Wits' End

In the dark of an early October morning in Kansas, a television glows into a motel room. A man with a forced, phony smile explains the weather for the coming days. Like a chant, he repeats the phrase "South winds, 15 to 25 mph, South winds, 15 to 25 mph," for all the days into the forecast. For almost everyone in the state, this causes no particular emotion, just a shrug of the shoulders--Oh, well, so it's going to be windy today. For a lone cyclist in that particular motel room, these words are a meteorological prison sentence for which there will be no pardon, no time off for good behavior, just hard time in solitary confinement on a recumbent bicycle.

I set off knowing that I would be facing more punishment. Earlier is better, for as the day warms, the winds intensify, so I was rolling before first light. Always from the south today came the wicked force, the road straight and predictable, no surprises. Oh, look at that, a field of corn stubble. Wow, haven't seen one of those before. Oh, say, that's new, a grain silo. Such novelty. How can I bear it all? Here's something else to add to the list of things I dislike about cycling in Kansas: truck traffic. While the traffic in general is fairly light, most of the vehicles are big rigs, growling monsters stalking the highway. While I am plugging along, taking the general abuse of the cantankerous wind currents, getting pushed and nudged this way and that, I'll see a dragon approaching from the west. As it closes in, I brace for what is coming. The Doppler-shifted groaning of the engine reaches me first, and I instinctively grip the bars. For the wind my have its way with me, but what is soon to come is a full-on Gretzky body-check. The grill of the beast, its chrome teeth, swell in my vision, but at the last instant, I tilt my head down and close my eyes in preparation for the blast. Then it hits, a wall of roaring sound and turbulence that leaves me momentarily fighting for control. A second or two later, the event is over, and I may ride for several minutes before I even see another vehicle.

Part of the issue here, I'm sure, is the harvest season. The wheat seems to all be collected, but lots of corn and milo still stands. The hundreds of square miles of crops mean steady trucking for many days. I'll have to leave farming country to be free of all this. So it goes.

At one point, late into today's ride, I started to lose it. Something deep within me cracked. I had this overwhelming sense of how funny my circumstances were. Spontaneously, I yelled out to myself, to the insensate wind: "Wooo--ha! Fuck YOU!" The deep absurdity of what I was doing gripped me somewhere deep and I started to laugh, a genuine visceral rising of mirth that I could not resist. I was yelling and pedaling and rolling and laughing down the highway, a mad cyclist gone mad. This lunatic high didn't last long, but the after effects carried me the final miles to Tribune and my third Time Zone--yeah--Mountain Time. Tomorrow, it's Colorado. The West is almost mine.

Biker Scotty without coffee:




Biker Scotty WITH coffee:

Getting closer:

I purchased a bunch of real estate on my way through:

Got it made in Manhattan

The Midwest stretches on and on and on. But twisters and broom-wielding witches aside, this first stretch of Kansas has been beautiful if not more annoying (bugs/heat) than some earlier segments. Here's my first revelation: Not all of Kansas is flat. Eastern Kansas is hooked up to western Missouri, if you haven't noticed, and that there is hill country.

I camped in Louisburg at a vast sports park, endless soccer fields, baseball diamond, and, of all things, a small observatory. I rolled up as folks were gathering for a picnic and evening's viewing of the celestial orbs. I parked a couple of hundred yards away behind some trees and the edge of a field. I had every intention of taking a look at the heavens myself, but fatigue crept in and dictated that I just sleep as much as I could. My wake-up calls were coming in at some pretty sharp hours. I arranged my camp while the gathering crowd set up additional scopes and one fellow flew some model planes. As the sun went down, so did I.

The camp:


At 2 am, nature came calling, whispering at first, then pinching me, waking me up. I hauled my groggy frame from the tent and marched over to the outhouse under a clear canopy of moon and stars. Back in the tent I lay for long moments, listening to the wind in the trees and, for the first time, coyotes. God's dogs have a wide range, but for me they have always symbolized the West. They are guardians of the broad threshold I was crossing, canine singers of a moonlit night for a solitary traveler, a pedal-powered Odysseus bound for Ithaca. The undercurrent of the wind, the quavering melody of the coyotes floating faintly in the background, and the primordial sky all left me in a state of profound wonder and gratitude. What a strange and wonderful place is the world. For all my complaints and grievances, I cannot deny this appreciation.

