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.