignorable.

I started out on some tough hills, and bought a styrofoam cup of shitty coffee as soon as I could. I got a shitty pack of tiny donuts as though that might mitigate the situation. I passed up a 24oz can of Colt 45 Lemonade Blast - a choice I would later live to regret. Dry fucking counties. I should have accepted the extra weight - a small percentage increase in total. It was cheap, too. I'm dumb, but technically it tends to work out okay anyway.

After I got moving, the day was better. I managed to scrape the rust off my legs and overcome the outcome of my stifled sleep. I got around to cruising, and eventually a level of happy confidence trickled into my bloodstream. It was at this time I found Ken and Wayne. I was spinning up a long arduous incline, warming up my legs and fighting over switchbacks. The words in my guidebook: "beware of false summits." I saw bicycles with bags up ahead, and I was gaining very quickly. Something was afoot. It was them - they were walking up the hill.

Ken and Wayne are recently retired 60-something dudes. I cruised alongside asking the requisite questions: where from? / where to? / how here? / what next? You don't have to dig deep into your philosophy bag to stir up a chat with other people who are crossing the same country. They seemed amiable enough, so I hopped off my Hoopty and started walking along. After the next bout of walking began, I bid adieu - we agreed that we would be meeting later at the same free legitimate camping spot behind a church in Booneville.

Booneville, Kentucky. Home of Daniel Boone days. Home of a Dollar General, and not home to any beer. This town was dry without the wit. What they did have was live music, and I aimed to learn more when the sun got a little bit lower.

The accommodations behind the church were simple. A porta-john, a cold shower, a covered picnic table. There was a larger cement slab covered with a roof as well. It was perfect. With that setup, and a small sign welcoming cyclists, you can rejoice. Little town, little place to camp - let me at it.

I revealed that I've been a bicycle mechanic, and Ken was having shifting issues. Since I couldn't just sell him another bicycle, as the best mechanics do, I had to try to fix it. There was friction in the housing causing unpredictable shifting, and it was acting like the derailer hanger might be a little bent. I did what I could with Boeshild and a multi tool. I got it much better, but no bicycle in America will ever be as good as my Hoopty. The Hoop's got class.

I stripped my luggage off the Hoopty and went to see what live music sounds like. I met the guys up at the cafe and ordered cake and coffee. Ken put it on his bill as a thanks for making his shifting better, and I wished I had a new stainless cable to throw into the deal.

The music was bluegrass. Guitar, mandolin, banjo, squawking. This was some rural stuff happening here. Lots of old folks with handheld fans. When they felt the urge, they would stand and tap lazily with special clogging shoes. It wasn't tap dancing - it was clicking around with what are called clogging shoes. Nobody showed much gusto. It was a hot tired romp that hovered around being in time with the music. This was something I didn't know existed. It could be a scene from a movie. There wasn't much emotion in the room, but there were several rows of folding chairs, all full. If I was shown a photograph of this scene and asked to guess the year, I couldn't do it accurately within fifty years.

I made my exit when I got a call from a potential Couchsurfing host in Berea. Yes, I could stay! Yes, two days is fine... and there would be 1-2 parties if I wanted to attend. Did I? Did I! If the pavilion wasn't enough, certainly now I had cause to celebrate.

Then there were six. When I got back to camp, I met Adam and Megan who are riding the same route, having started in New York. I greeted them happily and got straight to the business of talking a lot. Then I adjusted Adam's brakes, told them how awesome bicycles are, and jawed around about bicycles until the sun was definitely no longer hot. The pavilion had a good number of us camping out, and we settled to bed for a cool misty evening.

Fisty slips me some beers. Dire warnings and awesome consequences.

Coffee and oats. I woke up in the gymnasium, and my day started right. Coffee, oats, and I feel good. My bags are a little lighter, and my gear-pile is less bulky and more refined. I sent some stuff, swapped some stuff, and ate some stuff. I'm more streamlined. I feel great on the rolling hills, and okay on the long steep ones. After a long steep ascent, when I get to the crest, my breathing and heart-rate are back to baseline in thirty seconds. It sounds like bragging, but it feels like humble relief. The alternative would be unfortunate difficulty.

