Hartville, MO

I have to apologize for the many typos and errors in the previous post. It's merely a result of the guerrilla-style writing I am forced to do out here on the road. Finding WiFi, electricity, time, solitude and energy to do the writing is incredibly difficult, and often when I have all of those factors aligned there is some time constraint forcing me to rush, deadline-style, to finish the day's entry. Take tonight for example: I am writing in a very unlikely setting, sitting on concrete, with a WiFi connection I discovered drifting out of a corner of the library building. This is great, a real jackpot, but there is no electric outlet, and so I must race through this entry before the battery power of my laptop computer wanes. This is the most challenging aspect of the tour, guerrilla writing.

I fell short of my goal to reach Marshfield today, stopping instead about 25 miles early, here in Hartville to complete a 40-mile ride. It was fairly hilly terrain, but continues to get flatter as I make westward progress. I am about two days away from the Kansas border, where instead of hills there will be winds to battle. Eastbounders I've encountered in recent days have said I will enjoy a tail wind through Kansas, if that holds true it will be ideal for a few 100-mile days.

On the ride today I encountered a few hills that were substantial enough to warrant dismount and push. But I am relishing the progress now as the horizons flatten down with prairie land approaching. I drank some of the Cyto-Max again, and once again my legs feel stronger and lactic acid-burn free. I should contact this company and ask for a sponsorship. This is what Gatorade only pretends to be. The newfound power may not be entirely attributable to the product. I have been on the road for nearly two full months now, with only a few days in which I did not pedal hard throughout the day. I am stronger now, no doubt. My body has changed. My legs are bigger, my gut smaller, and my skin is getting darker by the day. Two months of hard physical endeavor and I see the results. I feel at last like a strong bicyclist. I can also handle the 520 with more agility than ever before, I am one with this machine.

Amazingly, I have not experienced one flat tire on this trek. This is unheard of among the other bicyclists I've encountered thus far. Most have flats continuously. These Continental Ultra Gator Skins, kevlar tires, have performed like a miracle. When I tell other riders I have not had a single flat in 1600 miles they are dumbfounded.

Hartville is a very small town, with a population of about 600 people. There is a county courthouse here, a library, a post office, and a few restaurants and businesses all situated around one main intersection. It is a bit odd to be camping in the courthouse lawn, in full view of everyone, but I've grown accustomed to camping like this and feel somewhat at home. I set up my tent, organized my gear, and have settled in here on this step to do the day's writing.

The town was the site of a Civil War battle in 1863. It was a one-day clash, on January 11, between about 1,000 confederate and 700 union soldiers. The Battle of Hartville was initiated when confederate forces raided union outposts around the area. Union forces in the area consolidated in Hartville, taking a defensive position on high ground outside the town. On the hill union forces arranged cannons and a line of soldiers as defense. The confederates charged the line repeatedly during a four-hour period, plunging ahead again and again into the union fire, and many were killed. When the confederates finally withdrew, leaving the union defense weakened but still holding the high ground, union forces also abandoned the town, leaving both sides to claim a victory of sorts for themselves.

I can see that high ground where the battle happened from where I am now sitting, about a mile beyond the town. I hear kids laughing, a man operating a remote control car, people sitting on benches and talking, all in a place where 125 years ago hundreds of men met bloody and horrible deaths.

When I checked into the courthouse today to inquire about camping, the clerks informed me of the town's war history, pointing out a mural recently installed on a prominent wall in the town that depicts a confederate soldier praying over a bible. These Civil War vestiges linger deep in the former confederate states. Missouri was a slave state, but was the first to concede to the union. I cannot forget these ghosts, and apparently neither can the residents of this town, as there is no counterpart mural depicting a union soldier. This was a confederate town, and in a deep way, still is, I suppose. Tomorrow, before I ride, I would like to investigate that battlefield up close. This will likely be the last Civil War battlefield I'll encounter on my westbound trek.

The clerks also asked me several questions about my trek:

Where are you from? You don't have a New York accent. How many days have you been riding? When will you finish? Are you alone without support? Don't you get lonely?

The town itself is a typical small and rural county seat. There is the same friendly demeanor among the Missourians here as I've encountered elsewhere in the state.

Earlier I ventured a half mile outside town to a park to investigate camping possibilities there. As I was sitting under a pavilion near a lake, two teen boys drove up in a truck and struck up a conversation with me. These guys could have been from anywhere, New York, New Jersey, Florida, California, there was no pretense of region or locale in their speech or perspective. The boys described a small-town country life that included sentences like "there's nothing to do here really," and "the closest mall is an hour away." The Subway sandwich shop in the center of town was a main venue for the teens, as was the pavilion I had chosen to sit under. "We call this the patio and everyone hangs out here, smoking cigs, skateboarding, stuff like that," one of them said. They informed me of the scourge of crystal meth which had infiltrated their community,. The yard of the courthouse, the teens said, is the "main place where people hang out at night, you'll see them" one of them said, warning also of rowdiness.

"I'll take my chances," I said.

As I am writing this, sitting here in the courthouse yard, there are people sitting nearby on a curb, hanging out. A couple pulled up in a car and sat on a bench. The girl looks like she got dressed up a bit for the occassion. It looks like a date, sitting on a bench on the courthouse yard, watching cars go by. The Subway sign is lighted up like a beacon. They are proud of their Subway shop. This is the kind of place where, experience on the road has taught me, curious onlookers may accost me for questioning about the 520 (aka Old Blue) and my trek. The night is young.

I look forward to the flat lands ahead of me. The 520 will shine there. The tall 27-inch wheels it has are the tallest of any I have seen among the many riders I have encountered on the road, and that bodes well going west. The height allows each pedal's revolution to cover more distance. This is a bane on hills, where smaller wheels have an advantage. But on the downhills and on the flats the 520 dominates, and I often leave riders behind on such road. On the flat lands of Kansas the 520 will perform like a thoroughbred, a mule transformed. So look out, here we come.

until later...