The afternoon was pedaled through in pleasant contemplation. The new road was plentifully wide with sparse traffic and I enjoyed the warm sun and long vistas of rolling farm land. A curious thing I began noticing was small signs advertising various seed strains being used in the fields. Each sign would carry the crop(i.e. soybeans, corn etc.) and it’s ID number. It took me awhile to figure out the purpose of these signs. Having always lived in an urban area I’d never considered how farmers acquire the seeds for their crops.
Around four in the afternoon I rolled past the outskirts of Mildred, Kansas. I stopped at a general store just off the highway for a pick-me-up before the last hour's effort. The woman inside was very nice. She was impressed with my endeavor and also showed a good deal of concern for my safety. Apparently I wasn't the first bicycle tourist to come through her small town. She related a story of another young man who camped in the lot next to the store a year or so before. I purchased an apple, candy bar and Gatorade and enjoyed them on the curb in front of the store. As I ate I noticed clouds rolling in from the south west. I remember feeling a bit uneasy at this first sign of trouble to come. I climbed back on the saddle and rode on after a restful twenty-minutes.
The clouds gathered quickly over the next ten miles and the resulting darkness betrayed the relatively early evening. Upon reaching the next city, Moran, I decided to find a suitable place to camp in town, rather than risk making an extra ten miles in the worsening weather. I pedaled slowly down the main street keeping my eyes open for a park or friendly looking stranger. I found the library and chamber of commerce but they were both closed as it was already five-thirty.
As I was pondering my next move a man in a pick-up truck smiled broadly and waved as he passed. Something in his passing countenance struck me in a positive manner and I pulled up behind him and quickly flagged him down. He pulled over and even got out of his truck to chat, warmly shaking my hand in greeting as I explained my situation. I asked if he knew somewhere in town where I might camp for the evening. He thought for a moment, mentioned a few parks off-hand and then offered his own backyard. I politely asked if he was sure that that would be alright and he insisted on the idea. He got back in his truck and I followed him briefly around a few corners to his property.
His home was a small ranch style house on a half-acre lot backing up to a tall field of corn. I made sure to introduce myself when he began showing me around the backyard. He shook my hand and introduced himself as Lloyd. I immediately saw two suitable trees for my hammock near the corn field and he agreeably assented to my choice. He even offered to warm up some left-over stew he and his wife had in the fridge. I was determined not to put them out in anyway and kindly declined. I got busy setting up the hammock and he left me to my work.
I was securing a tarp over my bike against the coming rain when Lloyd returned. He told me that he'd informed his neighbors and the local lawman about my presence so that no one would be unduly alarmed. He showed repeated concern for my safety and comfort and I countered with ceaseless gratitude and assurances of my well being. He insisted that I shouldn't hesitate to ring the bell and take shelter in his home if the rain was too bad.
It was nearly eight o'clock by this time and with nothing better to do I decided to turn-in for the night. Lloyd said he'd be out to work early in the morning so we said our good-byes and I offered up more thanks. I climbed into the hammock and slipped my shoes into a plastic bag on the ground below me to keep them dry and near at hand.
The first rain drops fell moments after I laid back into my pillow. The splatter of the rain pattered rhythmically on the rain-fly above and the trees rustled with the cold wind. The new hat and gloves kept me plentifully warm against the elements
It was still early and I grew lonely being so far from home. I sent a text to my sister to let my family know where I'd stopped and that I was alright. The glowing screens of my i-pod and phone provided an odd sense of comfort, a calmly incandescent reminder of home. The hammock rocked softly in the wind as I lay listening to a Radiohead album and I drifted into sleep.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Day Two: October 7, 2009 - Part 1
I woke up at 6am after a lousy night's sleep. I was comfortable enough but the temperature dropped into the mid-thirties and made it difficult to sleep. One of the down-sides to my hammock-tent is the cooling effect of air blowing beneath you all night. I'd also, stupidly, neglected to pack a stocking-cap and knit gloves. I roused myself and dressed quickly in the cool morning air. The sun was just coming up and it's rays sparkled for miles in the morning dew. I was able to pack up and head out within twenty minutes, forgoing breakfast until I'd gotten a few more miles down the road.
The legs warmed quickly as I pedaled through the crisp morning air. Birds called and answered across farms and I breathed deep the earthy aroma of the fields. The warmth of the sun allowed me to stop briefly and strip away an under-layer of insulation, traveling on comfortably in my shorts and wind-breaker.