My guidebook warns about two things in Kentucky: trucks and dogs. Kentucky's best dogs introduced themselves to me this morning. I rolled out into a long steep climb. Halfway up a mountain, I was chased by a small band of skeletal dogs. Five runty to medium-sized ones, baring teeth and showing many rows of ribs through ratty matted fur. The little one clamped onto my right pannier, but was unsuccessful at pulling me backwards. It was a steep climb, so I wasn't exactly going fast enough to outrun anything. I swerved pointlessly and spun the pedals faster. They gave up a little higher up the mountain. Then I picked up a big stick. It was all day with screaming, dirty, starving dogs. Some tied up; some keeping their own schedule. I tell you, I can get enough.

Steep long hills cut narrow swaths through the mountains. These passes are light on traffic, but tough on legs. The route also includes wider roads with rolling hills: this is where the coal trucks roam. Sometimes a convoy, sometimes a lone bullet. They growl toward you in the oncoming lane, and it looks like a scene from Maximum Overdrive. They come jerkily around sharp bends belching smoke and spitting a fine mist of coal dust. If I wasn't already used to sharing the road, I'd be shitting parakeets right now.

Eastern Kentucky is the jake-braking capital of the USA. The dirt and din of this region inspire awe.

Today was a summary of long distance bicycle shenanigans: sometimes it rains, sometimes not. Sometimes it's hot, sometimes it's cold. My mood changes on a constant basis. I vacillate between jubilation and an obscenely translated despair many times daily.

I got an ice cream, and the sun was past its zenith. I soon arrived in the un-impressive town of Hindman. I took a left onto the main street, where I saw some yellow bags attached to a bicycle. Jeff! We compared notes. We were looking around and we had the same lead on a friendly place to camp. We poked around a bit, and then I called a guy about a tent.

I was told that passers-through were allowed to pitch a tent at the historical society. In reality, however, passers-through are made to call an old man for a jawing from a jackass. The real story is that there is a big tent set up M*A*S*H*-style. It has three rooms, and you can rent one for $25 per night. Then a creepy guy will bring you a potato, and later - apparently - some brandy. I wondered if he would stroke your hair gently as you drift off to sleep. I told him the price was out of my range, and the molly-coddle sales pitch evaporated. Dire warnings rained down! Hindman has a vagrancy law! (I pictured him dialing the sheriff on a second line). You can't camp at the park! You can go to the town of Hazard down the road, but that might not be safe! Then he told me a girl was killed in the park in Hazard. They cut off her head and put it on the picnic table, he explained. They threw her body in the river. I thanked him for this information and terminated the call. Jeff and I exchanged a number of chuckles, but we still needed to camp. There was plenty of sunlight, so getting the fuck past Hindman was the clear choice.

I wanted to split from Jeff to find a secret spot outside of town. Strength doesn't come in numbers when you're making hidden camps. As it turned out, we kept finding the same pace, and soon just started riding together through the beautiful landscape and ideal outdoor conditions. I told Jeff that my plan was to find beer, or ride until 7pm, whichever came first - then find a secret spot.

Let me tell you about "dry counties." Apparently Kentucky - the whiskey capital of being drunk - has counties where you can't buy alcohol anywhere. That floors me. That flips me upside-down.

"Awww, hell yeah! Are you kidding me?" Not more than ten minutes later, I was being offered Bud Light from the driver of a MacGyver jeep. He flagged us down, and I agreed to take a couple cold ones. Take them for the team. Team me.

This literally happened no more than a mile from the proud town of Fisty, KY.

Jeff and I split ways down the road a piece, and agreed to meet at the same legitimate camping location the next day. Within a mile, I found my secret spot.

There are plenty of trees in this part of Kentucky, but the steep grades make stealth camping somewhat of a challenge. The sides of the road are lined with vertical rock face and inclines too steep to roll a bicycle. I found an opening where it was steep, but manageable. I wrestled, lifted, and forced my bicycle up and out of view. My feet slipped in the leafy soil, and the climbing was a major challenge. I left the bicycle and continued up the hill to scout. I quickly found a thin stream tricking down the hill, about the width of my shoe at its current capacity. The stream soon led to a flat area that looked like it might enjoy a tent. It was a slight process, but I knew this was my camp.

I climbed down, grabbing thin trees as I stepped and slid through the rich loose soil. I removed my luggage from my Hoopty ATB and carried it to the stream. I returned to the bicycle, and forced it up with me to the stream - fighting branches and sometimes dragging with measured violence. I leapfrogged my gear to the flat spot, and I was set up by 7:21pm.

It's 7:21pm. In my left hand I am holding a still-cold bottle of Bud Light. I am sipping at a pace of 24oz per three hours. In my right hand I am holding a Kindle. I'm reading the hilarious antidotes of prison librarian in Boston. I am sitting on my new air mattress inside a globe of mosquito netting. I have a tub of hummus and a bag with two bagels. These are waiting until 8pm, because sometimes a man needs to keep a schedule. I have half a Clif Bar and a bottle of water. All of this needs only one word: content.

