Day 15

I know where they've hid the children. VBS -- Vacation Bible School.

Whether you believe the words 'Vacation' and 'School' should be part of the same compound or not, I have discovered why things seem oddly Pied Pipery.

I'm not going to linger on religion, so here's one last bit of strict reportage taken from the whiteboard in the classroom I slept in:

VBS -- Vacation Bible School July 12th-18
[3 feet over]
Characteristics You Want
Kindness
Trustworthy
Loving
Confident
Faithful
Honest
Giving person

Moving on, no wait, one more thing: You should see the size of their coffee machine. They buy coffee in crates, boil one thousand cups in a minute, and everyone must have a cup in hand.

Now, moving on. Lunch left me a little full and swollen. I ended up ordering a stack of 3 pancakes, screwing the florspar museum, drinking 6-or-so cups of sweat tea and getting into jittery conversations with the unfortunate people in my radius.

The fact that people talk to me is a testament to Mid-Western niceness. Here's a description of my appearance at the halfway mark. My face has Frenched up around the middle and I have the kind of suntan that looks more dirt than bronze. I am hopelessly unshaven. My hair is lightly-salted, blown dry, and made by the same person who does Pacino's wigs. My body ate my chest for lunch one day, but to compensate for this I've developed very wide shoulders and a tight face. My little upper body sits on ox legs that don't really work. Topping things off, I smell like Chinatown after an August trash collector's strike.

And still they say hello.

I rolled myself to the ferry and even managed to take a nap while I waited. I crossed the mighty Ohio and have ended up in Illinois.

Illinois, that pointy state of ad men with broad shoulders who come in on little cat feet. "Imagineer ad men, a new way to sell travelers on a barely complete gravel road and they will come." I took that 'scenic byway' from Cave In Rock to Elizabethtown and nearly collapsed from shaking. I went to the nearest liquor store and bought myself a gallon jug of water.

Elizabethtown is not the charming backroad Orlando Bloom charmed in the charmless, eponymous film. I saw a man in that store who extinguished a lit cigarette in his eyelid. I went out, sat on the curb, pounded my gallon jug, felt my stomach give way, and then laid prostrate on the dirty cement for a good hour's nap. I blended right in.

I called around to the nearest B&B to see if I could sleep off my waterover. I decided otherwise.

I would regret this decision with every inch of my shaking body when, after climbing 750 feet to my first plateau I got caught in the mother of all storms. I tried to out race it, but it caught up to me fast. I ran into the woods, found the lowest point, and then sat in the lightning position -- like you're sitting on a Chinese toilet with a tremendous headache. I tried to sit it out, but my small gully became a large river.

In a very Rambo move, I sprinted across the road, down a hill, and straight to someone's front door. I was scared. I kept my helmet on in the hopes of looking like less of a serial killer. Cue man and wife staring at wet man, lightening flashing, in bike gear. After the initial fear, we chatted, yada yada, I biked another 9 miles to a horse riding campground in Edenville, got dry, dried clothes, crap, I've got to go the storm has started again. I am safe, spent a long time getting my gear dry, and it might be getting wet all over again.

Day 15, a quick note

I am eating my first real breakfast of the trip here in Marion, KY (not to be confused with Marion, Il). To come: three pieces of French toast with pecans, two sunny eggs, biscuits and gravy, bacon, and some sweet tea to wash it all down.

I am making such great time that I might go check out the Clement Mineral Museum. "It's so good it should be in Chicago," says our hostess. A gentleman has informed me that Marion was once the florspar capital of the world. In the 50s there were 3 car dealerships in town and they had everything imaginable. Now, it is small but still pleasant.

Anyhow, here's why I've called this meeting. It's to talk about bike talk. I mentioned that I was sick of hearing about it yesterday, but it has occurred to me that I haven't done a good deal of describing it. To aid me in this end, let's use the power of cowboy metaphor.

"That is an amazing horse."

