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Warmth in the cold Kentucky rain.

We've been experiencing afternoon storms on an increasingly regular basis since leaving Joplin, Missouri. So much regularity, that days without storm events are now outnumbered. In this climate, high heat indices also produce a higher likelihood of a storm. This is because the humidity is directly related to both the heat index and precipitation. The bittersweet reality of these storms for us is this: Although the storms present a nice alternative to the heat of the day, they usually happen about the time we are ready to set up camp, cook dinner, and generally relax. In this line of living, rain is the least inconvenient in the middle of the night and while riding. Rain is most inconvenient when it is trying to find its way into our breakfast or dinner, when the rainflies on our tents are off, and most of all when we least expect it. I'm most surprised by my current relationship to this rain because of my indifference to the cold wet weather back home in Portland.

If you've been a regular reader of this blog, at least in the past few weeks, you've noticed a recurring theme: I've been taken back by the amount of courtesy and hospitality we've been experiencing in this part of the country. Even with an optimistic outlook on the culture east of the Rockies, I would have never expected such a wealth of kindness. Regardless of the truth, I've coped by thinking there may be more negativity to bicycles where they are most prolific. For example, in Portland the bicycle boom has created a market for bike related infrastructure, which somewhat polarized the community into two groups; money for bikes or money for autos. Since the avoidance of generalizations is impossible in making this argument, I'm going to stick to these two groups. Out here, there is no money for bikes, because almost everyone drives, therefore a cyclist is such a rare sight. Thus leaving only the most short tempered to find the existence of a cyclist annoying. Regardless of the reason, we're enjoying our positive attention out here.

In my continuing theme of hospitality, I shall share one of the most gratifying experiences thus far. As we three travelers reached the outskirts of Ashland, Kentucky, we stopped at a supermarket to buy finishing touches on the night's dinner. Before we had time to walk inside, a woman approached us with the questions we receive on a daily basis. When my vague response to our lodging plans finished, she quickly offered her backyard as a temporary sanctuary, with the added bonus of an opportunity to shower. This isn't the first time we've encountered this offer, but it is the first time the offer was placed near our intended destination; so without much debate, we quickly obliged.

Upon arriving at Tina and Lliam's neat little house, tucked nicely under some shady trees, Tina confessed her concern for the looming evening storm, and offered up her living room as the preferred place of rest. We each enjoyed a shower, clean laundry, a dry and cozy place to sleep, and a heap of breakfast fixings; but what we found most delightful were our conversations with our hosts, and the positive impact we made on them. I'm including Tina's account of our visit below:

"A funny thing happened on my way to get Worcestershire sauce.....as we pulled into the grocery store parking lot, three men in black on heavily packed bicycles rode up at the same time.

As the temperature was in the high 90’s I was only able to rein in my curiosity long enough for them to remove their helmets before I bounded over to verify their sanity. But suddenly remembering I am a polite Kentuckian now, I swallowed my first question and asked instead “where are you going?” New York they replied (which I thought was overly ambitious), which led to the the question “Where did you come from?” and I was floored when they said Oregon.
A brief conversation later I offered to let them camp in my backyard.

Long ago in my thin and reasonably youthful past, I decided to get fit by riding my bike to work which would be 15 miles a day over a series of small hills. At the time I was a secretary for a construction company. The crew I worked with all lived in the next town down from mine, a fact I forgot about, and on the way home they came across me lying down in a farmer’s field, purple in the face and puffing hard. At first they were alarmed, but when I recovered I gathered up my shreds of dignity, determined to put a quick end to their hilarity.

They deliberately drove their caravan of pickup trucks ⅛ of a mile per hour (approximately my speed) hooting and hollering and honking their horns in the most humiliating, embarrassing and, Thank God, only parade I have ever led.

I still love bicycles, though in a more abstract way now.