Exciting cycling. My future husband orders coffee.

Jeff scooted out early, and I woke up a bit later to a full array of services. After my morning reunion with fresh air, I began to avail myself of several. Coffee and microwaves made the cut. I left feeling good.

I ran into Those Girls today. There are a couple girls riding recumbents across the country, and I've seen that they've signed several guestbooks as "Those Girls." Now I know their real names, too. They're taking it easy, so today I caught up. I saw Jeff talking with them at a gas station, so I swooped around and introduced myself. What a beautiful day! What great riding! We stood around and talked about riding, hiking, and general travel. I tried to help diagnose a basic cable issue on one of the recumbents. ("Replace cable.") I also offered advice on crankset choice, and gave them my email address. Totally rad.

I rode for a short while with Jeff. Then boom. I was going down a little on-ramp to a road. A car was coming so I shifted my weight back and hit my front brake hard. Braking from the hood of an STI shifter doesn't transfer that much power, so he side-swiped me, rolled around, and hit the pavement. Basic blood, scrapes and whatnot. I sat around feeling bad for awhile, but then thought it would be best if I just pushed on and gave him some space.

It was his first crash. (Really?) I guess so. I wished it was Nat who side swiped me and fell over. There would be no hard feelings. He would have just poured gasoline on it and rubbed in some dirt. I've dumped bicycles a few times, and no matter what, sometimes it just happens. To Jeff's credit, he didn't mention it much again, and now he's more or less alright.

Now I'm in Kentucky! I rolled into Kentucky in the early afternoon, and it was as beautiful as could be. Then the coal trucks stormed in and made their presence apparent. Then the rain clouds began to glide into view. I paused on the porch of a store, but quickly had a change of plans. I got up and stomped it. I was about 15 miles from the end of the day, and long ascents be damned... I got there quick.

I love people. Not all of them, but I usually give them the benefit of the doubt. Cornbread and warm beans? I'm sitting in a gymnasium having just eaten that. I'm in another church-related free hostel situation. I was intimidated by her t-shirt, and thankful when she didn't try to make Jesus ignite me. She brought me dinner and we had a nice chat.

I like pumping out the miles earlier in the day so I can arrive at my destination and have enough time to horse around with camp chores and relaxation. If there's anyone to meet or talk to, they will present themselves at about dinner time or after work. I was glad to be here to welcome them and thank them for welcoming me. I'm showered and I've been made to feel at home.

I love people. No - not everyone. The good lord knows he's crafted some duds, but I'm not riding my bicycle across the country so I can do the old peer and sneer. I'm not riding aroud for the ol' gawk and squawk. I'm riding so I can meet a man with deep blue penetrating eyes. "Do you have anything muddy?" A man in Damascus asked this of the nice old lady behind the counter at the coffee shop. She looked nervous and confused. "A light muddy cup?" He ventured, blurring reality by another brush stroke. (This man is asking for caffiene, woman!)

He had the best beard I've seen. He looked me right in the face as we talked about bicycles. We might as well have been talking about Oreo cookies for as much as we understood each other. "There's always a higher meaning to these kinds of trips," he opined. "Yeah... definitely," I agreed simply; nodding slowly.

I wanted to run my fingers through his beard. All whiskers were equally long, and it must have taken years of carelessness. There was no cheating - never any undercutting of the low neck hairs. The beard pointed forward at an angle and had the shape of a voluminous upsidedown gnome hat. I wanted to run my fingers through and see if I could find a silver dollar. If I did this, he would have looked me calmly in the face. Silently, his expression would show complete indifference. Or deep understanding. It would be impossible to tell which. A minute later he was stumbling through a coffee order with a confused woman who was approacing a low level of terror at his unprecidented questions. "How much for an espresso?" Two dollars and ten cents. "How about for a whole cup?" The woman tried to figure this out by holding up a cup and pointing to random hypothetical fill lines on the side. Somehow she got to about nine dollars. To her immense relief, he settled on a small regular drip coffee. I didn't propose to this man on the spot. I didn't get his number either, but if I had to venture a guess, I'd wager a confident "7."

Inchworms ain't got no jobs.

What a beautiful day! I didn't have to dig too deep to start loving life on today's ride.