"Thank you. It's a brown one with handprints. Yours is equally amazing too."

"Thank you. Mine's a black beauty that was once wild, but I've tamed her and added some things like lights."

"Clever. I am in love with your horse."

"I love your horse's ass."

"See I prefer your horses ass. Hey now, your horse has a penis."

"You noticed. I find it convenient."

"You weren't concerned with weight? I had my horse's penis removed at a horse shop earlier. We were dragging along."

"What a novel idea. Maybe I'll get mine fixed in Carbondale..."


And on and on. Yes, we are all on bikes; but can we please talk about something else. Sports? Did you ever see the ass on Lance Armstrong? Me, I prefer Tara Lipinski...

Day 14, Have I miscounted?

Today a new tack: a kvetch-less post. Well, somewhat.

I woke up bright and early to the sound of someone waking me up. It would seem that I overslept the first day of the rest of my life, and so I would be riding with Scoth (rhymes with goth). We headed to the much-talked about Baptist church in Seebree. I rewarded myself with coffee.

I don't actually like riding with other people and Scoth is definitely other people. Now, instead of worrying about other cars you have to worry about another bike. Now, instead of replaying Alanis Morisette's Ironic over-and-over again in your brain, you have to talk. Well, we did.

Scoth is actually quite interesting. Quite interesting fact: corn and soy are rotated every year, so the cornfield to my left is next year's soyfield (soyfield? Yes!). Scoth (born Scott I am sure) is a rapid fire drummer from out of Indianapolis. He is vegan -- except for twice a year -- and knows a heck of a lot about golden era punk. Scoth is 37 and so he had to live through Motley Crüe. We can agree that Tommy Lee is a class-A git and a terrible drummer to boot. It is refreshing to talk to somebody from the middle of the country, as some of the types I meet -- yesterday's San Franciscan Free Tibet Atheist being a prime example -- are a bit, erm, coastal.

We made tremendous time as we rolled through the Kentucky bumps. Like the Eskimo before me, I have developed 37 different word for your word hill: dumps, bumps, dulldrumps, rollies, ekg-ers, John Goodman ekg-ers, hilldogs (hills with dogs), coasters, rollers, toupees (hills without concrete on tops), falsies (hills with extra tops), Jayne Mansfields, purples, gummy-dummy-wumdops (try asking an Appalachian thoroughbred about that), moustachios, crumbumplers, and treadhills (hills where the asphalt slowly rolls down against you).

And so dinner at church. I showered, did my laundry, and volunteered to help weed the front lawn. I quickly unvolunteered when I found out that it was nearly 100 out. I had just showered!

So I read the Gospel of John in a hammock with some cats. John is the catchy one that begins, 'In the Beginning there was the word, and, given the letters R S T L N and E, can you guess what that word was for a chance at a set of jetskis and eternal life?'

My favorite line so far goes thusly:

Jesus is at a party and his mom, the virgin, makes this major party foul and blurts that they're out of wine. "4 [son of God] saith unto her, Woman, what have I to do with thee? mine hour is not yet come, 5 His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it."

Not very polite, eh? Verily, verily, verily.

I was saddened to find out I missed the monastery that Thomas Merton stayed at. The atheist told me this. I have never taken a vow of silence, but there are moments on this trip when I remember his words on contemplation and on being Christian to others with some fondness.

I was reminded of that today at dinner. The pastor and his wife and their neighbors took four other cyclists and me into their home and fed us aplenty. Chicken wrapped in bacon in cream (!), ice-cream and cake left over from Florence's 92nd birthday, fresh greens with six different kinds of ranch dressing (!!). Heaven is Cool Cucumber. Whatsoever I could have wanted I had.

We prayed before we ate and I am now convinced prayer aids the digestion. Think about what you're eating, the logistical juggle that gets cucumbers and bacon bits and iceberg lettuce and cherry tomatoes together in a rude mouthful. Enzymes will flow. Thank every miracle.