A few hours later, I climbed and descended on long, gradual hills, many times ripping into the darkness at unknown speeds, over-driving my meager light, flying on trust and hope and slow-drip adrenaline. Still in the dark, I began to encounter tule fog in the valley bottoms. The weird mists clung to trees and obscured the farm houses. Like smoky rivers, the moisture flowed along the depressions, one after another, as my morning effort unfolded. Could such a morning give way to a day in the high 80's? Oh, yes. In the Bakersfield area of California, these conditions only occur in the winter, but you're not in California anymore, Dorothy. Kansas has a different game plan.

And so went my day. Smooth roads, long, gradual climbs and descents, a rising sun that burned away the fog then burned away at me. My leg was bothering me some but not as severely as the day before. I was a bit more conscious of taking breaks. After midday I arrived at Osage City, end of the line for this Sunday. After some calls made by the helpful crew at the Casey's mini-mart, I was clear to camp behind the store next to the police station. Okay, shouldn't be bothered here.

What followed was a "challenging" bit of camping. First of all, I was reduced to drinking "Light" beer, Coors Light, to be specific. Scandalous, I know, but there it is. Actually, with the intense heat and humidity, it was more refreshing than I expected. Even so, I think this qualifies as a new low for me, this tour, and adult malt beverages. One never knows what rigors the road will impose. We can only be flexible and endure. The town (all of Kansas?) has some quaint blue laws, only allowing the sale of beer between 12 and 8 pm on Sundays, and the clerk at Casey's said that regulations were in the works to keep the mini-mart from selling any beer at all on the Lord's day. The religious-based motivations for these laws are clear enough. I wondered, though, if they had actually done any good. Do the alcoholics forget to stock up on Saturday for their early Sunday binging? Certainly, I would not be able to buy a can of suds to pour over my Wheaties on the Sabbath. Another aspect of personal freedom taken way by the powers that be. Oh well....

Besides the limp lager, the roughest part of the camp was the incredible humidity and heat. I've complained about this often, but it's hard to get over what it's like to seal yourself up in a tight space under these circumstances, sweat oozing from every pore, gasping for breath like a beached sturgeon, begging for release like a tortured sinner. GET...ME...OUT...OF...HERE! But you can't get out. You've got to fight for sleep and keep a wall between you and the snarling insects eager for fresh meat. A breeze picked up, and at last I was getting some sleep until the rain started. Once I'd jumped back in after setting the fly over the tent, the misery index climbed back into the stratosphere. Worse, in my haste, and undetected for some time, were the handful of mosquitoes that followed me in. And so began the blood bath. Morning couldn't come soon enough.

But the day always seems to bring new hope, and my enthusiasm for the quest remained undiminished, especially since I was headed for my nephew's place in Manhattan where I would take a prolonged rest stop. This anticipation fueled my drive, but the quality of the riding was gift enough. I toured through an area called the Flint Hills or "Native Stone" region, a land of mesas and long, horizontal ridges creased by forested ravines and creek-filled bottom lands. Each climb would lead to an exhilarating drop twisting through the trees. This was a "Western" landscape, no doubt about it. This was limestone country, and the miles of hand-built stone fences attested to the nature of the stone and the people who had settled this country. I stopped for an early (1st) lunch along one of these walls and was impressed by the unimaginable back-breaking labor they represented. Thousands upon thousands of limestone plates were collected, hauled into position and lifted into place. No hydraulic-swing-arm-fork- lift-diesel-powered assist here. Muscle, bone and determination built these walls. I sat on the wall, munched my sandwich and contemplated my good luck at missing that work party.

The wall:



I'd roughly calculated 65 miles for the day. "Roughly" was rough indeed. After almost 78 miles, I found Clint and Jen's place in a suburb next to Kansas State University, an institution that truly dominates the town. Much of the day had been spectacular tail winds, but the last ten miles or so were cycled under buffeting side winds, and I was tired, hot, ready to finish. I stepped into their small, three-bedroom home and found AC, air conditioning. I almost cried. The sudden release from the grip of the meteorological beast was precisely what I needed most. Next cool shower and cortisone cream for my piteously perforated body--bites everywhere: belly, back, butt, ankles and elbows. Sleep, rest, recover.

Now I lay low, let the squad cars search in vain, an APB for naught. I'll be here for three days at least, recharging, preparing for the next leg, over 500 miles of straight roads to the Colorado Rockies, which I will enter at Pueblo. I've already begun the long, gradual climb across the craton. I'll ascend, somewhat imperceptibly, another 4,000 ft. as I cross over. Each foot I climb adds up to cooler weather, cooler nights, drier conditions. I've covered just over 2,500 miles, so by my calculations, I'm over the halfway point. It's so strange to think about where I started. I can now look at an overview of the USA and see the huge chunk I've accomplished and the big piece remaining. This is not even the end of the beginning. I'm in it now. My leg is feeling better. In fact most of yesterday's ride was trouble free. So it was just one of those temporary body rebellions that we elite cyclo-tourists must endure. Sometimes our muscles still balk at what they are asked to do. The will, however, must be stronger than the flesh. This period of rest, however, is going to be a very good thing indeed.