I got up at the crack of 7:05am, and was a little surprised to be rising earlier than a lot of the others. There's only so much sleeping in you can do when you're so intimitaly aware of the sun's position in the sky. It feels great to zip yourself out and get a breath of fresh air. I did that. It felt great.

I packed down and did the slow roll to the coffee shop in town. While there, I availed myself of all possible services. Add to that a cinnamon bun, and you get an accurate picture of the next few hours.

Then I did the thing that I wasn't sure I'd do - I went next door, picked up the compact hiking air mattress, put it on the counter and handed them my debit card. Mine. Boom. I sliced up some cardboard with my knife, and made a tight little box for my foam Z-Rest pad. Before leaving town, I shipped it home from the post office. I am a happy, happy man.

The day was perfect. A little hot if you want to complain, but my heart didn't feel it. The hills were rolling, and I spun over them easily. I got a nice rhythm - up and down, and then I stopped to eat fried chicken in the shade. I drank a Coke, and life just kept being alright.

Then the last ten miles hit. Page 59 was clipped on my handlebars, and it said there was a four-mile climb that rose 1,500 feet. Now I have a better understanding of what something like that looks like. I dropped to the granny and cranked slowly up and up for a little less than an hour. I hit switchback after switchback inching up the side of the mountain. In true mountain terms it wasn't much of a mountain, but don't tell that to my penguins. All I wanted to do was avoid completely bogging down, and I did it. I was drenched in sweat, squirting water on my face, and starting to get the chills - but I made it to the top.

I let out a couple elated whoops and sat on a big boulder in the shade for almost an hour. I stripped off my completely drenched shirt and hung it on a thin tree branch to dry out in the breeze. I ate an orange. All-in-all it was one of the best hours I can remember. I played with an inchworm, randomly changing his direction a couple times. He ain't got no job, I thought. Definitely doesn't.

I was a little torn up from the climb, but I wasn't going much further, and most of it was a screaming fast descent. Approaching forty miles an hour on a bicycle is... fun. I got to today's destination a little after 4pm. I'm staying at a United Methodist Church Hostel which is more of a pavilion with a church kitchen next to it stocked with free food. America isn't letting me down too hard right now. Yup. This'll do.

Jeff pulled in while I was reading my Kindle on a porch swing. I put my tent in the pavilion; he opted for a spot in front of the first pew.

Damascus Virginia is your new house.

I woke up in the park and let Jeff get a head start again. I'm not a big fan of pace-matching. I don't mind slugging it out alone.

I started the day riding off into a headwind. I can't explain what the appeal of riding a bicycle so much is. I can't say I'd even necessarily recommend it. I guess I like it. I like it sometimes. It sure is a lot of work though. It's a challenge, which is good. It's nice to get somewhere and loaf around, that's cool. I like to be a fly on the wall and observe my surroundings, that's chill. You gotta do something, and this is not office work. I guess I'm down with that. These trips certainly have their moments. Great, great moments! - but sometimes you need to dig deep.

Hills, headwinds and a nice blast of cold hard rain. I made it through all that and into a goofy little store with warm Gatorade, dim lights, and deer heads on the wall. I was starving, so I bought some junk food and put it inside of my body. I laid my riding shirt flat on the concrete to dry in the sun. The sun was out now, and it seemed like a different day. I flipped the shirt a few times, and sat around gawking in a general manner.

Some yellow Ortliebs came into view: Jeff caught up! We talked some more and compared more notes. He's taking an absolute shitload of nice pictures. I'm taking some pictures, but I can't figure out how to work the SD drive on my netbook with the Ubuntu setup. I've got bigger fish to fry, so I might be home before I post up my ugly photos. If I get the ones that Jeff took while I was basically looking at the same stuff, then maybe I can post some. Basically: this shit looks pretty, and some of it could bend your eyes. Look at some Ansel Adams - I'm looking at that stuff with some goofball towns in-betwixt.

We set off together for the final ten miles to Damascus Virginia. It was the best ten mile stretch I've seen on this entire trip so far. A gentle climb with many switchbacks followed by a long agreeable descent into a beautiful town.

Today's destination was "The Place." It's a church-operated hostel for Appalachian Trail hikers and TransAm cyclists ONLY. It's $5 per day. No dogs! NO Alcohol! (You can't tell me what to do. I'm a drinking dog, and I'm sleeping on your lawn.)

Damascus is the best town I've seen in a long time. It's small, green, and surrounded by wooded peaks and lively rivers. It's inhabited by dirty outdoorsy people who are drifting, grinning and limping. The AT and the TransAm bicycle route intersect here. Half of the businesses in town are are outfitters or bicycle stores. The rest sell coffee and pizza.