As we waited for our guests to arrive the sky darkened ominously and I tried to figure out if it was a wiser decision to ask three total strangers to sleep in our house, or allow them to possibly drown if our backyard flooded. Ultimately I reminded myself that ax murderers hardly ever ride bicycles to the scene of the crime, and besides, I was asking them.
So that is how I met Kane, Ross and Dan (Not-Joe to the absent minded), three incredibly healthy, happy and yes, even if it abashes them, wholesome young men.

By the time they arrived in Ashland they had ridden over mountains, into deserts and canyons, across 10 states and 4,300 miles. They had already seen more of Kentucky than I have and seemed quite taken with Louisville. I hoped they would fall in love with my adopted town, the quaint architecture and beauty of Central Park, so they would visit again.

This odyssey has been an education for them in the cultural climates of America, oftentimes a challenge with the actual climate of America, and an incredible adventure I was thrilled to share vicariously. Which, by the way, is the name of Ross’s very interesting continuing blog about this trip. thisisvicariousness.blogspot.com

I also received an education about the inherent intelligence, determination and goodness of these young people that makes me optimistic for the future of this country.

They were perfect house guests, appreciative, neat and generous with their stories. After breakfast we reluctantly let them leave and I imagine the quiet hum of bike tires on pavement was the only sound they wanted to hear after all that chatter, but the silence for us was deafening.

After they left I noticed that one of them had folded my red plaid blanket into a neat little triangle over the back of the couch. It looks cute and I’m leaving it that way. I smile every time I see it and think of them and say “come back someday, come back.”"

Thank you Tina and Lliam. We'll be back, someday.

Dan reminded me of this song, and I've been using it to cope with the weather.

When in Bourbon, drink Louisville.

As a result of our third crossing of the Ohio River, we reached Louisville, Kentucky. We didn't necessarily have Louisville on our radars, until we realized our trajectory would be steering near the town, so we decided to look up some ex-Bendites and check it out. Aside from making a namesake in wooden bats, I knew nothing about the place. So for me, the city's eclectic mash of Midwest and Southern culture sparked an interest which will only be satisfied by more time there in the future.

We reached the residence of our gracious hosts, Jesse and Amber, on a Thursday evening, with the honest intention of resting Friday, and heading out Saturday morning. When Saturday morning arrived, we were missing one wallet, so the parting atmosphere was lackadaisical to say the least. After enjoying Amber's delicious crepes and exhausting all wallet recovery efforts, we suited up and began our farewells when suddenly one flat tire emerged, then another. Once the tires were all full again, we took to the streets for an intended late afternoon exodus from Louisville. Unfortunately, the combination of fate and poor health of some of our equipment had another plan in store; which put us back to three wallets, but left us in need of a shoe repair. In a humbling group decision, we reached out to our then former hosts for an encore. Jesse and Amber's understanding, tolerance, and kindness were much needed and appreciated.

Louisville turned out to be the beginning of a week long struggle to move down the road without equipment issues. It seems 4,300 miles is about the point where quality and durability shine above products meant for moderate use. This mile marker has represented the end to a variety of products; tires and derailleurs being the biggest offenders, shoes and sleeping pads coming in at a close second. Our wave of equipment failure has led us to consider reaching out to applicable brands and offer product testing. Anybody?

In light of all these mishaps, I'm grateful for the gear that has stood this test, like the sturdy Kona that Sellwood Cycle Repair set me up on, which has left me without mechanical issues beyond the occasional puncture. In fact, of the original six tires, mine are the only two remaining. I'm also glad to have Dan along on his trusty Vulture, who knows a thing or two about bikes and can have parts shipped to random post offices along the route thanks to Village Bike and Ski in Sunriver.

Long range bike tour tested and approved.

IL, KY, IN, KY.

At the junction of the Ohio and the Mississippi Rivers, four otherwise large states are funneled into tight quarters, to observe the union of these two slow moving arteries. For the first time on this trip, in this region, we crossed multiple borders within the span of one week. We also crossed into Kentucky twice, which makes it the first revisited state.

