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The Life's Too Short Tour
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Days 43, 44 and 45: A Three Day's Push toward Illinois
Fourth of July in Sebree, Kentucky
Scenes from the road:
L.L. General Store and Bicycle Hostel
Arnold and his Chrysanthemum garden
Playing Corn Hole at night
In the time since I was last able to blog significant progress has been accomplished, including my longest day of biking to date and the hard-won arrival at the Illinois border.Tonight, after seven days of free camping and hosteling, I'm writing from a motel in Morganfield, KY. I took the motel to escape a rain storm which precluded camping this night, and as a reward for a week of toughing it out in primitive accomodations.Morganfield is a town I never expected to find myself in. The 3,000 population town is off-route of the ACA TransAm, a detour taken on recommdation from a local as means to reduce the distance to Illinois. I am merely ten miles from the Ohio River, which marks the exit from Kentucky and arrival at last into the Prairie State. I'll cross that border tomorrow, and it will be a significant milestone of westward progress.A Night at the General StoreWhen last I updated this blog, I was departing Hodgenville. That night I made it 40 miles to Hardinville, a tiny outpost of buildings in the middle of nowhere where I found free camping, hot shower, laundry, and copious food at L.L. General Store, a hostel on the TransAm route. The hostel, operated by a couple, Arnold and Lucy, offered interesting moments with several locals who lounged at the store's small dining area, eager to converse with me. I spent hours there in the dining area of the store immersed in conversations with farmers and loggers, and also with Arnold and Lucy, who make their livings through a quiltwork of occupations that include part-time United Postal Service mail deliverers, garderners of chrysanthemums, and proprieters of the general store which was chock-full of a ramshackle assortment of hardware and grocery items. The couple operated the bicycle hostel as an unassuming hospitality ministry, the only indication of which came in the prayers offered before meals.That night, after a big meal prepared by Lucy, a quartet of TransAm bicyclists arrrived, all college-age riders coming in late after a long day's trek. By dusk we were playing a horseshoe-like game which employs beanbags in a toss-for-toss competition to aim for a hole in a board, called Corn Hole, which Arnold said was a rage across the region. I saw signs at churches along the way advertising "Corn Hole Tournament" to confirm his appraisal.A New DistanceI set off with the four riders in the morning to reach a 72-mile destination, a daunting and unprecedented distance over hilled terrain, to a free stay at a volunteer firehouse in Utica, Ky. The early miles, while crawling over some hills in high heat, were challenging mentally as I considered the major distance ahead.I had the previous evening predicted to the young riders my impending and expected weakness on the hills, of which I thought would cause them to leave me behind as has been the case in previous group rides. "I won't keep up with you," I had warned. The 72-mile distance to Utica seemed inconceivably far.However, I surprised myself the following day. I soared and assailed the distance with vengeance. Astonished, I found myself pulling ahead of the other riders by the time we reached the 20-mile mark, and I left them behind decisively as they faded one-by-one over the central Kentucky inclines. I recognized their anguished moans and breathless curses up over those climbs as ones I had borne since May, but owned no longer, shed somewhere back there in the miles won.One young rider however, Lou, was strongest of all, and eventually caught me, but for myself I proved a new mettle as a long-distance athlete; no longer faint and burdened, but rather strong and formidable and capable of hammering hard up over the hills and jet-streaming in mean rhythm along the flats.I emerged that day no longer a trainee, but a new randonneur. I have found ferocity, groomed the last month over the brutal Appalachians, and now I will only assault the distance to the coast with abandon, ruthless as a warrior. I embrace this new spirit of enmity borne of the pain this road has weilded, to see myself in battle paint, screaming headlong to clash over contested land, angry with the distance, and I will take it, and nothing can stop me.When I reached a restaurant at the 40-mile mark, long before my companions arrived, one of them announced "you smoked us." And it was true.At 50 miles, rolling into Whitesville on leadened legs and warrior spirit wobbling slightly out of true, I paused to lay in the grass outside of a convenience store, with doubt and pain and throbbing legs loping about me like coyotes probing for weakness, hounding to dash my resolve. I nearly waned, and considered conceding to camp the night in the town park. I weighed the concession for a while, but then found a trace of the steel within to plunge forward, actually shouting a curse at the 20 miles, and locked again into the purposeful rhthym of the pedals, to Utica.I counted the miles off, and admit to the excruciating effort, but reached the sign declaring Utica, and found the volunteer firehouse, and the mattress and shower therein, and completed the longest bicycling distance to date: 72 miles.Independence NightI awoke at the Utica Firehouse and it was Fourth of July. For me, it was a day I'd make a short distance my goal to Sebree, KY, where the First Baptist church offers free accomodation to TransAm bicyclists.I made the 30-mile jaunt with relative ease and found myself at the church that afternoon, to spend the night along with an eastbound TransAm rider, Brett, in the sancutary of the church. The Pastor, Bob, gave me a tour of the facility, and later joined Brett and I for a lunch of chicken salad and corn-on-the-cob prepared by his wife and served in the kitchen of his home adjacent the church.Brett, another college-age rider finding time after