We talked bike stuff -- I don't know about you but I am sick to death of bike stuff -- and we talked trains. I tried to get Pastor Bob to bite on a question of theology ("Who are these Old Regular Baptist lot anyways?") but he did not take. He was more interested in people which is probably why his church is such a hit. They have ping pong!

We prayed at the end. We joined hands, Violet wished us safety, that God would be with us, that more Americans would travel their country (amen), and that we would have good winds. Since half of us were going different directions, I will assume she meant my half. When we finished praying, she hugged me. That was the first hug I've had in a while and it was lovely.

Say what you will about the Bible, the people who try to live by it in these parts understand charity, kindness, and warmth. So thank you Kentucky on my last day.

Disregard this side note. I have it in here because I thought it...

Something I really wanted to say at dinner because it would have made me look really, really smart: "So the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are all four versions of the same story, huh? That's a bit like Kurosawa's Rashomon."

Something Bob should have said but would be too polite to: "No you pretentious sinner. Rashomon is like the Bible. But goodness you must be really, really smart."

"Well..."

Day 13

What a lovely day. How effortlessly central Kentucky rolls by. I left My Old Kentucky Home State Park (phew!) and went on an early morning bourbon tour.

Heavenly Hash Bourbon is mashed and then stacked in new barrels in what look to be abandoned army barracks. I biked by the distillery at sunrise. My eyes are bloodshot from staring at the sun.

Flawed thesis: even ignoring sun worshipers, organized religion is sold easiest in areas with broad, beautiful skies. Consider rates of attendance in KY vs. Swansea. Consider horrible watercolors of sunsets (or firemen at sunset (or firemen with American flags at sunset)) popular with the evangelical crowd. Reconsider Frederick Church.

I talked to everyone today. I talked to a 6 year old who swore that his brother once caught 16 fireflies with one hand. I talked to an atheist from San Francisco about whether religion is just a word and about his odd dinner with the pastor's wife I plan on eating with tomorrow. I talked to an old woman about why the roads are the way they are -- they just are (although some flooding accounts for why roads are split across rivers. I talked to two fisherman about many raccoons that they named Roger. I talked to a turtle I saved from crushing because, if you whisper a secret into a turtle's ear you won't have to carry it anymore. Alright, alright I confess -- I ate catfood once.

Have you ever had an Ale-8-One? If not, can I recommend a trip to central Kentucky for the only ginger ale/fruit drink worth traveling for.

I am camped out at the base of a damn. I bumped into two girls going Eastbound and was joined by a man in an Iroc-Z.

"Any you girls wanna git round real fas? I show you dun dere."

His kids were quite embarrassed. Nobody was wearing. I mention this because, in a day when I have been stopped by or stopped 30 people to talk, this was the only cretin and yet this is what I felt like sharing with you. I am not doing these people justice. Central and Western Kentucky people are great people, gentlemen farmers with polite dogs, lovely fruit stand vendors with fresh peaches, kindly sheriffs who will track you down 2 miles down the road with different, better directions.

I gained an hour today. Tomorrow I will spend it on a ride at sunset. Tomorrow will be 2 weeks and a thousand miles. I am excited to spend it at the Baptist Church in Seebree, KY. Scuttlebut has it, these are special people.

Day 12

Well the straight line worked. It wasn't pretty and it involved hobbling into a repair shop in Danville for the first tuneup my poor bike has gotten in years. It worked.

I woke up early and biked for an hour looking backwards at the rising sun.

Danville is lovely. Small Episcopalian church, small espresso joint, small courthouse where I waited for my bike to be fixed. It would appear that I had been riding with the brake on for the past couple of days, that my chain was past kaput, that my earlier repair was worthless, and that an extra gear ring would have to be added before my knees spring open leaving ligaments and rubberbands all over the asphalt. It was done, reasonably, quickly, friendlily, by a man who has ridden the country on a tandem with son and a musician who plays Appalachian music.