The road ahead:


Kansas splendor:


That's all for now, kids. Be kind to your pixels, for they represent you. Biker Scotty signing off from the Central Zone of the Great American Outback.

Slappin' Dorothy

My instincts about where to stay last night were spot on. Just as I'd ridden into town, I noticed an access way into a grassy field beyond a massive blue water tower, the constant signature of towns across the Midwest. I spent the evening at a park where I cooked up and watched the sun set then cruised over just before dark. I glanced this way and that. The coast was clear--go! In I bounced across the grass and in behind a stand of trees--mowed grass, hidden from view on all sides, totally perfect--and free, the best of all possible camping worlds.

The vampires were out as I pitched my tent. My technique is to get everything ready then dive in, zip the screen down to foot level, rip of my sandals or shoes, and crank the zipper shut, hopefully keeping the blood suckers out. Only one got in, which I quickly dispatched with the hand of God--mine. No good Jain here: All mosquitoes and biting bugs must die.

Because of the heat, I was sleeping without the fly on the tent to maximize whatever pitiful air movement I might get. Not much help there. I just lay in a sweating coffin, waiting for things to somehow cool off. I eventually drifted off to sleep...to be suddenly awakened by rain drops hitting the tent. Out! Out! Keystone cops run around and get that fly on, cover the bike, dive back in before you're soaked. Just as I settled back onto the pad, the rain began in earnest. Safe and hot, I fell back asleep...only to awaken at 3:30 with an urgent need to water the foliage. Damn, couldn't sleep, had to get up in thirty minutes anyway. Wait, debate, give up and give in. All right, all right, I'm getting up. The rain had long since stopped. I packed, rolled back to the park for gawdawfulearly breakfast and hit the road before 6am.

My escape from Clinton was along route 7 towards Kansas City. This, at first, had a superb shoulder, smooth and mega-wide. I was about to praise MODOT to the skies when the shoulder turned to shite, long sections of totally tattered, gravelly, chunky mess. C'mon, people. Y'all can do better than this. So I was often forced onto the main road where I would stay until traffic forced me back onto the shoulder, which was okay some of the time, too. Fortunately, traffic was very light during the pre-dawn hours then quite moderate for a four lane divided highway thereafter.

I've been dealing with some mildly painful tightness behind my right calf and hamstring, but I pulled through today without too much problem. I made a good point of stopping every hour for a bit of just walking and light stretching. I don't know what the problem is since my left leg is fine. Still, I had a fine day of cycling on generally smooth roads at high speeds. My average was close to 13 mph. Contrast this with my slow days when I've averaged as low as 9.7 mph. Now, to those of you riding around in cars this may sound laughable, but when the pistons are your legs, your heart and lungs and guts your engine, this is a HUGE difference and represents, for me, a fun, quick cycling day from one with a good deal of strain and strife. Tail winds and only moderate climbing really helped though today I did climb for a total of 1,300 ft.

Here's another thing: Many people, when notified I'm riding east to west, make the crack about riding against the wind. Dudes, I'm not at 40,000 ft. in the jet stream. Conditions on the ground vary a lot. Sure, there may be general trends, but don't count on tail winds if you're headed east. You will almost certainly be gravely disappointed. Steven Kraft, whom I encountered in Ohio, commented on plenty of winds out of the east. Today, I was headed north and west--with tail winds. So there you go.

So, shortly before noon, I hit Kansas. Carry on my wayward son. There were only three things to do: Take a photo, get back on the bike, and blast some Van Halen (the early stuff) to power me into town just a few miles away. Runnin' with the devil, baby, runnin' with the devil. Some jerk gave me the sign of the flying bird because I was pinching traffic a little (no shoulder). I just laughed out loud and waved happily. A new state, by gum. No sad bloke was going to tarnish this high.

I've got information on where to camp. I'll grab some grub and head for the park. This tour is going well indeed. Just three more days to Manhattan. I can't freakin' believe I'm in Kansas. What's this world coming to? Let me at that wicked witch. I'll drill her with my chain rings, the noxious wench. This is your faithful correspondent signing off from the left edge of the Great Midwest Outback.