I pulled into the small town of Rantoul, Kansas just as it's citizens began their morning activity. I stopped along their main street, across from the post office and city hall. The civic buildings of the community were nothing more than pre-fabricated metal buildings at the main street's intersection with the highway. I settled in on the sidewalk with my small camp stove and went to work preparing an instant oatmeal breakfast in my mess-kit. A pair of shepherd dogs barked at me from across the street. A few of the towns-people went walked to the post office to retrieve their mail as I waited for my water to boil. A woman with a large walking stick hailed an older gentlemen as they approached their mutual destination. I overheard her telling him how the stick was for defense against an overly-aggressive canine of the town. On her way out of the post office the same woman asked if I was all right. I smiled and explained that I was fine and only stopping for a bit of breakfast. She inquired about my bike and I gave a brief explanation of my trip. She was very friendly and even invited me to her home to eat my breakfast. I thanked her but declined as I had already begun eating. She wished me luck and went on her way. I ate quickly, cleaned up, brushed my teeth, re-mounted my bike and left Rantoul behind me.
The next ten miles of road were some of the nicest of the trip. I donned my headphones and chose a lecture series on James Joyce's Ulysses for my entertainment. Rolling Kansas hills of wheat, corn and cattle reached out for miles from the smooth pavement of the highway. Easy climbs and smooth descents came and went under the steady spinning of my pedal-strokes and the recorded professor spoke excitedly about the classic book in my ears. I remember one descent in particular, a long, lazy curve to the south. Dropping into a low gear and following the center line I leaned into it's sloping banks and rolled effortlessly for two miles. I picked up speed as the road descended past the fields and into thick trees, signaling the creek I would soon cross. After crossing the low creek the road rose again out of the trees and back into the direct warmth of the sun. I was happy and calm.
I reached my next turn at ten-thirty that morning. The road I'd been on ended at it's intersection with US-169. Turning west I headed towards Garnett, Kansas. I pedaled the road away through the refreshing, late morning air.
I neared the outskirts of Garnett around noon with two goals, get a good lunch and aquire a stocking cap and gloves to avoid another shivering night. A nice thing of traveling on the back highways is that they almost all become the main civic streets of the small towns that they pass through. So that, when entering a city you don’t have to go out of your way to find food or information. Traveling on a such a rode into a Garnett I passed a large grain elevator followed by the small, old homes you often see associated with small town America. Tall old trees lined the streets and provided extra shade over the large front porches on early 20th century houses. I reached the town square and easily found a greasy spoon restaurant offering a fried chicken lunch buffet. The food was great; fried chicken, real mashed potatoes, gravy, cornbread and more. I ate two or three large platefuls while observing the goings-on in the square through a large picture window.
The large county courthouse filled the center of the square, surrounded by green grass and sidewalks. The streets squaring off the city center were lined with two story brick buildings, built with shared walls. All of the businesses appeared to be locally owned and very few of the store fronts appeared empty. Most of the other patrons in the restaurant seemed familiar, if not altogether friendly, with each other. I ate slowly and absorbed the scene.
I left the café feeling a little guilty for spending more time than necessary on my lunch. I decided to quickly find the warm gear I needed and make some good time over the afternoon. I promptly wasted an hour riding aimlessly around town. It’s unusually hard to find some things in a town without a wal-mart. I tried a grocery, a hardware store, pharmacy and two gas stations before I finally inquired with a local about my needs. She directed me to a store called Alco, a sort of small-town discount retailer that I’d passed three or four times in my wanderings. Once I knew where to go I easily found my stocking cap and warm knit gloves, kicking myself for not asking someone sooner.
Fortunately, the Alco was on the street I needed to take out of town. I followed it south where it merged highways 169 from the east and 59 from the north. The next four miles were the most harrowing of the entire trip. The combined traffic of the two highways and lack of a reasonable shoulder proved to be incredibly taxing on my nerves. Large tractor-trailers flew by at sixty miles-per-hour and heavy opposite direction traffic left them with little room for a safe passing distance. I kept my music off and one eye over my shoulder, frequently pulling over to allow groups of traffic to pass. I finally reached my next turn, following 59 highway to the east and thankfully left the nightmare road.