So I feel better. I pedaled into the wind for four more hours, but it was not hard -- just trying on my patience. I am in Bardstown, where Steven Foster wrote My Old Kentucky Home. There's a musical going on. I, for the most part, chatted with two kids touring the Bourbon Belt, and with two fellow Westbound cyclists. Then I showered, got some disease from the tile (I am convinced), and fell asleep.

Day 11

I am in Berea, KY home of Berea, College.

Berea is kind of a neat school: students have to work for their (free) tuition and they do so either in maintenance or by making arts and crafts. It all looks a bit like Pottery Barn. People come from all around the country to buy their handiwork, but I have faith that some enterprising university in Bangladesh could make a run on this market with low-cost alternatives and a couple of years.

I think I only did 50 miles today. My body is in a minor revolt and I suspect my Bolshy mind is behind this. That and the warm Kentucky sun. My mood will go through manic swings depending on the type of terrain; and, while this was officially the end of the Appalachians, I expect other mountain ranges to take their miserable place. I do not feel particularly great today.

Today was a favorite day for natural beauty, however. The area just east of the city is stunning, a hollow valley surrounded by densely veggified cliffs. The sky was so wide that I could see sunlight and rain -- rain like a cow pissing on a flat rock. In time, that cow was standing squarely above me. (Get your hands on a Frederick Church painting for a near approximation.)

At 5 in the morning it began to pour. The next hour of my sleep was ruined by doubts that my limping tent had sprung a leak. My whole day has been plagued with doubts. Did I take a wrong turn? Why is this hill so steep? How am I getting worse at this?

I have decided to take the afternoon off -- it's 91 degrees F out (F!) -- and to seek shelter in the crafts store, Blondie's icecream parlor, and at the Dinner Bell. It is amazing that, after a promising start, I have to baby myself along. My body just won't go sometimes.

I hope to be asleep by 530 and up earlier tomorrow because tomorrow I cheat.

Tomorrow I will ride in a straight flat line from where I am leaving to where I am going. I am not going to ride up a hill just so I can ride down it; I am not going to see the Shaker museum in Harrodsburg (which I'm a little saddened by); I am going to go the logical route for a change. My trip isn't about a trail, distance or speed, it's about seeing as much as I can and getting to that far coast.

Oh. I would have gotten you all gifts here but nothing weighed less than 10 pounds. You'll have to improvise on paperweights and rattan brooms for a little longer.

Day 10

I will pass through Berea at 8:30 in the morning tomorrow and, with that, leave the Appalachians.

An aphorism I heard from Steve, a former soldier, metal worker, Oregonian, and a man who genuinely has a list of things he wants to see and do:

"It was raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock."

Today, alas, was dry. I will be up early to avoid the sleep. I am sorry for the brevity but I have spent most of my evenings chatting to real-live-people. Please take this as an apology and a promise that, when I am undoubtedly abandoned to myself, I will be full of stories.

Also, I will settle the debate over precisely which valley has the prettiest accent (hint: it's not the valley between Forest Hills, Queens and Flushing.

Day 9, I was lifted up the hills

Because this was a long day, this will be a short post.

Kentucky is not flat as I misread it.

The Appalachians are not over.

The heat would not go away but come back with humidity.

It was Sunday and a church I passed -- now almost exclusively Baptist of cosmetic difference -- had this sign: "Heaven is a cool place." If heaven is the free of suffering, then that must be so. Central air, all downhill.

But, following a similar trope of forlornness and redemption, I happened upon the Historical & Genealogical Society Bed and Breakfast in Hindman, KY. After having to push my bike up its mossy entrance, I was greeted by David, proprietor, with a glass of sweet tea a southern vegetarian meal, and four deserts to choose from. On top of that, I have finally gotten to sit down and talk with someone heading east -- Boris.

And so, around a bonfire, it seems somewhat obvious that kindness and other people are what gets you across your country wherever that may be. That and being so far into Kentucky that you could never find your way out.