We left Cape Girardeau, MO in the beginning of a Midwest heatwave. (By the way, we wouldn't have without the help and generous trust we received from Cyclewerx, who I previously forgot to mention, and who let us borrow two tools of excessive value, so Dan could rebuild his wheel; thanks.) With the high humidity and temperatures, the heat indices ranged from just over 100 to 123, depending on who felt the need to share. Living outside in such heat requires patience and humility. Patience to keep cool heads; humility to be near other people after a few days without showering.

I've really come to enjoy our daily visits to convenience stores this side of the Rockies. Most places have a few tables inside, for comfort while customers enjoy their purchases. It seems most convenience stores on the west coast encourage everyone to leave as fast as possible; instead of tables and chairs, there are "No Loitering" signs. I assume real estate is a driving factor for these components, so they may disappear again when we hit the eastern seaboard.

At any rate, it's sitting at these tables where we've had encounters with a great number of interesting locals. Typically, our arrival sparks quiet, glancing interest from the patrons and proprietors alike. Sometimes the cast includes a handful of older men, sometimes just one random soul--usually AARP potential. Once we pay our tabs and sit down, the initial awkwardness is killed with a simple question from the alpha; "Where y'all ridin' to?". When they hear our answer, they tend to show amazement, which can only be followed with a comment about the weather, which has usually been hot. Once we've established our credibility, these kind folks usually run their gamut of questions about how we do it, why, why they can't, etc. Often the conversation turns to the best local roads, camping intel, and so on. And while we're being interviewed, we're simultaneously opening the minds of these people to a variety of things they're not usually exposed to, namely us, and visa versa.

Progress.

Progress in large format.

After three months and some change, 4,300 miles, and countless calories; we've reached Louisville, Kentucky. I've had the better part of an hour on a borrowed computer to map out the approximate route we have traveled this far. Our turnaround point will be New York City in approximately 1,000 miles from now; the route West will be much more direct as we race the fall snow to the great divide.

More on Illinois, Kentucky, and Indiana later.

Misery loves company.

Missouri, yet another state to impress beyond all expectation.  Maybe the fault lies in those who expect.  Every westbound cyclist we encountered, from eastern Utah to western Missouri, warned us about the Ozarks.  Though these steep hills don't reach the heavens like the summits of the Rockies or the Sierra Nevadas, there may be just as much climbing; only it's not sustained, but instead in consistent intervals. Moving over this steep terrain, momentum can only help so much.  The residual speed gained from riding downhill is quickly absorbed by the immediate transition uphill.  Once all the leftovers from the inertia are gone, each hill seemed just long enough to find a pace, which was interrupted by the following descent.  Rolling hills on a bicycle.

Although physically demanding, the stretch of road across southern Missouri is significantly more stimulating than the terrain in all of Kansas.  We managed the distance from Joplin to Cape Girardeau in six days.  The sweatiest six days of my life due to the high Missouri humidity.  Our direction happened to take us onto a stretch of the famed Adventure Cycling Association TransAmerica route.  Coincidentally at the same time many westbound travelers were crossing Missouri on their way to Astoria, or other parts of the west coast. It's great to see so many people attempting such a feat, many of them existing within different demographics from the three of us.  The obvious exception being an interest in bicycles.

At the end of our trip through the show me state, we were extremely lucky to have made a connection in Cape Girardeau.  Our new friends Matt, Valerie, Ally, and Zac shared their wonderful abode with us for two nights, fed us, loaned us a car (to manage an emergency bike repair), and let us hoard their TV to catch a few stages of the tour.  We can't express enough gratitude for reaching out and opening their home to us.  Also, a big thanks to Brad for getting the ball rolling. I'm constantly amazed by the support many people have extended to us over the course of this adventure.  Friends are subjected to obligatory benevolence when we come through town.  By nature, friends help friends; it's the basic mutual understanding built into most relationships.  What has amazed me is the voluntary kindness from strangers to three smelly, potentially homeless young men.  From cold water to way finding to open houses.  Friends or strangers, all the people who have helped us along the way are showing me the potential for generosity we Americans have.  One good deed leads to another, and so on.