graduation to make the transcontinental trek, and I were fast friends and delved into philosophy, green beans and ravioli there in the church. Brett accompanied me on a fruitless hunt for WiFi through the small town of Sebree, andhad a burger with me at a local restaurant.At night, we heard nearby explosions in the sky and ran outside where we were witness to an Independence Day celebration like none I'd experienced before. Despite Kentucky laws forbidding possession of the powerful fireworks typical to Independence Day shows at towns and cities across America, people all throughout Sebree began firing off big booming fireworks from their lawns and driveways. Major fireworks were flowering out in the sky in repetition right there over the town. It was round after round as artillery, shooting up into the sky from this way and that. Brett and I stood barefooted in the church parking lot as shots were fired all around us in what was a Kentucky free-for-all, with several rounds angled awry and low to explode right before us, causing us to actually duck our heads into our arms to avoid bristles of fire and spark. Smoke hung about the town like a World War II battlefield, and we observed the neighbors as shrouded silhouettes in their backyard, with torch in hand to spark off volley upon rocketed volley of explosion above us. We laughed uproariously at the sheer discount of caution, exhilarated, and it was certainly the best Independence Day fireworks display in the nation, hands down.To Illinois with RainIn the morning with Brett and I prepared to ride out, him east and me west, a downpour stopped us short. With the church congregation milling about the place, and us as idle guests awaiting a break in the rain, we found ourselves by default as students in a Baptist bible study class as the rain pelted. I was impatient in the class, losing the forest for the trees in discerning clumsily handled platitudes of verse and psalm. I should have found meaning there, but was already on the road in my mind, making up lost time in miles over wet road. As such I harbor a perspective that a sole threat to my own faith is the invading perspective of other believers, people like me who are as fallible and wrong as I have been, and so I shield my beliefs to privacy, where worship flourishes in moments alone, and faith is safe from disappointment, dilution and disillusion, preciously coveted. When the rain broke, as the class began to file into the Baptist service, I stole away unannounced on the 520, toward Illinois. I lament not saying goodbye to Brett, who witnessed the best show in the nation with me, and also played chess and shared meals for a day, but I have a mission which can't wait.Twenty miles into my push toward Illinois, with the Ohio River only ten more miles ahead, rain soaked me through and through as I pedaled without recourse or a roof in sight. I eventually reached a store at a country intersection, took a pork rib sandwich, and then waited out the storm on a bench outside.As I sat on the bench, three young men, or old teenagers, whichever, drove up in a big-wheeled Ford truck with country music blaring loudly. They pulled up in front of me and asked if I needed a ride, to which I declined, and then launched into the regular questions my presence illicits often in these parts, "where are you from and where are you going?" I had no heart to mention New York, which could initiate a replay of the incredulousess, or even stereotyped bigotry I had sat through previously on such occassions, and so I created a fictional scenario to douse the young country boys' curiousity about me and the 520."I'm from Berea, just east of here about 200 miles, and am just headed over the river into Illinois, that's all," I said. I was happy when they drove off, disinterested.Over the RiverTomorrow is Monday, and I will be biking over the bridge into Shawneetown, Illinois in the morning, just an hour's ride west of this motel in Morganfield. Illinois, like no other milestone, represents a new phase of the trek: the Midwest. New York even sounds far away now, but then again so does California. I aim to change that.until later...
6 comments:
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Wonderful photos of the fireworks. It sounds like you had quite a celebration over there in Sebree KY!
Wow tomorrow you'll be in Illinois! That's amazing Tom. You have really gone quite a distance since you left New York over a month ago. I'm impressed with your accomplishment. And Old Blue has proven to be a trusty old steed. Keep up the amazing work Tom!
Lots of love,
Elisa
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Long live the bicycle!
It is a friend to man, like the horse.
-Henry Miller
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I also wanted to say thanks to Lucy and Arnold for their generosity! I am so touched by all the wonderful people Tom has encountered along his journey.
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Congratulations Tom!
You are incredible! Illinois on bicyle, wow! How clever of you to get your "training" over with in the Blue Ridge Mountain nightmare. Now, with legs that are so much stronger, it's clear sailing. Seventy two miles in one day is unbelieveable---especially for an old man( ha ha). You will reach California. Like Robin said, YOU GO TOM!!!
I missed your stories the past couple of days, welcome back. Good to hear that all is well with you. California may sound far away, but it's getting closer everyday. It won't be long and the half way point will be behind you. Take care and keep in touch.
Love Mom
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"We must be free not because we claim freedom, but because we practice it."
- William Faulkner
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Good Morning Tom,
I am so joyful for you as your writings today include; Exhilaration, Celebration and Laughter!! I hope today will unwrap with more pleasant surprises!!
YOU GO TOM!!!
Also would like to extend wishes to Aunt Moya, Mike, Jenny, Chase, and Elisa and Bear! Hope all is well with you! Have a Great Day!
Love, Robin