Jeff and I entered "The Place," and immediately got the feeling that bicyclists are pansies compared to hikers. We get mini-markets, delis, cafes, electricity... every day. These guys carry gear and food on their back and have very limited social interaction. I'd love to go awhile without 'sharing the road' with trucks and cars, but compared with hiking, I have the easier of the two jobs. These people coming off the trail are a little further along in the composting cycle. The thick socks drying on the porch told me a story.

What gives? Everybody seems to have a fake hiker-name. To me it seems very white-bread American. I don't see what wearing North Face gear and walking around in the trees has to do with shedding your identity. Everyone on the AT is named Cave Dog, Honey Toes, or Sassy Larry. The name "Chris" is decidedly pedestrian, but I'll keep wearing it.

A note about anxiety. i has it. A trip like this seems like a good time to quit drinking. Maybe on paper. I get to a place, and a lot of times I feel off-center. If I gave it a week, I might settle (maybe.) But it's easier to take a 24oz anxiety pill. I fixed myself a 'secret soda' from the Chevron, and pushed down the "other" button on the plastic lid of my cup as joke to myself. And I smiled.

To the credit of god, the earth itself, and the trail hikers, I met some cool people. I lent out my laptop to the community. I brewed up some instant coffee for the guy who didn't get to the store in time. I had a good conversation about hiking, bicycling, and MMA fighting. I had a good conversation about life in general before getting in one last pee and retiring to my tent.

Managing (to have) finances; Sleeping in a park.

I woke up at Thad's and had cereal/juice/coffee. Guidebook-wise, I was already part way into the next section, so I hoped for an easier day. But as I mentioned, there's hills in these parts. For the record, I still do a lot of muttered cussing when I see a steep climb. Where there's an uphill, there's a downhill - the uphill lasts a lot longer, and the descents seem to disappear in seconds. I'm a human wind-up toy, and the reward vs. effort is sometimes difficult to justify. At the end of the day, it's nice to get somewhere that you can just sit and be for awhile. So far, it still feels worth it. At times, I'll even say that's an understatement. There's ups and downs both emotional and physical. I was happy to coast the last couple miles into Wytheville Virginia.

Thadeus Lee said I would be allowed to camp in the Wytheville town park for free, so I set out to find it and learn more.

I tracked down some information at the Visitor's Center, and then sat outside on their rocking chairs for a few hours charging electronics and reading The Grapes of Wrath. I always enjoy availing myself of all possible services.

Then it was time to coast back down a steep hill and find the park. At one of the main intersections, I spotted some yellow Ortlieb panniers coming the other way. It was Jeff again! We pulled over and compared notes. Then we agreed to eat sandwiches.

The price looked right, but the portions came out all wrong. I wish I had a micrometer, because I suspect the slice of turkey was eligible for several sad awards.

Then we found the park and I got a major morale boost. Wytheville has a beautiful town park. There is a pavilion with electricity and WiFi, and the scenery boasts a large rolling grassy area bisected by a stream with clear clean (enough) water. This'll do, I thought. This'll do.

I fired up my camp stove, and it was a reminder that I have to do that more often. Prepared food is not only expensive, but usually doesn't get right to the point of what my body actually needs to keep riding a heavy-assed bicycle all over the place. I cooked up some spiral noodles with shallots and diced tomatoes. I added a little taco seasoning, and it wasn't Emeril, but it fit the bill perfectly. Some day I'll learn to cook more often. Some day soon, I hope.

A talkative local girl with a pit bull clued me in on where people might be drinking pints of beer. She seemed alright to talk to, so a few hours later I was off to see. The bar was just me, five good-ol'-boys, and a somber birthday girl. I sat down, ordered a 'pine'a-Bud,' and had it set down on a cocktail napkin just as an old Genesis track played. All at once, and it struck me like a slap of reality. If you've known me for a long time, then you know that I've known some Genesis. The moment struck me as classic, and if it was also 7:21, then my face would have melted right off on the bar. The bill looked like junk. It's time to cut out the bars and cut in the pasta.

On a positive note, I have slightly more money in the bank than I thought I would be leaving with in the first place. That's a great thing. Maybe I can keep it going.

Troutville to Radford: Swooping and smiling.