As we steer towards Louisville, I'd like to share a thought from Mark Twain on the topic of exploring, which seems appropriate for the topics of Missouri and traveling.  

"If you are of any account, stay at home and make your way by faithful diligence; but if you are "no account," go away from home, and then you will have to work, whether you want to or not.  Thus you become a blessing to your friends by ceasing to be a nuisance to them--if the people you go among suffer by the operation."

Joplin, MO.

When the powerful tornado hit Joplin, Missouri on a Sunday evening in May, we were somewhere in Eastern Nevada or Western Utah. Spending most of our time outside and partially disconnected, the news of the devastation didn't heavily saturate our information intake in the days and weeks after. But at some point between then and our arrival in Joplin, we decided it was only appropriate to give a hand, if only for a few days. This decision brought upon us the most rewarding and humbling experience of the trip.

We rolled into town from the south, on our way to Wildwood Baptist church, which would house and feed us for the next two days. As we turned into the city, we first reached a vantage point of the hospital. The strength of the winds broke all the windows out, and apparently moved a part of the building off it's foundation. Moving towards our destination in Duquesne--the town bordering Joplin to the east--we travelled down Main Street, through a section the funnel crossed on it's path west to east. At this point, the weight of the devastation began to set in. What we could only deduce to be a neighborhood was a giant pile of debris segmented by the now clear streets. When we reached Duquesne, a few miles east of Main Street Joplin, we found a different scenario. Instead of giant piles of debris, we found empty lots with remaining foundations, a few obvious signs of landscaping, and occasionally an intact house. As we learned later, the crews cleared this area before we arrived.

Wildwood Baptist happens to reside at the apparent end of the tornado's path. The church housed volunteers and Joplin area residents until July 1st, which forced us to relocate to the Abundant Life mid way through our stay. Both churches were more than hospitable; providing not only a place to sleep, but also three meals a day, and endless hydration. A big thanks to those churches, as well as any other church or organization that housed volunteers and displaced residents.

During our visit, we elected to make ourselves useful by helping Americorps crews remove debris from select properties. Basically, each property must be cleared, whether the homeowner can manage the task or not. If not, crews of volunteers are charged with the task of sorting and moving the debris to the sidewalk, where it can be loaded into dump trucks and hauled off. The more volunteers can manage, the less the affected cities have to pay contractors to do it.

Clearing this debris is hard and time consuming work. When we were on our way to Joplin, I wondered what would be left to do 40+ days after the storm. After participating in the clearing process, I can now understand why there is still so much to clean up. Imagine all the stuff the common household is comprised of; appliances, furniture, decorations, dinnerware, wood, plaster, shingles, cement, insulation, etc. Now imagine a neighborhood of houses full of these things, about a half to a full mile wide and a few miles long. There is a lot to clean up after the disintegration and dispersal of these houses under the wrath of a tornado. I am now left wondering how much more labor will be needed to replace all the houses and the stuff that goes into them.

This experience was valuable on so many levels for we three travelers. Even three days after our departure from Joplin, we're still reflecting and unwinding. It would be a shame to limit this experience to a simple summary of lessons learned, experiences gained. There is just so much to be said about the value of community in times of devastation; and still much to contemplate as we reel into the eastern part of the country with these new perspectives in our heads.

After hearing a few stories from a few Joplin residents, I'd like to end with a scenario: You suddenly learn that the tornado warning is real, and you have 17 minutes to get to the storm shelter--if you have one. The storm plows through, you and your family survived the storm, but now your house is gone, along with everything in it, including your car. What do you do now? Do you stay or go? Having lived through such a tremendous experience, do you miss all the stuff you lost? Or do you now feel relief in your forced freedom from it all? Do you feel lucky to be alive? Or do you feel misfortune for having such a horrible thing hit your hometown?