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The Life's Too Short Tour
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Day 41: String of Odd Pearls
Mules along the way
A road-walking preacher
Abe Lincoln's boyhood home
Army family
Camp HodgenvilleToday was a bit of a weird day. The 40-miler was bookended by the two faces of Kentucky, one good and one not-so-good, and in between was a string of encounters and events I could never have imagined could coexist all in the same day. It was a day in which, instead of unfolding, rather was a pegeant of seperate experiences, all a bit strange, like a row of imperfect pearls strung together on only one thread on commonality: the pedaling in between.When I broke camp and McDonalded in Bardstown, the route to my destination of Hodgenville, where I am now, took me immediataly past the large distillery of Heaven Hill bourbon. Kentucky is the bourbon capital of the world, and Bardstown is bourbon central, with several distilleries offering facility tours and tastings. When I passed Heaven Hill distillery and a sign that said "Bourbon Heritage Center" I thought it a prime opportunity to explore this facet of the Bluegrass state with a tour, and maybe even a tasting, at the distillery.I coasted into the distillery grounds past massive hulking warehouses where barrels of the whiskey were being matured. I came up to the entrance of the Heritage Center and man in a red-shirted uniform emblazoned with the company logo stuck his head out the door and shouted that I could "park the bicycle right there on the side and come on in.""Ok, thanks," I replied.I stepped inside to what appeared to be part museum and part gift store. Glass enclosured miniature demonstrations of whiskey distilling, with numbered buttons one through nine to be pushed to enact video presentations, were lined up along one side of the room. Displays of whiskey history stood along the other side, and two men, probably in their 60s or so, behind a podium snapped into a well-polished spiel. The room, called the Heritage Center, a name which suddently seemed pompous and trite to me, was imbibed with corporate salesmanship and brand worship, disguised expertly as a museum."Where are you from?" asked one of the guides."New York, New York," I replied.Then the man who had stuck his head out of the door earlier said, "I knew it, I just got done saying that I thought you seemed like a Yankee, and I was right."A Yankee, I thought, what the heck is a Yankee? Is this the 1800s?"We'll we're all Americans," I said. It is a line I have had to whip out a few times here in Kentucky where, at least on a few occassions, being from anywhere else except "jus' down' d'holler a'piece," was tantamount to being from one of Saturn's outer rings.The man's comment dismayed me. Another childish stab of bigotry doled out in that uniquely Kentucky way I have now become inveterate of. There was the bottle thrower, the unfriendly barber who "knew you wasn't from 'round here," the cold Presbyterians at the chilly fish fry, the man in the bar who would "piss on New York," a woman who called New Yorkers "usually unfriendly," and now this remark from a bourbon shill.The man explained that a tour of the facility was scheduled to happen at 11:05."Oh, Ok," I responded to the man, thoroughly prepared to take the high road through the exchange. Funny how, no matter the age of the bigot, no matter how polite or gentle or outright rude, when observed in the full throes of their bigotry they always come across as an adolescent skulking under the ugly weight of stupidity, ignorant of the damage wielded.After a few rounds of exhortation of Heaven Hill bourbon, such as "our whiskey was declared best whiskey in the world last year by whiskey experts in Scotland; " and "our whiskey is a special breed of whiskey," and sentiments of that sort, the man pointed me to the displays with numbered buttons. As I idled over to them, the man remarked, "not to insult New Yorkers, but it's best if you start with button number one."I felt the first twinges of anger now. High road Melvin high road! The only bourbon "heritage" I could envision in that moment are the wet-brained and addicted and maimed and destroyed lives that such distilleries exact.Nonetheless, I was determined to enjoy the tour, to take some photos for the blog, to give the bourbon shills the benefit of the doubt. But the shill would not have it."Hey," he suddenly called out from across the room. "Mister New York, say, do you have a name?""Uh, Tom.""Well, I made a mistake Tom from New York, that tour is not scheduled for 11:05, the next tour I can get you on isn't going to be until 12:45, that's a long time to wait, maybe perhaps you'd like to just go into town and do something else?" the shill said.Was I being shoved out of another Kentucky door for being from the north? I wondered, flabbergasted. It couldnt be, could it? I am giving the shill the benefit of the doubt here, but still, I just left.That was the first weird pearl in the string.The next pearl came when in a remote section of the road, in the woods, where I suddenly heard a cell phone ringing loudly in a tree. It took a few rings until the sound revealed itself to be a mockingbird.The next pearl came just outside of New Haven, when as I pedaled along I saw a man with a massive backpack taking a rest on the side of the road. I stopped for moment, wondering if the man was a hiker or backpacker with an interesting tale to tell.The first words out his mouth were: "I am Jeff, I am a preacher of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and I have been on the road, walking, for six years."An interesting tale."What is your destination," I asked."America," he said.I sat on a guard rail and conversed with Jeff, a 53-year-old Army veteran and self-proclaimed minister. Deep-set turquoise eyes pierced into mine, and I returned the aim as he preached. He peeled off verses, prayed in tongues, instructed how to heal the sick by laying on hands, and deemed me blessed."I have seen angels, glowing white, with swords, and I have seen demons, they