The other guy, Jeff, left 20 minutes before me in the morning. I rolled out at about 7am. I packed my provisions, and cruised out. I rode 40 miles on friendly roads before breakfast, and at no point did I feel dead. I was able to swoop into the hills, and mercifully it was manageable. I get some gusto on the downhill, and apply the inertia to the following climb - shift just right and keep spinning, and you'll make it to the top without bogging down - ready to go again. And again, and again, and again...

I made it to the city limits of Christiansburg, and up steepest climb I've seen. Not super long, but almost impossibly steep. I had to ride catawampus, left to right to lessen the grade and not tip backwards. I made it to the top and hooted and cussed. Praise God for Victory! Sweat poured from my chin. Then I fell asleep on a bench for half an hour.

When I came to, I changed some clothes and entered the bar. I sat on the corner stool and built a fort out of laptops, Bud Light, and cheap menu items. I was in business. I spent hours.

I crawled outside feeling sassy, with the sun still bright and abrasive. My guidebook mentioned a nearby camping spot that no longer has tent sites, and maybe never had friendly employees. It also looked like garbage. Fortunately, I had a contingency plan. This morning, Jeff gave me a business card for "Lee's Place" in the next town. The Lee family regularly hosts TransAm cyclists at their home in Radford. This is a well-known place on this trail. I called him, and was invited to come right over.

I put some Hella on my iPod and enjoyed some spirited cranking. I burned off a lot of beer on the fast fifteen miles there, turning the bar tab into superfluous waste as I quickly sobered up.

I was given the royal treatment. Many people have stayed at Lee's Place, but tonight I was the only traveler. I was offered a spare room, and was happy to take it. The man of the house is Thad. His son, Sam, was playing drums when I arrived. I can chat about bicycles, or drums, or even travel trailers to an extent.

Conversation wasn't hard to find. I was treated to Mexican food at a restaurant and told I would not be allowed to pay. We left the restaurant, and stepped into a heavy blowing rain. Once again, I dodged a downpour and went to bed feeling lucky.

Troutville Virginia knows how to do it up, bitch!

Mountains are for strong people. When I walk into a Wal-Mart, I'm superhero-fit. It gives confidence, but that's not the measure. Nay - for the mountains you need actual legs. I've been fighting along with smelly penguin carcasses, and the offended pavement has been screaming back. You will know failure when you drop to the granny gear on an imperceptible climb.

But I got there! I made it to the town park in Troutville, Virginia. My 1996-published guidebook told me that you can camp here. The sign on the gate literally said "No Bicycles" on the list of "No's" - to say nothing of the quasi-homeless jerkoffs who are riding them.

As I read the sign looking for a loophole, a lady pulling a trash cart beamed at me - "Hello!" Of course this brings a big smile to my face. When a hello is beamed like this, the world knows no malice. "Are you going to spend the night?" Jesus. I'm on Mars. "Well I thought I might - is that ok?" It's funny how I start to talk like a local wherever I am. A couple times I've said something in such a phony drawl I wanted to kick myself in the dick.

Doesn't matter! I was given royal treatment. I was shown where to set up my gear, and I even signed a guestbook. A guestbook for a town park. I was told that hot showers were available at the fire station across the street - and within 20 minutes, I had availed myself of that strange and awkward service.

I went down the block to buy some canned tomatoes to cook some of the weighty food out of my luggage. No need, apparently. There was a surprise party for a cancer survivor in the pavillion next to my tent. A kind young boy brought me a plate of food and a soda. The mother of the man who went through chemo brought me a dessert. Again, I'm blessed.

A 28-year-old touring cyclist rolled in a few minutes later. God even provided someone to talk to.

I loaded up my Hoopty ATB...

My welcome has been worn out. Maybe. Even if it hasn't, it's gotten close enough. My welcome has taken a look over the edge of the precipice. "So you're riding out tomorrow?" she asked. "Yup," I said.

I had a good time, and I drank a lot, and had some fun times with a girl who's pretty fun. But let's get real. Kentucky alone is a ten-day ride. I have quite a few days of riding left in Virginia. There are mountains to fuck around with. As I pedal along, I can see my fat-roll bouncing gently below my manly chest. I need stronger legs, and a dirtier body. I look forward to kicking my way out of these mountains.

I loaded up my Hoopty ATB.

I gave a hug and a smile, and rolled my goofy bicycle across some grass and down off a curb. In the first mile I was humming and smiling and talking to myself. I was cussing silly praises and looking at my knifed-out guidebook pages clamped to the handlebars. This is a bicycle trip. It's funny to forget about riding while you're in the middle of it. I feel healthy, young, and boisterous.