The legs warmed quickly as I pedaled through the crisp morning air. Birds called and answered across farms and I breathed deep the earthy aroma of the fields. The warmth of the sun allowed me to stop briefly and strip away an under-layer of insulation, traveling on comfortably in my shorts and wind-breaker.
I pulled into the small town of Rantoul, Kansas just as it's citizens began their morning activity. I stopped along their main street, across from the post office and city hall. The civic buildings of the community were nothing more than pre-fabricated metal buildings at the main street's intersection with the highway. I settled in on the sidewalk with my small camp stove and went to work preparing an instant oatmeal breakfast in my mess-kit. A pair of shepherd dogs barked at me from across the street. A few of the towns-people went walked to the post office to retrieve their mail as I waited for my water to boil. A woman with a large walking stick hailed an older gentlemen as they approached their mutual destination. I overheard her telling him how the stick was for defense against an overly-aggressive canine of the town. On her way out of the post office the same woman asked if I was all right. I smiled and explained that I was fine and only stopping for a bit of breakfast. She inquired about my bike and I gave a brief explanation of my trip. She was very friendly and even invited me to her home to eat my breakfast. I thanked her but declined as I had already begun eating. She wished me luck and went on her way. I ate quickly, cleaned up, brushed my teeth, re-mounted my bike and left Rantoul behind me.
The next ten miles of road were some of the nicest of the trip. I donned my headphones and chose a lecture series on James Joyce's Ulysses for my entertainment. Rolling Kansas hills of wheat, corn and cattle reached out for miles from the smooth pavement of the highway. Easy climbs and smooth descents came and went under the steady spinning of my pedal-strokes and the recorded professor spoke excitedly about the classic book in my ears. I remember one descent in particular, a long, lazy curve to the south. Dropping into a low gear and following the center line I leaned into it's sloping banks and rolled effortlessly for two miles. I picked up speed as the road descended past the fields and into thick trees, signaling the creek I would soon cross. After crossing the low creek the road rose again out of the trees and back into the direct warmth of the sun. I was happy and calm.
I reached my next turn at ten-thirty that morning. The road I'd been on ended at it's intersection with US-169. Turning west I headed towards Garnett, Kansas. I pedaled the road away through the refreshing, late morning air.
I neared the outskirts of Garnett around noon with two goals, get a good lunch and aquire a stocking cap and gloves to avoid another shivering night. A nice thing of traveling on the back highways is that they almost all become the main civic streets of the small towns that they pass through. So that, when entering a city you don’t have to go out of your way to find food or information. Traveling on a such a rode into a Garnett I passed a large grain elevator followed by the small, old homes you often see associated with small town America. Tall old trees lined the streets and provided extra shade over the large front porches on early 20th century houses. I reached the town square and easily found a greasy spoon restaurant offering a fried chicken lunch buffet. The food was great; fried chicken, real mashed potatoes, gravy, cornbread and more. I ate two or three large platefuls while observing the goings-on in the square through a large picture window.
The large county courthouse filled the center of the square, surrounded by green grass and sidewalks. The streets squaring off the city center were lined with two story brick buildings, built with shared walls. All of the businesses appeared to be locally owned and very few of the store fronts appeared empty. Most of the other patrons in the restaurant seemed familiar, if not altogether friendly, with each other. I ate slowly and absorbed the scene.
I left the café feeling a little guilty for spending more time than necessary on my lunch. I decided to quickly find the warm gear I needed and make some good time over the afternoon. I promptly wasted an hour riding aimlessly around town. It’s unusually hard to find some things in a town without a wal-mart. I tried a grocery, a hardware store, pharmacy and two gas stations before I finally inquired with a local about my needs. She directed me to a store called Alco, a sort of small-town discount retailer that I’d passed three or four times in my wanderings. Once I knew where to go I easily found my stocking cap and warm knit gloves, kicking myself for not asking someone sooner.
Fortunately, the Alco was on the street I needed to take out of town. I followed it south where it merged highways 169 from the east and 59 from the north. The next four miles were the most harrowing of the entire trip. The combined traffic of the two highways and lack of a reasonable shoulder proved to be incredibly taxing on my nerves. Large tractor-trailers flew by at sixty miles-per-hour and heavy opposite direction traffic left them with little room for a safe passing distance. I kept my music off and one eye over my shoulder, frequently pulling over to allow groups of traffic to pass. I finally reached my next turn, following 59 highway to the east and thankfully left the nightmare road.
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