are all real," Jeff said.I identified myself as a believer, but confessed to inhabit a few rungs lower than him on the enthusiasm scale."I have no job, no money, just my backpack and bible, and the Lord leads me where I am supposed to go," he said.He showered me with gifts before I departed: an apple, a bag of candy, a camouflage hat, a hand-written page of bible verses. He said he was preparing to slip beneath a bridge to bathe, and had no idea where he would sleep that night.Next, a few miles down the road toward Hodgenville (pronounced Hodgen{s}-vul by locals) I stopped at a roadside historic site enshrined as the site of Abe Lincoln's childhood home. The site consisted of a recreated log cabin and informative sign. I took a few pictures, then an elderly man named John, who said he was 92 years of age, inquired about the 520 (aka Old Blue). The ensuing conversation brought the rest of his family to join in: his son John, grandsons John and Joe, and two wives whose names I regret I did not solicit. This was a family so affable as to soothe completely the lingering wrinkles from the distillery.The youngest John revealed that he was scheduled for National Guard duty in Afghanistan in one month's time. I recognized the weight of that deployment, and told him so. His father, the middle John, explained that he was a retired regular Army veteran, and when I revealed my own experience as an Army soldier from 1986 to 1990, we were astonished to discover that the both of us had been at the same language school, the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California, to study Russian language during the same time frame. He asked who my teacher was. I remembered that teacher intensely well, a Ukranian, tough, no nonsense, demanding, exacting and downright mean. The face and the voice had been seared into my mind ever since, but the teacher's name had long been lost to time. Then John said, "was it Mister Yackno?"Yackno! That was it!I was astounded to be reminded of that teacher, so obscure, there in the parking lot of Abe Lincoln's boyhood home in central Kentucky.The final pearl.I made it to Hodgenville by 7 p.m. It had been a long and meandering day. The instructions from the Adventure Cycling Asscocation's TransAm map said to check in with the town police who would open up the town park for a passing bicyclist to camp. I arrived at the police station to an open door into an ante room, without a soul around. A red phone hung on the wall of the ante room. I checked the map and called the number listed there for the Hodgenville police, and oddly, the red phone beside me began to ring. I picked it up, and heard only my own voice coming through the receiver saying "hello? hello?"I coasted about the town standing up on my pedals, looking for some kind of assistance with the matter. A man noticed my confusion and alerted me to the fact that the police were in the town restaurant, Abe's, having dinner. I found the restaurant, approached the police, and was given instructions to park. I ordered a Mary Todd burger before I left.I am in a McDonald's now writing this blog entry, with my tent already set up in the park. I set up camp near a baseball field, beside a public swimming pool. I plan to slip over the fence tonight and bathe in that pool before sleep.This is my fourth consecutive night of camping. I am tonight in my favorite accomodation, a town park, the opposite bookend of the day. It is free camp for me and is nearby to this WiFi-enabled McDonalds. What could be better? If I could camp in town parks the rest of the trek I'd be a happy camper. It is a nice bookend to the day.I have no idea what tomorrow holds, neither in destination or of what I will encounter, and that's just fine. And now if you'll excuse me, I have pool fence to scale.until later...
5 comments:
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It sounds as if you’re riding through a living museum. Ain’t life on the road grand? You are an ambassador of sorts, representing a strange and curious people who inhabit the unexplored land beyond the county line. “New York City you say? (spit). My cousin went there once. Horrible place. Had his bags stoleded at the bus station”. When Raquel and I travel we have our bases covered. I’m from the dark inbred hollers of Appalachia and she is from NY City (we can interpret for each other).
Hope you are having a fun trip, Jack
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I've lived in NYC 40+ years and can say that there are lots of wonderful things here that you can not find anywhere else and lots of not so wonderful things. NYC is a huge long strand of pearls so the chances of finding some with flaws will be greater. But remember, the chances of finding ones with the finest luster is greater as well!
Tom- Keep going and don't let the bad pearls get in your way. You have meet lots of wonderful people on your journey so far. Keep moving forward. I have faith that you are heading the right way!
Lots of love,
Elisa
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Thanks folks,
Jack, you made me laugh out loud here in this pizza shop in Kentucky just now (spit).
Elisa, I totally agree, and besides the worst day alive is still better than the best day dead.
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Tom,
My family and I just wanted to get back with you and tell you how much we enjoyed meeting you yesterday (the 1st). I think our meeting proves that if we just take time to talk to each other we will all find out how much we have in common, rather than being strangers.
Believe it or not after we left you we went on to Hodgenville and had dinner - at Abes. We saw Hodgenville's finest having dinner there as we left. We must have just missed you.
My folks are leaving early tomorrow for Missouri. Maybe they will run into you again somewhere along the way. As we saw today, funny things like that can happen.
We wish you all the best along the way!
The Whipple Family.
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“Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance.”
- Confucius